Lindsay Lohan’s Romantic Rehab Romp



The tale of Lindsay Lohan stealing another woman’s man at rehab is so juicy that it’s almost as good as one of those steamy, cheese-ball romance novels. So why not make it into one? We’ve used Breanna Tierney‘s interview with the National Enquirer as inspiration for a tale about this torrid, methed-up love triangle. Draw a hot bath, pour a tall glass of non-alcoholic wine and get ready to melt from the heat of Lindsay and Riley’s sober, forbidden love. There’s no treatment for this kind of passion!

Chapter 8: Their Love is Real, the Ring is Not

No moon was shining in the stairwell at the Cirque Lodge rehab facility, as windows were a luxury afforded only to the patients’ bedrooms. But Lindsay and Riley couldn’t touch in their bedrooms – couldn’t even have visitors in there – so this was where they painted the masterpiece of their young love. On the crusty, cigarette-butt covered stairs, their pale bodies mixed with the egg shell white paint until they became one giant canvas, together. Riley pressed his face into Lindsay’s shoulder, inhaling her scent like someone suffering from an asthma attack sucking their inhaler. Tangled in her hair, he was overcome by the sweet smell of the chicken fingers she had for dinner mixed with the pack of Marlboro Reds they had smoked together in group therapy. He grabbed her buttocks and gasped when he felt skin. “Holy eff,” he whispered into her freckled ear. “Your pants are already off?!”

“No you ass.” His red-haired lover’s voice sent chills down his acne-covered neck. “It’s my new Balenciaga small Classique bag in Mustard. I just got it and I didn’t want to put it on the floor. Doesn’t the leather feel nice?”

Overcome by a shared passion for couture goods sculpted from the hides of farm animals and crushed Percosets, they embraced. Their love had become an addiction no intervention could tear apart.

Riley’s scorned ex-lover Bree fingered her gorgeous, 32-carat engagement ring in the palm of her left hand as the other fondled her fifth icy glass of Boone’s Apple Blossom wine. The light of the Salt Lake City moon mixed with its crystal beauty to form shadows that danced liked tiny elves on the walls of her small bedroom. Her eyes could barely see the sacred matrimonial jewel, so swollen from the hours of weeping that followed her rendezvous with the jeweler at Zales. In her head, she could see the sweaty corners of his mouth creasing like the messy sheets of the bed she and Riley once shared. “This engagement ring is one hundred percent cubic zirconia,” he whispered. “It probably came from one of those twenty-five vending machines at the grocery store. He obviously doesn’t care about you, ma’am. I even read that your boyfriend is dating Lindsay Lohan now. MOVE ON.”

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