A/N: Okay so, this is a story originally by Randi Reisfeld. It's a great book; I know I personally love it. It's one of my favorites. So enough, let's get on with the story.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the book Rehab, nor the show Hannah Montana. Just the idea for a cover.

Rehab

Chapter one

"And … action! We're rolling, people!"

On the director's command, the chalk clapboard clicked and Miley Stewart slipped into her TV character, undercover spy Hannah Montana.

"Thanks for getting here so quickly, Jack," Miley purred, patting the cushion of the luxe Armani Casa sofa.

"You said it was urgent. What's the emergency?" Gabe Lammatti, the actor playing Jack, delivered his lines coolly, while his eyes roamed over Miley's curvy body, encased in a short, ultratight dress.

"There's something we need to do, in private." Miley was supposed to deliver that line suggestively, cross her legs seductively, signal her intentions, just as she had done during the first two takes of that same scene.

This time, Miley couldn't do it.

The scene made her skin crawl. It was so sleazy, and not at all in keeping with her clever, canny character, Hannah. Without warning, Miley veered off script.

"We need to talk Jack," she said instead, drawing herself up, facing him straight on. "Some new information has come to light."

"This is really surprising," the actor responded, trying to hide his confusion. "This is the first time we've been alone in your apartment. You said you weren't ready for …" He trailed off with a wink and a sly smile. Practically foaming at the mouth.

"Cut!" The director's voice boomed. Noel Riggs, whose instincts Miley usually respected, was obviously unhappy with her ad lib.

"Sorry," Miley said, ready to redo the scene the way it was written.

"No need to apologize, Miley! You're a genius-It's better you're way!" Miley started to relax, when he dropped the B-bomb: "But…"

"What?" she asked warily.

"You're sweating, nervous, uncomfortable. I'm not diggin' it."

Her character, Hannah, should be uncomfortable, Miley believed. In this episode the supposedly savy spy had fallen for this Jack character, only to uncover evidence proving him to be a fraud and killer. She was setting up a seduction scene as a trap. She should be nervous! Not that Miley would ever say that to the director. Rule number one for a newcomer in her first role: Never, ever, disagree with the director.

Have your agent do it for you later.

Miley Stewart had turned out to be a quick study in all things showbiz. She'd arrived in Hollywood only a year ago and Spywitness Girls was her first professional credit; Hannah Montana, her first role ever!

Against all the odds, both the show and Miley herself had become breakout hits. Back in September, when it debuted, Spywitness Girls got slammed with harsh, negative reviews. Critics dismissed it as nothing more than retread of the old Charlie's Angels series. Ratings were poor; pundits placed it on the "about-to-be-canceled" list. A funny thing happened on the way to oblivion, though.

Internet savy fans found the show, blogged about it, and started a viral campaign to support it. Fast-forward eight months to May, and twenty-two episodes later. Spywitness Girls lifted, phoenix-like, from the buzz challenged basement to become bigger than those (super) Heros, found by viewers more times than Lost, was chatted about more than Gossip Girl. Of the three glamorous stars, one got singled out as the fan favorite. Miley Stewart.

Least experienced, last one cast, petite as an Olsen twin with Fergie-licious curves, the nineteen year old newcomer was the people's choice, the hottest starlet guys would most like to date, and girls would most like to hang with. Miley was surprised only in that it happened so quickly. She'd always been popular, a true charisma girl, but that was back home in her Seattle suburb. She thought it'd take way longer to shine in the diamond dappled pool of Hollywood talent. She was, to say the least, unprepared for what followed.

Fan frenzy led to media madness. Magazines, online columns, and TV entertainment shows wanted her; designers fell all over themselves for the honor of dressing her. All the hot clubs cleared the best tables; offers of big money came at her so quickly, Miley felt like the head spinning girl in The Exorcist. Except without the spewing.

She'd also snared the hottest boyfriend in town, underwear model Austin Rain. (Swoon, swoon.) They'd met at a club a couple of weeks ago. Their connection was instant, deep in a totally superficial way… but still.

Speaking of, thinking of, led her thoughts back to last night. Austin had been a wild man at the new hot spot. Leopoles dancing, drinking, vibing with her and her friends. And so caring and attentive when she accidentally fell off the stripper pole. It wasn't her fault, it was the damn shoes. The Pradas with those to die for heels nearly became the death of her, or at least of her ankle. Which twisted and turned in ways that most joints, especially those needed to hold you upright, should not.

Austin had slipped her a couple of painkillers, which she'd downed on the spot. As insurance, she'd popped a few more for breakfast this morning. But by now, Miley had been working under the hot lights for hours; they'd done worn off. Another reason, though Miley would never tell her director, she looked uncomfortable doing the scene.

Director Noel was now signaling that were ready to go. The actors began again, only to get through their first line before hearing him shout "Cut!"

Through the camera lens, Noel had noticed beads of sweat across Miley's forehead. The director was not "diggin' it." He snapped his fingers, and summoned what Miley liked to call the "Beauty Squad." A phalanx of assistants, bearing soft towels, lip gloss and powder, curling iron and electric warming booties, materialized. Bypassing the actor playing Jack, they were all there to cater to Miley. A star's gotta rock the camera, and that's a no sweat zone.

Just then, Mikayla Gomez, Miley's best friend and personal assistant, rushed onto the set. "Hey, Miles," she whispered," does your ankle hurt? Do you need another Vicodin for the pain?"

Oh, man, she was soooo tempted, she could feel herself twitching. Miley knew she shouldn't. How many times had she been warned about getting addicted? And yet. She was tired and in pain. She hated the dress, could barely tolerate the actor playing Jack, whose aftershave was to gag for or from. Whatever, it made her nauseous.

Nailing this particular scene, much as she abhorred it, was crucial. It was the episode ender; the last show of the season, expected to go through the rating roof. It was huge. The director had bowed to her way of playing it. She ought to just get it wrapped.

Miley quickly swallowed the oblong pill.

Good thing, too, she'd think later. Without the mellow painkiller, she might've spit at "Jack" on camera. During the break, he'd apparently decided that if Miley could ad lib, so could he.

Just as she said the line, "Some new information has come to light," he "spontaneously" pulled her to him, stuck his tongue in her mouth, and cupped her breast all in one fluid, revolting move. Not even Austin got away with that unless invited. And yet, Noel let it go, allowing the scene to play out until the other Spywitness Girls came crashing into the scene, guns blazing, to arrest the unsuspecting pervo perp. By that time, the word "Cut!" had never sounded so sweet to Miley's ears

She wiped her mouth off, while the erstwhile "Jack" shot her a self-satisfied, slimy grin. "Surprised ya, huh?"

"Understatement," she growled.

"Aw, come on, Miley, look how angry you got. It made the scene work." Miley made herself a promise: If she ever did get more clout on the show, this tool would not be guest starring on it anytime soon. As in, ever.

Clueless, he gave her that thumb up, pinky down signal for "Call me." That's the new "Let's do lunch." It's just as insincere.

The set was packed. Everyone even vaguely connected with Spywitness Girls was on hand to bask in the show's success, now that they'd wrapped the final episode for the season. Producers, network suits, studio bigwigs, casting directors, publicists, everyone's agents, managers, spouses, and significant others swarmed the set. It was Entourage times a thousand.

Champagne corks popped, and back patting, hugging, shoulder rubs, and air kisses spread like a virus. Miley wished she could slip out the back door and head to her trailer. She was into celebrating as much as the next girl, but not with this bunch of glad handers. She was looking forward to the weekend, when there'd be a huge wrap party at an exclusive club. All her friends would be there; she'd be with Austin. That would rock!

But pulling a disappearing act now was not gonna happen. There were too many people waiting to see her, specifically the showbiz professionals called Team Miley, or her "handlers."

First was tall, tan, regal Alex Grant, super agent. It was his responsibility to get Miley acting roles. The bigger, the better. Alex earned 15 percent of Miley's income.

Rudy Marpole, rotund, cherub cheeked, and often verklempt, was her manager. His job was to oversee her entire career, and guide her appropriately. Rudy's cut of the Miley pie was 10 percent.

Rounding out the trio was publicist Milo Prince, a chic she, even though Milo is a trendy name for boys. Her job was to make Miley into a household name, in the most positive way a starlet can be known. Milo earned a hefty monthly fee for her services.

Alex was first to congratulate her. "Miley! You were amazing. This is why they call you the 'franchise.' Without you, this show doesn't exist."

"A bald faced lie, but thank you, Alex." Miley stood on the tiptoes of her high heels to give her agent a peck on the cheek.

Rudy, a head shorter than Alex, had real tears in his eyes, and was choked with emotion as he wrapped her in a bear hug. "Sweetie pie, you're the icing in the cake with the cherry on top. That's all I can say, Miley. You… you made that last scene sing."

"Sing? Like an American Idol reject maybe," Miley quipped. Rudy, unlike Alex, actually believed what he said. Miley wasn't sure which she preferred: the slick liar or the earnest doofus. They were both true Hollywood types.

Alex, with a furtive glance around the room, bent to whisper in Miley's ear. "I'm hearing good things about your movie audition."

The Chrome Hearts Club. That's what it was called; the ginormous feature film Miley had unexpectedly gotten an audition for. Unexpected, because the film was "serious," and she wasn't even on the short list of big named actresses who might get the starring role. She had Alex to think for even getting her the audition. But to think she'd get the role was actually absurd. She was about to give Alex a reality check when a balding, bespectacled TV producer inserted himself between client and agent. A producer whose name Miley could not for the life of her recall, regaled her with over the top compliments.

"I laughed, I cried, OMG, Miley, you're the best. So natural!" In his wake, other VIP's followed, variations on the same worship theme ensued. Miley needed to slip into the role of grateful, modest ingénue.

Miley wasn't disingenuous, she truly loved being complimented, but these people are acting like she'd just won a Noble prize based on one lousy scene. It would take a better actress than her to believably bask in the glow of bullshit. When publicist Milo pulled her away from the adoring massed, she was truly grateful.

"Some others have been waiting to see you," Milo pointed toward a gaggle of young fans, herded behind a rope at the back of the soundstage. They were tween girls mostly, armed with cameras, and photos to autograph.

"What did they win?" Miley asked as they made their way over.

"An essay contest. It's a 'green' thing. They had to come up with original ideas for saving the planet. The top ten won a meet and greet with you. People magazine is covering it."

What tied Miley Stewart to environmental health was a head scratcher, but anytime she got to meet the real fans who'd made her a star, she was genuinely psyched.

It wasn't so long ago, she was them. Worshipping celebrities, wanting to know all about their glamorous lives, dreaming of one day transforming from a regular, ordinary person to a pedestal perching, sparkling star. To be the adored, instead of the adoring. That'd been her, circa all her life.

"Hi, everyone, it's so great to meet you!" Miley exclaimed, walking from one to the next, shaking hands, getting cheek to cheek with them for their cameras. Miley asked questions about recycling, plastic bags, penguins, and hybrids, but basically, all they wanted was to commemorate the moment they'd met a real star. The photographer from People snapped away.

When it was over, Miley started for her dressing room then did an impulsive U-turn. Something was bothering her. She couldn't recall what Noel, the director, had said about her performance. The self-assured starlet kinda wanted his validation.

She found Noel peering into the camera, most likely replaying that last scene. When she tapped him on the shoulder, he whirled around and smiled.

"You really nailed it for us, Miley. We're a lock for next season."

That's it then. All the experts have spoken. If they thought she rocked it, without even liking it, let alone believing it, she must have. She let out the sigh of relief she didn't know she'd been holding in.

So how do you like it so far? Remember this is from the book Rehab by Randi Reisfeld. You can kinda think of me as doing a cover of it, with Hannah Montana characters. I do promise though that later on in the book it will eventually get into Liley goodness. Please just be patient with me and review.