Page 3 of Sunrise

A case in point is this morning.

I know something is wrong when I come downstairs to find my manager sitting at my dining room table, and in front of my seat is breakfast from my favorite cafe, a coffee, and a tabloid website pulled up on his tablet.

We've had these talks before when one of the paparazzi gets a photo and spins a story. He shows up just like this, and I get a lecture about not putting myself in a situation to have compromising photos taken.

Only this time, I know exactly what this is about.

With a sigh, I sit down and open the box to find the Rise and Shine Special, my favorite because it has a little bit of everything from the menu. I dig in before I turn to look at the website. I know I can't put this off much longer, even if I want to.

I find my face is splashed across the headline with a photo of me leaving the club last night with my costar's wife and some trashy headline about me sleeping with another married woman and both of us being fall over drunk.

They print what they want, no matter if it's true or not. I scroll down to the article, and as much as I want to deny it, it's not good. It claims a source told them I had been bragging about leaving the club with Cassie all night. So when we finally left together, they assumed I would be sleeping with her.

Now in the past, I would have slept with her and not thought twice about it. I've slept with my costars' wives before and didn't care about it. But that playboy lifestyle catches up with you fast, and it gets old. No one except my manager believes I've changed. The press doesn't want to accept it because it means fewer stories for them to print. I wonder what they would think if they knew I hadn't had sex in about a year now.

My mind drifts back to last night. We were all at the club celebrating the last day of filming. Matt bailed a few minutes after we got there, but his wife, Cassie, stayed, and she drank, and drank, and drank. She fell into another guy's arms who was all too happy to have her so drunk she couldn't even give consent or say no.

So I swooped in and took her home. I laid her on the couch fully clothed, shoes still on, and left not even two minutes later. But they don't report on that because it won't make a good story. That won't get them clicks.

I finally look up at my manager, whose face is blank.

"If the movie wasn't finished, they would have recast you. That's what the director said since he's friends with Matt," Wren, my manager, says.

"This is bullshit. Nothing happened. I called you stone-cold sober last night and told you what happened. Hell, I haven't had a drink in weeks, and I can't remember the last time I got drunk. At least a year ago?"

"You know that, and I know that, but no one else will believe it because this is what they are reporting with photos," Wren says.

"Cassie can back my story. And who is this source?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter. Matt knows she didn't sleep with you, but it's what it looks like. You know an image is all that matters in this town. It now looks like his wife is cheating on him, and it will take months to bury this story. The source doesn't matter. They make up a source most of the time to print whatever story they want," he says.

"So what was I supposed to do? Let the guy take her home and rape her? Actually let her cheat on him?" My stomach roils at the idea.

Wren buries his face in his hands. "No, you did the right thing morally, but maybe next time, call her husband or call her a cab and just stick her in it alone or get a friend to pick her up. Anything other than leaving with her. Assuming there is a next time, which there won't be for a few weeks. And that leads me to the next topic." He stops and looks at me.

I instantly know I'm not going to like what he has to say.

"Just tell me," I say and dig into my breakfast. No point in letting good food go to waste.

"I think you need to get out of Hollywood and away from the press a bit. Let this cool down. We can say you went to get some help and bring you back as a changed man. Let me work on getting you your next gig while you lay low," he says.

"What do you mean lay low?" I want more details before I agree to anything, though I don't think he's asking my permission here.

"I booked you two weeks at the Sunrise Inn in a small town in North Carolina. I rented the whole place out, so you won't be bothered. Plus, it's the off-season, and they are signing NDAs, so no press. It's a small island, right on the beach. I know you have been tired of the playboy image. So go there, relax, and just be Kade. Find out who he is again, not just Kade Markson, mega movie star."

"You already booked the place?" I ask.

"Yes, and it cost a pretty penny. The inn owner was hesitant to agree, so I offered to pay double her nightly rates on every room and pay her employees their wages for two weeks to keep them at home. She has just a few people staying to clean and cook so you will still be taken care of," Wren assures me.

I have to admit I like the idea of a change of pace by getting out of Los Angeles. My grandma lived in North Carolina, and growing up, I remember visiting. Things just moved slower, and people were nicer, more caring. I asked my mom about it, and she said that's just how the South was.

I think Wren is right. Some good old Southern hospitality might be just what I need right now to recharge and relax.

"When do I leave?" I sigh.

"Two days, but you are under house arrest until then. I'll fly out with you to make sure the paperwork and payments are taken care of," he says.

"You mean you're going to personally escort me to my jail cell on the beach." I roll my eyes, and he laughs.

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