by Vi Keeland
“You too, Kate. The seat is yours if you want to sit in on the next game, kiddo. I know some of the guys would love a chance to win back some of their money.” Frank pauses. “And maybe their pride.”
“I’d love that. See you soon.”
The age range of the contestants runs from twenty-three to twenty-eight, yet it feels like high school all over again. I look over to the padded lounge chairs along the side of the pool, where six of the remaining ladies sit gathered in a tight group, gossiping.
“Bet they were cheerleaders,” Ava says as she joins me in the pool, the two of us outsiders looking in on the cool-girl posse from a distance.
“Without a doubt.” I nod my chin in the direction of the ringleader who sits in the middle of the clan. “Jessica was definitely prom queen too.”
“You know they aren’t coming in because they don’t want to mess up their hair and makeup.”
“Of course … God forbid.” I should probably be doing the same thing, keeping my eye on winning the prize, but it’s over ninety degrees today, and sweltering in the sun while staring longingly at the glistening pool just seems stupid to me.
“Who do you think he picks for the first stranded date?” Ava’s fisted hands clench and unclench in the water, each squeeze sending a stream of water soaring into the air.
“Jessica. That little white string she calls a bathing suit will definitely catch Flynn’s attention. You think they’re real?”
“Her boobs?”
“Yeah.”
“No, they are definitely not real.” We both stare over at prom queen; her nipples are barely covered by the small triangle top that tries to contain her overflowing breasts.
I look down at my barely C cups: they’re perky, but definitely not the attention-getters that Jessica’s are. “Remind me not to stand next to her in a bathing suit.” I laugh.
“You?” Ava looks down and then back to me. “Hello? I look like a boy!”
I hadn’t really noticed her flat chest until now, but she actually makes me look endowed. “Maybe I should stand next to you, might help put my girls into perspective.” Ava splashes me, smiling.
“Hi ladies.” Flynn Beckham interrupts our girl talk, walking into the spacious yard wearing nothing but swim trunks. Every head turns. I may have entered this contest for the grand-prize money, but I’d be lying if I said that the bachelor hasn’t sparked my interest. He’s nothing like I expected. The outside may scream rockstar, but in the small amount of time I’ve spent getting to know him, he’s seemed like a pretty normal and great guy.
“Hi Flynn.” The lounge-chair ladies swoon in unison.
He smiles and waves, but keeps going as he passes, heading straight for the pool—to the blatant dismay of the poolside posing beauties.
As he gets closer to the pool, he winks at Ava and me … right before cannonballing into the middle, splashing water all over the ladies who weren’t planning on getting wet.
When he surfaces with a huge boyish smile on his face, I’m laughing. If I was in his position, it’s exactly what I would have done. “Wish I could have seen their faces,” Flynn grins as he speaks to us low.
“I don’t think they were happy getting their hair ruined,” I say through a genuine smile. He’s facing us, his back to the other women. I glance over, then return my attention to him. “Bet they all come in the pool now though.”
“I say four come in.”
“All six.”
Flynn arches his eyebrows. “Bet you a foot massage.”
Crinkling up my nose, I respond, “I’m not really a foot person.”
A lopsided smile reveals one of his two deep-set dimples. God, he really is adorable. “Chicken?” he challenges.
Looking over at the girls, I see three already coming toward the water. “You’re on.” I extend my hand and we shake on it.
“That feels so good.” I close my eyes and lean back, relaxing into the pleasure with a deep sigh. I wasn’t kidding when I said feet weren’t really my thing. But Flynn definitely knows what he’s doing as his two thumbs rub firmly into the ball of my foot, each stroke releasing a little more tension from my body.
“I’m glad I lost.” His murmur is a low rumble. I can tell he’s smiling, even though I don’t open my eyes to check. I smile back too.
“Mmmmmm. I’m glad you lost too” is all I can muster as he alternates between kneading and long gliding strokes on the instep of my left foot.
“Not to be a pig here, but Jesus, Kate, you look like you might have an orgasm.”
My smile widens. “I might.” It would be the first one in way too long.
He laughs. “That good, huh?”
“Shut up and rub.” I don’t even care that cameras are probably filming my succumbing to a pre-orgasmic induced haze.
“Yes, ma’am. Watching your face is better than getting a foot massage myself anyway.”
chapter three
Cooper
Early afternoon sunlight streaks in through the tall windows in my office, a ray landing directly on the shelf against the wall where my father kept his most coveted prizes. Nine Academy Award statues, a picture of my mother smiling on the beach in Barbados, and a framed photo of me, Dad and Miles on a fishing trip in Alaska.
My father beams proudly, standing between Miles and me, both of us holding up king salmon. I was probably eleven or twelve, Miles six or seven. It was the summer after our father divorced Miles’s mother.
My mother, Rose, had been the love of Jack Montgomery’s life. But a tragic car accident tore her from us not long after I was born. Her untimely death left my father reeling … and raising a six-month-old son on his own.
Although my father never truly got over Rose, a few years later, desperate to fill the void and find a mother figure for me, he met, and quickly wed, a beautiful, budding young actress. The first few years were marital bliss—my father was thrilled when Courtney gave birth to Miles less than a year into their marriage. Unfortunately, it didn’t take much longer than that to realize Courtney was more interested in partying and an acting career than mothering their two children. She began making the rounds at all the usual Hollywood parties, the Montgomery name opening doors for her like a magical key. For the sake of his children, Dad tolerated her late nights and overindulgence in a lifestyle she wasn’t accustomed to—until he discovered she was carrying on an affair with a twenty-three-year-old unemployed wanna-be rockstar.
When they divorced, Dad took full custody in exchange for a substantial financial payout to Courtney. She disappeared on a worldwide tour with her rockstar and never looked back. Although Dad loved both of us fiercely, Miles somehow resented my mother. And over the years, that resentment spread to me—the child of our father’s precious Rose.
“This is from today,” Helen says as she hands me a DVD. “Miles brought it over himself an hour ago. Said to tell you tonight is the first stranded date.” She stops on her way out, turning back to me. “He seemed a little anxious.”
I bet he is. After a tense two-hour meeting with the president of the stagehands’ labor union, I’m really not in the mood for more of Miles’s reality crap. But I pour myself a late afternoon drink and pop the DVD into my Mac anyway. I watch the first few minutes, dreading the conversation I’m going to have with my brother when I tell him I’m not giving him the loan he needs.
It’s no secret that Mile High Films is struggling financially since the split five years ago, but I had no idea how bad things were until I made a few calls this morning. My brother owes half of the film industry’s biggest suppliers a ton of cash. If it were any other film house, the credit would have dried up months ago, but the Montgomery name carried him far. Now the name is almost all he has left … aside from this show he’s banking on.
The contents of the crystal tumbler burn as the liquor slides down my throat in one hefty medicinal gulp. I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a few minutes as Miles’s daily feed drones on from my computer. The alcoho
l seeping into my blood, I actually begin to relax for a minute.
Then I hear her voice.
My eyes jar open. I’m positive it’s her before I even look up at the screen to confirm it. All morning, my mind has drifted back to her over and over again.
Her hair’s wet, slicked back from her face, and she has no makeup on, but I’m sure just from the sound of her laugh. A tall, thin-but-solid, tattooed, longhaired guy stands next to her in the pool. The filming doesn’t pick up what they’re whispering, but I can tell that he’s flirting with her. The way he looks at her, watches her mouth move, stealing glances at her perfect tits on display in her bikini top. I have no idea why, but it pisses me off. A fuck of a lot.
Sitting up in my chair, I move closer to the monitor and turn up the volume, hoping to eavesdrop on their conversation. But all I can hear is a bunch of complaining, whiney women in the background, standing around lounge chairs. The tatted rock-and-roll-looking guy in the pool says something and lifts one eyebrow. What the fuck did he say? I rewind, but still can’t make it out. So I do it again. And then again. Each time getting more annoyed watching that stupid eyebrow raise as he grins at Kate.
I speed up the parts where Kate isn’t on the screen, stopping each time she reappears. And when I come to a shot of her getting a foot massage, I feel like breaking something.
“Helen?” I bark. “Clear my afternoon schedule. Where is my brother filming right now?”
Rounding the turn to my brother’s office in the building we still share, I walk straight into a brick wall of a man. Damian Fry. I haven’t seen the guy in years. Dressed in head to toe black, his bald head gleaming, he looks exactly like what he is—a menace. Untraditional, unethical, a heart made of stone … the perfect private investigator for dirty jobs. It’s no wonder the police force kicked him off ten years ago. They called it excessive force, but Damian called it a waste of talent.
“Damian.” I nod.
“Make sure your brother pays my bill on time,” he sneers and walks away. He’s as friendly as usual.
When I stroll into Miles’s office unannounced and without bothering to knock, he, at first, looks annoyed. Then he remembers he needs something from me, and forces a smile onto his face.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, bro?”
Bro? A month ago he couldn’t stand the sight of me. The last time I was in this office, I’d confronted him about paying Mile High bills through Fallen Rose Petals, our father’s charity for children who lost parents. I’d let it go the first time I noticed it happen, knowing he was struggling financially. But when he didn’t get caught the first time, he got greedy, going back for seconds … and thirds and fourths and fifths. When I called him on it, he didn’t even bother to pretend it was inadvertent. Instead he screamed that he was taking his mother’s half of the charity, since our father hadn’t sought fit to set up one in his mother’s name, and I should get the fuck out of his office.
Miles sweeps together a pile of documents strewn around his desk and opens a thick folder. My eyes narrow on the Fry logo emblazoned on the outside; anything to do with Damian raises my suspicion. A few black-and-white glossy photos spill out, but he quickly gathers the file and puts it into drawer.
“Tell me more about the show.”
Miles’s eyes light up, excited that I’m interested.
“The bachelor is Flynn Beckham. An up-and-coming singer with a pretty decent-size following. The ladies love him. He’s got that rockstar aloof, I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude down pat. There were twenty ladies originally. We’re down to eight. When we get down to four, we go live. So there’s a planned hiatus coming up to let the taped shows catch up with the live shows.”
“Who are the eight?” I’m starting to lose my patience, anxious to find out more about Kate.
“Did you see them? We got a smorgasbord of beauties. One for every demographic. The advertisers are going to love it.”
Right now, I don’t give a crap about the advertisers. I just want to know more about the woman who took all my money, turned me down for dinner, and made my dick come alive, all in the same night.
“I saw them. What’s their background?”
Miles takes out another folder from his top desk drawer. Opening it, he reveals a black-and-white glossy of a woman who looks like she could be Miss California. She’s pretty, but not Kate.
“Jessica Knowles.” He holds up the candid photograph. “Twenty-three, former Miss Teen USA runner-up. Aspiring model and actress. She’s built like fucking Jessica Rabbit. Tits are fake, but huge. Every eighteen-year-old will be having a wet dream when she comes on screen in that white bikini of hers.”
He turns the photograph. There’s another beautiful girl, but still not Kate. “Mercedes Mila.” He smiles like a Cheshire cat. “I’d like to take a ride in this Mercedes. Twenty-four, nurse.”
Ten minutes of résumés later, we’ve covered everything from student to lawyer to stripper. I’m growing impatient. Finally, Miles flips the photo and my eyes land on Kate. “Kate Monroe. Twenty-five. Blackjack dealer. Working on her doctorate in physical therapy. She’s my girl next door. Looks sweet and innocent, but she has a streak of something wild. Father was a hotshot card player.” Miles pauses. “I’m curious if this one’s wild in the sack.”
My brother’s insolent commentary was already wearing thin on my nerves, but his disrespect for Kate gives me the urge to kick him under the table. Jaw clenched, I stare at the remaining headshots, but my mind is a million miles away. I ponder the strange combination … medical student and blackjack dealer. Strangely enough, from the little that I know, it fits her.
“I saw this morning’s dailies,” I say. “What happens next?”
“Tonight he picks his first stranded date.”
“Stranded date?” With my brother’s penchant for risqué, I’m almost afraid to ask.
“He picks one woman and he gets a twenty-four hour date with them on a deserted island. We set up cameras all over the place, so there isn’t even a cameraman following them around.” Proudly, he continues, “We’re hoping to take away all their inhibitions. Other reality TV shows, the contestants are constantly reminded they’re being watched. Filmed. Having cameramen around makes the women think twice before they go too far.”
“What happens if Beckham and his date aren’t into each other?”
“Oh, they’ll be into each other. We make it impossible for them not to be. They might be stranded, but we set them up for romance. Think of the perfect romantic date—the kind that gets you both in the mood. Then multiply it times a hundred. We know how these contestants tick. We’ve done our homework. There will be action on that island.”
Perfect. The first woman I can’t stop thinking about in years, and she’s about to have the most romantic date of her life … with someone else.
“Does Beckham have favorites? Any idea who he’s going to pick for his date tonight?” I ask Miles as I downshift, slowing into traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. My request to visit the set was eagerly accommodated by my brother. He’s anxious to show me his show. I’m only anxious to see one contestant.
“He has a thing for Jessica.”
I let out a breath too soon.
“And Kate.”
Fuck. “And if he picks someone you don’t think will make for good TV, you can override his decision.”
“Scripted reality TV, bro. It’s what makes ratings. Can’t always let the bachelor think with his dick. We need to think with our wallet. But I won’t have to interfere with his pick this time. He’s salivating to get his hands on one of those two. Either will do. Hell, I’d like to get my hands on one of them.”
I weave in and out of traffic, enjoying my brother grabbing onto the door handle once or twice as I cut a swerve that makes him a bit nervous.
“This thing is thirty years old. Time for a new one that handles better, Coop,” Miles says, referring to our father’s Porsche. The car he loved. It wasn’t worth nearly as much as the
other cars he had, but he went through two clutches in this thing teaching me to drive. Great memories. Miles was only too happy I took the less valuable car. Unfortunately, our ideas of value have always been measured on different scales.
“I bought a new car. A bump in the rear at a light cost eight thousand for damage repairs. I like driving this one better anyway.”
We arrive at the Malibu house that Miles rented to shoot most of the show. I choose to hang back, watching the action through the camera feed in the three-car garage they’ve turned into a makeshift studio. Miles jumps right into the thick of things.
Some of the crew I know from Montgomery projects, others are new. Joel Blick comes over to greet me. “They let anyone in around here.” He slaps me on the back, grabbing my hand for a shake.
“Joel. How the hell are you? Didn’t you retire yet?” I prod, knowing he’s only in his fifties.
“I’m never retiring, I’d have to hang out with Bernice all day.” He rolls his eyes and says it like he’s joking, but he isn’t. And I don’t blame him, I’ve met his wife. I’d work as much as I could if the alternative was spending my days with Bernice complaining all day.
“You the director?”
“Yep. I didn’t know you had an interest in reality TV,” Joel says.
“I don’t.”
He smiles knowingly. “Miles drag you into investing?” He lowers his voice so no one else in the crowded room can hear him.
I turn to face him, growing serious. “Is it a bad investment?”
Joel looks away, coming back with the only answer he could give that wouldn’t throw Miles under the bus, yet still not require lying to me. “Reality TV is risky. When you hit, you hit it big. Look at Survivor or The Bachelor. But it’s anyone’s guess what will hit these days. Young people are a fickle audience. Their appetite changes faster than we can keep up. I’d say faster than they change their underwear, but sitting behind the camera all day, I know most of ’em don’t wear any.” He shakes his head ruefully.
