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The most distressing things I found were the revelations of Carter's exploits. Carter, it seemed, could not stay out of trouble. It was an innocuous sort of trouble, nothing like drunk driving or getting into fights, but he did every drug known to man and the band had been forced to cancel more than one show because no one could wake him up from his drug and alcohol induced comas.
    After the plane had taken off, I popped my phone open and read the biography on Carter again. This was the person Kent wanted to find a babysitter for? He sounded like a menace. I hadn't had a chance to check them all, but there were about a hundred and one links to celeb gossip sites in my search results, and most of them started with some variation on, Carter Hudson, guitarist and songwriter for the hot new band The Lonely Kings, was seen on the red carpet last night holding a hedgehog and drunkenly pissing himself as his hapless date, Interchangeable Starlet, attempted to support his weight on her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Who wore Carter Hudson's drunk ass the best? Let's compare and find out!
    I was more certain than ever that I didn't really want this job. I didn't care how much it paid. Putting up with Kent's bullying and babysitting a drunk and a drug addict was not worth it for any amount of money. On the other hand, I had been putting up with it for the last four years for free. I should totally demand a doubled salary for experience.
    I shook my head. No, no, no. Don't need that headache any more...
    “Ma'am? You don't want anything to drink?”
    What? Drink? What?
    I looked up to see the stewardess already moving on from me. I wanted to speak up and let her know that yes, I did, in fact, want something to drink, but then I remembered that I had almost no money and any drink worth having today was going to have to be a stiff one. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she strolled on by with the cart and waited for the fasten seatbelt sign to go off. The flight from LA to Vegas was only about an hour—not nearly enough time to drink my troubles away—but if I could just get a little buzz going the rest of the day was going to be a lot easier to deal with.
    After about ten minutes the seat belt sign dinged off, and I leaped out of my seat and scrambled across my seatmates. The person in the middle was an older woman with terrible flatulence and the passenger in the aisle was a businessman who gave me a dirty look as I forced him to move whatever world-changing work he was doing on his laptop so I could get past him.
    I felt the familiar blush begin to creep up my face again. I was sick of blushing. Where had my confidence gone? Had I ever had any?
    "Pardon me," I told the man, "I just have to go take a shit. I could do it in your bag if you don't want me to interrupt you."
    Okay, I didn't say that. But I wanted to. Someday, I was going to actually say the things I thought in my head out loud. Someday I was going to own a house with a trampoline room, too.
    Fuck everything, I thought. I need a drink. I strode to the back of the cabin, my eyes trained on the restroom. If I knew my cheap value flights, the drinks cart was going to be right next to the bathroom, and I was going to sticky-finger my way to happiness.
    I didn't meet anyone's eyes, so intent I was on my goal, and when I reached the restroom I found that my hunch had indeed been right—and just my luck, the stewardesses were off tending to cranky passengers. Slipping past the restroom door, I pretended to inspect it and find it occupied. It wasn't, but it was important to maintain the illusion. I lingered outside the door for a moment, then heaved a huge sigh and moved around the corner so I could rest against the wall. And what was this? The drinks cart conveniently located just by my wandering hands? Excellent.
    I shook my hand out of my coat pocket and coughed into it, and when I lowered it again I let it slip past the little rows of tiny liquor bottles. Extending my