Savanah's Swan Song (Part 27)

Link to the previous chapter: https://www.patreon.com/posts/savanahs-swan-26-136328990

Savanah’s return trip to Atlanta was as uneventful as the trip to LA had been.  Angelina had offered a room for the night, but, as exciting as the prospect of staying in the movie star’s beach bungalow might’ve been a few days ago, the pop star refused.  She’d been a guest at the Hollywood has-been’s pity party long enough.  She needed to start mending her own crumbling life before she ended up just like her--a fat, pathetic prisoner in her own home. Misery loves company, and the ex-actress, who was now an XXXL ex-actress, would’ve dragged her down like an anchor.

With her mind racing and plenty of time to think, Savanah formulated a plan on the plane ride home.  First, she’d break up with Chad.  Her visit with Angelina had clarified the fact that he couldn’t be trusted.  From now on, she’d only trust herself.  That’s how it was when she first signed with Decca Records as a teenager, and that’s how it should’ve stayed.  If it had, she wouldn’t be in the mess she was in now. 

She certainly couldn’t trust the mass of microchips her two-timing beau was parading around LA with.  That was job #2.  Sentient or not, that bitch was going back in her box.  She’d call Dr. Wagner first thing in the morning. 

The third part of her plan was less tangible.  She’d need to get her shit together; that was for sure.  Maybe she could take an extended vacation to pull herself together?  Some sort of private spa retreat?  That seemed doable.  The movie was out, and her humanoid hussy had already completed most of the promotion.  She could afford to disappear for a while. 

Savanah pinched the thick roll of fat pooched over her seatbelt.  She'd need to disappear for a LONG while.  

It was 3 AM when the self-driving shuttle dropped her off at her apartment.  That was good.  At that hour, there’d be no autograph seekers, no Templeton, the building’s busybody doorman, and most importantly, no paparazzi.  Word of her weight-gain getting out worried her less than the unflattering pictures those money-grubbers were liable to take.     

Savanah scurried through the desolate lobby and into the elevator.  As the doors slid closed behind her, she slumped against the wall.  Her legs felt like mush after the short dash from the street.  So did her mind.  She needed sleep.  She hadn’t had as much as a catnap since her whirlwind cross-country trip began 27 hours ago.  Thankfully, a final wave of her keycard was all that separated her from the comfort of her California King. 

By the time the elevator doors opened to her penthouse suite, Savanah felt better.  So, she’d gotten a little chunky?  So what?  Plenty of pop stars had porked up in recent years: Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Lana Del Rey, Billie Eilish, the list went on and on.  It was almost a rite of passage.  Besides, it hadn't hurt their popularity in the long run.  If anything, it made them more relatable.  The smarmy tabloid headlines would be embarrassing, but she’d get through it.  At least they wouldn’t be career-killing like having a robot tour in your place.

“Shit!”

Savanah nearly faceplanted over a suitcase in the middle of the dark foyer.  It was Chad’s.  She'd ignored his calls the previous day, thinking he was still in Hollywood painting the town with ‘Betty Bot,’ but apparently, he was home and worried.  

The initial part of Savanah's plan was already softening.  Chad could be a naive knucklehead, but he loved her.  She was certain of that.  He also wasn’t bothered by her weight gain.  In fact, he had enjoyed it immensely the last time they were together.  Of course, she'd put on another twenty pounds since then.  Maybe he wouldn't find the new pounds so pleasant?

Only one way to find out.

Savanah tip-toed through the darkness into her pitch-black bedroom.  She kicked through clothes that had been tossed on the floor (probably during her hasty exit two nights ago), slipped beneath the silk sheets, and immediately bumped against a butt spooned in her direction. 

How cute.  Chad was sleeping on her side of the bed.

“Hey, baby.”

Savanah ran her fingers along his bare posterior.  His nakedness was surprising.  She liked sleeping nude—who doesn’t love the feel of silk against their skin—but Chad was usually a t-shirt and boxers-to-bed guy.

At least his manhood would be easier to access this way--   

The pudgy pop star reached around her boyfriend’s waist and groped for his member.  She didn’t find it.  Instead, she felt an empty nest of coarse hair nestled beneath a washboard-hard abdomen. 

Savanah recoiled in horror.  She hurriedly fished her phone from the pocket of her sweatpants, turned on the flashlight feature, and pivoted it toward her unknown bedmate. 

Of course, they weren’t unknown at all.  Savanah was intimately familiar with their chestnut brown eyes, pert button nose, and rakish grin. 

"Hey there, tubby."