by Marika Ray
“Okay, Ms. Fierro. All done.”
The young makeup artist with a bar through her nose finally started packing away her instruments of torture. I leaned forward to gaze at my new self in the mirror, wondering how she Photoshopped me when I wasn’t a photograph. I had skin that looked like velvet, without a single pore showing to mark me as human. My eyes were lined with kohl, highlighting the almond shape and deepening my dark chocolate irises. My hair was swept back into an intricate chignon with braids and wisps and approximately a hundred pins digging into my scalp. I wished that were an exaggeration.
My one concession was the lipstick. I’d handed her my signature shade right from the start and told her to work around it. And she had, keeping one part of my appearance I still recognized. I looked like a Spanish princess about to march into war. Even in just my silk robe with black lacy bra and matching thong underneath, I looked fiercely beautiful, ready to plunder villages and rule my kingdom. Maybe two hours wasn’t so bad...
I jumped up and thanked her before walking briskly down the hall to find the bathroom. Once that emergency was taken care of, I found the dressing room where I’d stashed my personal items before hitting makeup at five this morning. Getting up at three to shower and dress, then Uber my way to the back lot studio in Burbank for a five in the morning call time was not something I looked forward to for the next few weeks. But sacrifices had to be made and my restaurant was counting on me to create the buzz necessary to make it the new trend.
A full rack of dresses from wardrobe were on display in the center of the dressing room. I went through each one, pulling them this way and that to see which would look best on my frame. Though all of them had a certain appeal, I went with the deep crimson dress that wrapped in the front. I wanted my first outfit to be the one everyone remembered. Hanging it on a hook on the wall, I searched through my suitcase.
I pulled out a necklace I brought with me from its velvet pouch, a multi-strand number with large black beads and flat metallic disks. It would drape heavily across the neckline of the dress like a Usekh collar, which was what you’d see worn by an Egyptian. I’d actually bought the necklace while in Egypt several years ago, taking an instant liking to the historical significance. Only the elite Egyptians and deities of old wore a collar like this.
If I wanted to appear fierce, and I did, this dress, the necklace, and the hair and makeup would certainly do it. Dropping my silk robe to the carpet, I was finally ready to put on my armor.
A loud bang echoed through the small dressing room, and I spun around, eyes wide and heart in my throat.
There, standing in the doorway, with his eyes roaming every square inch of me on display, was a large man in jeans and a T-shirt. I stood there stunned, too paralyzed by shock to move or speak. He was good-looking, if a little underdressed. Not that I had much of a leg to stand on with that argument when I was practically naked. Like a comedy movie gone bad, the next few seconds happened with agonizing slow motion.
“¡Dios mío!” I whispered. My arms flew up to cover my breasts, finding nipples beaded and on display in the see-through lace cups. I was missing a third arm I desperately wished for at the moment to cover my southern region, but as it was, I couldn’t cover everything. At the same time I was trying to cover up, the man’s eyes finally flew to my face, maybe remembering I was an actual person, not just breasts and—other things—there for his ogling.
He stumbled back and hit the doorframe, creating another loud bang. Then he tilted off-kilter into the hallway behind him, spinning to hit a member of the crew who was rushing by with a whole cart full of kitchen utensils.
My handsome voyeur hit the cart full speed, doubling over on impact and falling down to the floor. A shower of stainless steel serving dishes, spoons, and a particularly large set of salt and pepper shakers rained down upon the man as punishment for his clumsiness.
I reached down and snatched my robe off the floor, wrapping it around myself and belting it tighter than a corset on a virgin looking for a husband. Marching over to the door, I surveyed the mess and several crew members running over to help.
The chaos gave me a moment to study the man on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like all the answers to the world’s problems were located there. He was a big man, but young, maybe early twenties. His jeans were snug and well-worn, along with his ugly T-shirt depicting a place called The Butcher’s Tavern. Hopefully their beer was better than their logo design.
His blue eyes blinked repeatedly, but still he didn’t move. The crew member who’d been pushing the cart came around to offer his hand and help him up, but he didn’t take it. Everyone got quiet, looking around at each other, thinking the guy was hurt. I leaned forward, growing alarmed and wanting to offer assistance like a good human being even though he’d caught me in a compromising position. Just when I got close enough to see he needed a haircut to clean up the messy blond look he had going on, he nearly burst my eardrums with a giant sneeze.
I jolted back and frowned, not caring to catch my death the first day on the job. He thought nothing of it, though, because he sat up and laughed. “Wow, that’s some powerful pepper you got there. I’ll remember to use it sparingly.”
The crew members chuckled uneasily, probably wondering if he had actually hit his head on the way down. Now that he appeared to be okay, my anger at his intrusiveness bubbled back to the surface. I didn’t know who this guy was, but I didn’t appreciate him barging into my dressing room.
He finally swiveled his head my way and his gaze traveled slowly up my bare legs, over my robe, and finally up to my eyes, having the good sense to look sheepish from where he sat on the dirty carpet.
“I’m sor—”
“I don’t care, tonto del culo.” I held out my palm, blocking my view of his handsome face. I took a step back and gripped the doorknob. “Just stay out.” With that parting shot I slammed the door and marched back over to my dress, too agitated to actually get dressed just yet. The sad thing about cursing in Spanish was that the recipient frequently didn’t know you were cursing them out. I seemed to have no choice, though; when I was angry, the only thing that came out was Spanish.
Maybe I overreacted. Nerves were certainly kicking in and the poor guy came in at the worst time. Ah well, he was probably just an extra or maybe the catering deliverer. Once I calmed down, I slipped on the dress, the necklace, and four-inch black stilettos. I was ready. Time to make my entrance.
“Each of you will film several shots for the opening credits, then we’ll have you film some interviews about your career that we’ll splice up and insert as necessary so the viewers know your credentials.” Tom James, the infamous reality show director who’d already filmed two other award-winning cooking shows, was going over the directions for the judges when I walked onto the set. “There you are, Ms. Fierro! Wonderful to meet you in person.”
The director, a tall, balding man, came over and shook my hand, then spun to introduce me to the other two judges. “This is Bertrand Paul and Michael Fin. Gentlemen, meet Elle Fierro.”
The two men stepped forward and I reached to shake their hands. Bertrand, a smaller, older man, squeezed my fingers lightly and kissed the back of my hand before releasing me with a cute smile. Michael, a younger, rugged man—handsome if you liked the outdoorsy type—shook my hand and lingered a little longer than necessary. But if I wasn’t taking home hot, rich Italians, I certainly wasn’t taking home a colleague. Ah well, he was young. He’d learn soon enough not to mix business with pleasure.
“Let’s get you over to your camera man, Elle, now that Bertrand is finished.” Tom started to walk off when Bertrand interrupted.
“Oh, I wasn’t done. I didn’t care for my hair in the first take, so we’re going to redo it.”
My gaze flicked up to the handful of strands that clung valiantly to his mostly bald head. My eyes darted away quickly, not wanting to make him uncomfortable so soon in our acquaintance. Michael let out a noise he disguised poorly as a co
ugh, which I thought was a little too obvious and gauche, but it didn’t seem to faze Bertrand. He found a makeup crew member and proceeded to get all six of his hairs fixed.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Come on, Elle. You’ll be fast, I can tell. I’m sure you’ll only need one take.” He introduced me to the camera person and then moved away, barking orders at the sound crew.
I ran through head shots and short pans, careful to keep a small smile on my face. My natural instinct was to glare into the camera so everyone knew I wasn’t the softie of the group, but I also wanted viewers to like me. It was a fine line and I had to be sure to dance right on it if the publicity was going to help me down the line.
The cameraman seemed to be eating it up, so I guessed I struck a good balance. Once I was done, he went back to Bertrand, whose hair looked the exact same as when he did his first run-through. I watched him, fascinated with the way he knew exactly how to hold his head and where to put his hands when he smiled for the camera. He must practice in the mirror quite a bit.
“Interesting character, huh?” Michael sidled up next to me and bumped my shoulder with his elbow, his cologne even more powerful close up.
“Hmm,” I answered noncommittally. “I think he’ll be a fabulous addition to our panel. When do we meet the contestants?” Better to keep conversation with Michael on a business-only path at all costs.
“Tom said we’d have lunch together a little later and meet them then.” He turned fully toward me, his flannel shirt snagging slightly on my necklace he was so close. “You gonna be my buddy during this competition?”
I stepped around him to walk away and glanced back with cold boredom my intended look. “I’m no one’s buddy.”
I could hear loud chatter as I approached the white tent set up in the back lot outside the Warner Bros Studio where we were busy all morning shooting interview snippets to be used later to break up scenes of the actual competition. A few minutes late to lunch, I picked up my pace the best I could in my stilettos. They looked beautiful on, making my short legs look less stump-like, but damn, were they killer on my feet.
A woman dressed in black outside the tent eyed my badge as I held it up in my hand. There was no way I’d be putting it around my neck and spoiling the statement my necklace was making. Sacrifices had to be made for fashion.
Surprisingly, I was nervous to meet the contestants. We’d be spending quite a bit of time together from what Tom explained earlier today. He’d pair us up for the second challenge, sending us off to a foreign local, so I hoped to get along with all of them. I crossed my fingers not to get some vapid artist who couldn’t take constructive criticism or put in the hard work necessary to elevate one’s craft.
Ducking my head into the tent, I let my eyes adjust before stepping forward.
“Elle! Come meet the crew.” Michael materializes at my side, grabbing my elbow to tug me forward.
Faster than he could say “sexual harassment,” I pulled my elbow free and sidestepped, preferring to make my own introductions. The long table was already filled with excited faces, some familiar and many not. I spotted a balding head and went in that direction, figuring it was either Tom or Bertrand.
I came up beside him and asked, “Tom, will you introduce me to our contestants?” He pulled away from the man he was speaking to and walked me farther down the line to where four people were huddled at the last table, looking less jovial than the rest.
“Poor saps have no idea what they’re in for...” he whispered out of the side of his mouth right before we reached their group.
I barely heard him as my gaze zeroed in on the largest of the four.
Butcher’s Tavern guy. The one who walked in on me half naked.
He was here.
Dios mío, he was one of the contestants.
Everything froze, then lurched forward in slow motion, like the guy was some sort of Matrix character, able to manipulate time whenever I was around him. My stomach clenched like a vise, then dropped to my feet. I felt like I was underwater, trying to flee a situation but unable to move fast enough to outpace disaster.
He glanced up to meet my gaze, then looked away, before darting right back to me, startled surprise, and what a small kernel of me hoped was fear, in his eyes. The noise in the tent faded away as I got lost in his eyes, the ones that had seen far more of me than I ever intended. How the hell was I going to work with him? I planned for every contingency for this opportunity and yet never considered this quagmire.
“Hijo de puta...” I muttered, closing my eyes for just a moment. Anything to break that connection. Just a blink of time needed to gather my thoughts and put my armor back on.
“What’s that, Elle?” Tom leaned his head down, trying to catch what I was saying down there close to his waist level even with these ridiculous shoes on.
Summoning a smile, I pasted it on my face, certain I looked constipated instead, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. “Oh nothing, just super excited!”
I wanted to slap my forehead. What a stupid response. I sounded like a damn cheerleader, all exclamations and “like, totally.” That wasn’t the perception I wanted anyone to have of me. I wanted to be taken seriously, yet here I was mumbling to myself like a crazy person.
And one of the contestants had already seen me naked!
“Well, that’s great. I like your enthusiasm. Right here we have Jason Willheimer from New Mexico.” Tom patted a small man on the shoulder. He was maybe mid-thirties, wearing a sweater like Mr. Rogers.
He barely flicked his head up and mumbled something that sounded like “hello” in my direction. I gave a tepid smile to the back of his head and wondered how he made it onto the show. He must cook brilliantly to overcome what he lacked in personality. Maybe he saved all of it for his food. I was actually looking forward to seeing what he could create.
Tom cleared his throat and moved on. “And here is Brandy Latrell from Texas. Brandy, this is Ms. Elle Fierro.”
A young woman with huge curly black hair and ebony skin twisted around fully and smiled up at me. I instantly liked her. “Hello, Ms. Fierro, lovely to meet you in person.” Her smile was genuine and unlike my ridiculous exclamation earlier, her enthusiasm was real. She exuded happiness and I knew her food creations would be the same.
We shook hands and I couldn’t help a returning smile, though mine was tempered by not wanting to show favoritism this early on in the game. “Likewise. I look forward to seeing what you prepare for us.”
I could feel a laser-like stare on my face from across the table. The weight of his scrutiny was distracting, though I was determined to act like nothing about this morning fazed me.
“And then of course we have Dale Fitzgerald from North Carolina.” Tom pointed to a man across the table. He stood and shook my hand with a beefy grip. The man was overly large, perhaps taste testing more than he was cooking. Or maybe he cooked so well he couldn’t help but eat it all. He sat back down and mopped his dripping forehead with a handkerchief. I was looking forward to tasting what he prepared, as long as he could keep his nervous sweat out of the recipe.
“Last, but not least, we have Austin Cox from California.” Tom waved in my voyeur’s direction and I took a fortifying breath before finally letting my gaze lock with his again. As far as I was concerned, this morning never happened. That was the story I was sticking with.
He stood up and leaned over the table to extend his hand. I reached forward and placed my small hand in his, disturbed when the warm contact sent a shiver down my body. He smiled an easy smile. Good. He was pretending this morning’s peep show never happened either.
“Ah, so a local, yes?” I said, surprised when my voice came out a bit more throaty than normal.
The tips of his lips tilted higher, the smile looking natural on his face, despite the beard scruff that threatened to hide it. “Not really. Northern California is nothing like Southern. Technically, we’re the same state, but when it comes down to it, we’re completely
different.” His voice held a bit of a twang I wasn’t expecting.
“Are you from a small town, then?”
He still hadn’t let go of my hand, so I slid it out from his grasp, needing to keep myself away from him. He had a certain magnetism that was disconcerting.
“The show will say I’m from Sacramento, but yes, I’m actually from a small town a few miles outside of there. I’m like a fish outta water ’round here. And where are you from, Ms. Fierro?”
I glanced around the table, remembering there were other people in this conversation. “Originally Spain.” Brandy let out an appreciative “ohh...” over that detail. “But I’ve been in New York so long you could safely say I’m from there.”
“Well, that explains your beautiful outfit.” Brandy had spun around again and flailed her hands in the air between us. “The dress, the necklace. My goodness, Ms. Fierro, you’re a stunning Spanish princess.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that effusive praise.
“You can say that again...” Austin muttered so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. I chanced a glance and he was smirking at me, eyes narrowed, like the game had changed and he was remembering exactly what he’d seen in that dressing room this morning.
A blush crept up my neck.
This was going to be awkward.
4
Austin
I lay in my bed that night, naked as the day I was born, wondering what to do about my gigantic faux pas. I wasn’t super fancy from New York or Spain or something, but even a backwoods guy like myself knew walking in on one of the judges—in a thong—who would determine my fate here was not a good situation.
The salt in the wound was that I was so stunned by the unbelievably gorgeous sight before me, I hadn’t been able to drink in all the details. One minute I’m opening the door to my dressing room—or so I thought—and the next I’m staring at the most stunning woman to have ever lived. I literally had a split second there where I thought I’d somehow died and gone to heaven. Like the shitty studio was the Pearly Gates and she was some dark angel sent to make my Valhalla a sexual paradise. I may have mixed a few theologies in there, but my brain was permanently scrambled.
