by Lisa Suzanne
Besides, I don’t want to be tied down when I have the chance to be with a different girl every night in every new city.
But I can’t say any of that to Chris. “It’ll be a busy time on the road, but if it’s a relationship worth pursuing, I’ll make the time.”
Chris asks me a few wrap-up questions, and then I’m released to Wardrobe to be fitted for the suit I’ll wear to meet the women.
This house has upwards of twenty bedrooms, each with its own purpose. The women will be arriving in a bit, and this is where they’ll live for the duration of the show. Some bedrooms are actual bedrooms for the women, and others are set up like the one where Chris interviewed me. And then there’s the wardrobe room, where I find myself staring at racks and racks of suits.
I hear voices, so I know I’m not alone. “Hello?” I ask hesitantly.
“Back here!” I follow the enthusiastic female voice to the back of the room where I find a large mirror on a platform with lots of lights pointed at it.
I recognize the man standing on the platform in a suit as the third baseman for the Cubs. “Danny Fisher,” I murmur.
Great.
He is my competition?
I wonder who the other two celebrities I’m up against are because I’m no match for this guy.
“The one and only,” he says with a grin, sticking his hand out in my direction. I put mine in his and feel his firm handshake. I try to squeeze harder. I realize it’s a stupid alpha move, but I can’t stop myself.
“Dax Hunter,” I say. “Lead singer of MFB and apparent reality show contestant.”
“Good to meet you, man,” he says easily. So he’s a guy’s guy on top of being a heartthrob for women everywhere. Fantastic. “Looks like we’re on the show together.”
“Good to meet you, too,” I say, going for a lighthearted tone when seeing this guy as my competition has me nervous as fuck.
“And I’m Karina,” a short lady with curly dark hair says. “I’m in charge of wardrobe. As soon as I get Mr. Fisher taken care of here, I’ll fit you for your suit. And then you’re off to meet the women!” She analyzes the fit of the suit he’s wearing, and I can practically see her swooning over Danny.
“So who are the other two men?” Danny asks Karina. I hate that he had the balls to ask while I stand back silently.
“I’m not allowed to say. Actually I’m supposed to be done with you already so you two don’t run into each other.” She gives a ditzy giggle. “Oopsies.”
“Can you give us a hint about their professions?” I ask.
She turns to look over both shoulders to make sure no one’s watching her. “One’s an actor and one’s a—uh—socialite.”
“Aren’t socialites usually female?” Danny asks.
She shrugs. “He’s the son of a well-known business mogul. He’s basically famous for being famous.”
So that’s what I’m up against.
Karina finishes with Danny and dismisses him, and then she has me step up onto the podium.
“Have you had your measurements done before?” she asks, and I nod as I think back to prom and the few weddings I’d been asked to stand in. “Good. Are you excited for this?”
I shrug while she wraps her arms around my waist to measure it. “Of course I’m excited. But I think I’m more anxious than excited.” It isn’t a lie. I am anxious about what to expect, about projecting the right image. I’m not worried about the things I’m supposed to be nervous about—like finding my soul mate and my happily ever after. It’s hard to be anxious about something you don’t care about.
“That’s natural. The other guys seem to feel the same.”
“Danny seemed pretty calm about things.” I hate appearing weak, but I don’t have anything to lose. This is wardrobe. There aren’t any cameras around, just Karina and her word.
“Between you and me, he was nervous about meeting the women tonight. He’s just really good at the act, you know?” She pauses. “You actually seem calmer than the rest. More collected. That bodes well for you.” She wraps her arms around my neck to measure me, and her eyes meet mine.
I smile. “Well thanks. I hope so.”
We make small talk as she finishes her job. She asks me questions about color preferences and what I usually wear. She isn’t thrilled with my choice of shirts.
She picks out a black suit, a charcoal undershirt, and a black and royal blue tie that she claims will make my eyes “pop.” She fits me into some shoes, and I’m off to hair and make-up.
Yep. The hair and make-up room for men.
There are two or three for the women, too, but this one is definitely for the men.
I’m assigned to a stylist named Becky, and she starts by giving me a haircut. She declares my stubble “perfection” and doesn’t bother grooming it. And then she dusts more powder on my face. I stop her when she pulls out the eyeliner.
“It’ll make your eyes bluer on TV,” she says.
“I don’t care.” I shake my head.
“Don’t you wear make-up on stage?”
“That’s different,” I say, unwilling to admit to anyone that I pull out the occasional eyeliner when the job calls for it.
“No, it really isn’t. Close your eyes.”
She’s demanding, and I don’t have much choice but to give into her.
When I’m done with my make-up, I’m led down to a holding area, where I sit for a few minutes. And then the popular daytime actress hosting the show appears.
“Dax, I’m Melanie Werther,” she says with a smile.
I smile back and stand in greeting. “I remember you from the interview.”
“Yes, of course.” She motions back to the chair. “Please, have a seat. It’ll just be a few more minutes. Are you ready to meet the women?”
“I’ve never been more ready.”
She smiles and takes a seat across from me. “Each of the men will meet each of the women separately, and then we’ll film a segment where you meet the other men.”
“I already ran into Danny Fisher,” I admit.
“Karina told me.” She smiles wryly. “Pretend like you don’t know he’s here.”
“You got it.”
“I’m expecting this to be a lot of fun. Just be yourself and know that I’m here any time you need to talk. If you feel we need to change the rules, or if you think something’s not going right, I’m your girl. Tell me and I’ll relay it back to the producers. Just beware that the cameras are always on.”
I nod as I appreciate her warning. “Thanks, Mel.”
She smiles at my nickname for her, her eyes lingering a little longer on me than they should, and then we hear a knock at the door. “It’s go time,” she says, and we both stand.
Nerves thunder through my chest. It’s time to meet the women whose affections I’ll be competing for on this reality show.
So why am I thinking about Kylie?
9
Melanie leads me out to an enormous patio. A giant pool takes up the center, and palm trees decorate the perimeter. Lounge chairs surround the pool, and one side has a built-in barbeque. A bar complete with a bartender and stools sits next to the grill. Outdoor landscape lights hang from every available overhead surface, and candles glow with warmth all around me, a soft vanilla scent filling the air.
“This is where you’ll stand,” Mel says, pointing next to one of the palm trees. “Each of the ladies will meet the other men before they meet you. Once they’ve met all of you, we’ll film the segment where the men meet, and then we’ll have cocktail hour where you’ll have a chance to mingle with the ladies. This is where you sell yourself. You only have one hour to get as many of the girls as you can to vote for you to stay. Two of the men will be eliminated tonight. We’ll vote, count the votes, and announce who is staying before the end of the night. Any questions?”
I shake my head and draw in a deep, cleansing breath.
“Great. It’ll be just a few minutes while we get the other men into place.”
She points to a bench. “Feel free to sit there. One of the producers will be out shortly.”
“Thanks, Mel.”
“Break a leg.” She winks and then disappears behind the slider door into the house. I can’t help my gaze as it lingers on her legs even behind the glass door, and then I remember her warning.
The cameras are always watching.
“Jarrod Craig,” a voice to my left booms over my shoulder, snapping me out of my staring contest with Mel’s legs.
He approaches me and sticks out his hand for a handshake, and I comply. “Dax Hunter,” I say stupidly. Of course he knows who I am. He’s one of the producers from the interview, although I never would’ve recalled his name on my own.
He takes a seat next to me on the bench. “I’m assigned to you.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my brows furrowing.
“I’ll be running most of your confessional interviews, and right now I’m here to ensure the introductions go smoothly. Any questions?”
My first impression is that everyone here is helpful. “Nope. Mel explained it all.”
His phone buzzes, and he checks it. “Two minutes. Let’s get you into place.”
I nod, and he points out an X marked on the ground where I’m supposed to stand.
“When each woman comes in, she’ll pause over here,” he says, indicating another X. “We’ll get a shot of your first glimpse of her and her first glimpse of you. Then she’ll walk over to this X,” he points to the ground, “and introduce herself. We need you to face this direction,” he points to a camera, “while she introduces herself. Got it?”
I nod. “Enter, pause, introduce, face the camera. Done and done.”
He glances toward the door. “I’ll be right here,” he reminds me, and then he sits on the bench.
It feels like an eternity before the slider door opens and the first woman walks out. I committed the portfolios of the ladies to memory, so I know the first woman is Nicole, or as the producers labeled her, the Sweet One. She’s gorgeous, if a little too innocent for my tastes. I’d prefer a bit more cleavage on her pink dress or a higher slit up her thigh, but I remember she’s a teacher and figure she has an image to portray.
Maybe we have more in common than I first thought.
She introduces herself and sticks her hand out, and then I say, “Nice to meet you, Nicole. I’m Dax. What do you do?” I already know the answer, but I figure if I ask each girl a question about herself, she’ll be more likely to remember me as someone who cares.
“I’m a kindergarten teacher. You?”
“I’m the lead singer of a band.”
Her eyebrows shoot up as if she’s impressed. “I brought you a gift,” she says shyly. She hands me a piece of construction paper with all sorts of drawings and barely legible phrases like, “Miss you” or “I love you” or “Good Luck” scribbled all over it.
“My kindergarteners made a few of these for me before I left, and I wanted you to have one.”
I immediately get why she was labeled the Sweet One. “Thank you.”
She looks down at the ground shyly. “I look forward to getting to know you better.”
“Likewise.” I shoot her my panty dropping smile, something I’m sure I’ll be pulling out more than once this evening.
She walks toward a producer on the other side of the patio, and I can’t help but check out her legs. Not bad, but not exactly on par with Hostess Mel or Kylie.
Kylie.
I shake her out of my head as Amber the bartender comes out next. She was labeled the Drama Queen, but to me she just seems like she’d be a hell of a lot of fun.
The others come along, one by one, each finding a way to stand out like Nicole did with the paper from her students. After the eighth girl introduces herself, I’ve already started piecing together who I like and who I’ll take a pass on. While all of them are gorgeous and have a lot going for them, it’s easy to see which ones I have the most chemistry with.
But it all depends on who the other three men are.
When Poppy “The Party Girl” appears, she holds two tequila shots in her hands. Before she even introduces herself, she hands one to me. “Ready?” she asks, giving me a wicked smile. If I have a panty dropping smile, hers is a boxer dropping one.
I have to wonder if she did this with each of the men, because that would make this her fourth tequila shot. I recall her job as a VIP Hostess and imagine she has a pretty high tolerance to alcoholic beverages...unlike my man Rascal.
I grin back at her as I take the glass from her. “You need salt or lime?” she asks.
“Salt’s for pussies,” I say, holding my shot glass up to hers in a toast.
“To this epic adventure!” she says, and then we both tip back our glasses.
She tosses her glass into a bush beside us. “I’m Poppy,” she says.
“Dax,” I say.
She throws her arms around me and plants a kiss on my lips then pulls back slightly. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says. Her breath smells like tequila, which makes me think of drunk sex. She’s hot, and she’s definitely into me.
Would it be wrong to sleep with one of the women on the first night? I mean, it’s part of the dating scene, right? If I’m supposed to fall in love, sex will inevitably come into the equation.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, trying to tell her with my eyes I’d fuck her in a second if we were alone.
Although she honestly seems like the kind of girl who doesn’t care if we’re alone. Or if there are cameras pointed at us.
After I meet all ten women, Jarrod the producer takes me inside to film the segment where I meet the other men.
We enter the slider doors Mel disappeared through earlier into a large living room. Three other men (including Danny Fisher) stand in front of the fireplace.
So this is my competition.
I recognize the other men right away. I’m definitely the least famous of this crew, and I fear it may lower my chances of actually being selected by the ladies. But if nothing else, just being on the show—even for only the first night—would still get the band some exposure.
Melanie looks into the cameras. “And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for! All the men are together in one room for the first time.” She looks at each one of us in turn. “We have television actor Anthony Ventura, hotel mogul Jonathan Crosby, baseball player Danny Fisher, and rock star Dax Hunter.”
We look at each other awkwardly, and I wonder if they went in this whole thing with the right intentions or if they’re like me and just wanted the exposure and the paycheck. It doesn’t seem like any of them need it the way I do, so I sort of doubt it.
“Nice to meet you,” I say first, breaking the silence and asserting my spot as an alpha male. They all reply with their own greetings, and then Melanie continues talking into the camera while we stand behind her.
“These men will be competing for the hearts of the women they just met, and we can’t wait to take you on the journey of love as these men hand over their hearts. Stay with us for the party, coming up next.”
The scene cuts, and then the producers come in to break the tension. Each producer appears to be assigned to one man, and Jarrod comes up to me. “What do you want to drink?” he asks.
“Anything?”
He nods.
“Just a beer.”
“Any particular kind?”
“Miller Lite.” I am who I am, and I’m not about to fake it for television even though I can’t help but wonder whether my order measures up to what the other men are having.
“You got it,” Jarrod says, turning away to fill my drink order.
Melanie makes small talk while the four of us wait for our drinks. “So no talking to each other about the ladies just yet. I’m here to keep you from doing that.” She lets out a giggle, and the four of us just stare at her. I wonder what the other men are thinking and which women they like.
“Once your drinks arrive, we’ll h
ead out back for the party,” Melanie says. “The clock will run for exactly one hour, and you’ve each been assigned a cameraman to follow you and catch your interactions with the women.”
Our drinks arrive, and we follow Melanie out the slider doors. As we walk, I think about what needs to happen in order for me to stay tonight. I think of my top six women. I have to focus on the ones most likely to vote to keep me, and six would be the majority vote guaranteeing my spot.
That means, obviously, that I have to start with Poppy the Party Girl.
Except Anthony makes a beeline for Poppy the second Melanie releases us into the wild. Danny and Jonathan fall into quick one-on-one conversations with two other women.
There goes my well-developed plan. I need a new plan, so I do what I do best. I force myself into the limelight.
“Ladies,” I call out, getting the attention of the remaining women. “How about a song?”
They all look intrigued, so I launch into the refrain of one of MFB’s ballads. It’s over the top even for me, but I have to secure my spot as one of the final two men on this show. The lyrics talk about lost loves and broken hearts, and as I sing, a few women start to swoon.
I finish my a cappella solo of just the refrain, and the ladies clap. I glance over at Poppy, who’s focused on me rather than on Anthony. A rush of satisfaction races through my chest.
“That was amazing!” Amanda, the mom, says first.
Amazing, I think to myself, shaking my head. I wish she’d chosen pretty much any other word to describe my performance. It’s a generic word that has lost its meaning, and it’s a pet peeve of mine whenever I hear it.
Eden, the social media sales rep dubbed The Bitch by the producers, steps forward with confidence. She takes my arm and leads me over to an empty couch.
“Dax, that was a beautiful song.” Her voice is low and intimate as she speaks to me.
“Thank you. I wrote it about two years ago.”
“From personal experience?”
I nod and apply the rule of eighty-twenty I learned a long time ago when it comes to talking to people: let them talk eighty percent of the time, and I can talk twenty. “Tell me about you, Eden.”
