Scorpio

by Lauren Landish

  She laughs politely when I tell her the worst thing I’d ever done was steal a lollipop as a kid, but I took it back before I even made it down the block. “Well, Emily, I have to say that I’ve got a few more calls to make, but I like your chances.”

  Since then, I’ve talked to Meredith several more times, including a Skype interview with a panel of show executives. They already knew the answers to all the questions they asked me, since Meredith had already asked them before. They probably just wanted to see my reaction, but I answered in the same way I did with her—truthfully and honestly.

  I’m still not sure what I’ve gotten myself into. It’s all hush-hush, and no one will say a word. You’d think it was a top-secret government program.

  “Well, as long as it’s not one of those shows where you’ll be one of many helpless women chasing one ding-a-ling belonging to the biggest douchebag ever, all while begging him to choose you to be his love interest after he’s probably fucked all the other girls, then I think you’ll be all right,” Cassie says, breaking me out of my reverie.

  I let out a laugh. “Oh, hell no. This might be my dream, but I do have my limits. I have class and standards, I’ll have you know.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Cassie quips. “Not sure ‘class and standards’ apply to a girl who will babysit one night and then dance on a pole the next.”

  “Hey! That was one night. You dared me, and may I remind you that I took second place?” I growl. “Don’t hate.”

  Cassie laughs, and I can’t help but smile despite my nerves about being in the dark on what I’m getting into.

  I glance at my clock. “Crap!” I say. “I’ve gotta go! The production limo will be here soon.”

  “Production limo? To your house?” Cassie asks, sounding shocked. “Girl, what are you not telling me?”

  “I’m as surprised as you. They said something about Cinderella treatment, something I wouldn’t know the least bit about. But I can’t argue with that!”

  “I don’t blame you, but you be safe, you hear? Call me when you get there. I’m dying to know what this is about.”

  “I am too. And I will,” I promise. “Bye, babe.”

  “Details! I want all the details!” Cassie yells as I pull my phone away, making me chuckle. I hang up the phone and scurry over to the closet. I don’t have much time to get ready. I need to be quick. Flipping through clothes, I rummage through my wardrobe, trying on different outfits with the speed of Wonder Woman. Meredith said to wear something nice, but I don’t know what that means. Finally, I settle on a body-hugging red dress that makes my eyes pop. I don’t remember where I got it, but as soon as I saw it, I had to have it. It’s like it carries good luck or something. And it’s decidedly nicer than my usual lazy-chic jeans and tees.

  Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I don’t think I look bad at all. With bra-length blonde hair, blue eyes, and hips that give me an hourglass figure, I look like the modern girl next door. Maybe that’s why they chose me. But what they plan to do with me, I have no idea.

  Flashing myself a wink, I gather my purse and a tiny duffel bag of belongings. I’m not even outside for a minute before a shiny black limo pulls up. Out of the corner of my left eye, I can see my nosy neighbor Ethel Crabtree perched on her porch, nearly falling out of her rocking chair to get a view of what’s going on. And to my right, wannabe real housewife Holly Vereen is just pulling into her driveway and getting out of her SUV. She’s dressed in a black knockoff Versace jumpsuit, her mouth falling open when she sees the limo driver jump out to serve me.

  “Emily!” she gasps in surprise, gawking at the limo. “What’s all this about?”

  I flash her a grin, trying not to laugh as the driver motions inside the vehicle. “If you’ll please, Miss Parks.”

  Holly usually ignores me and sticks her nose up at me whenever I try to speak to her, so I find it hilarious that she wants my attention now. “Sorry, Mrs. Vereen, but I don’t have time to chat,” I respond cheerfully, giving her a friendly wave. “You have a wonderful day!”

  “But—” she begins to protest, but her words are lost as I dip into the limo and the driver closes the door.

  I’m immediately enveloped in luxury, sitting back against the leather seats. I let out a low whistle as I look around at all the finery. This thing is equipped with everything, even a bar and a popup flat-panel TV.

  I can hardly stop gawking. It’s all so much. As someone who’s lived a working class life, I’ve never been in a limo or a car this decked out before. Running my hands over the supple leather seats, I can hardly believe what’s happening. This almost feels like a dream.

  As the driver pulls away from the sidewalk, I can see Holly rushing over to gossip with Ethel through the tinted windows. Both of them are staring with wide eyes, gesturing wildly at the limo. I know they’re talking about me, wondering what in the world is going on, but they’re quickly forgotten as we leave the street and the two women and my house disappear from view.

  As we move through the city, my mind returns to my Skype interview with the show’s producers.

  “Emily, you know that you will be in isolation during filming, correct?”

  I’m sitting in my living room, nervous as I look into the camera. I nod, hoping they don’t see me twisting the hell out of the washcloth in my lap. “Yes. Meredith explained it to me.”

  “She’s got a good voice. Teeth aren’t too horsey,” someone else says as the group begins talking about me like I’m not even there. Some say I’m perfect, and others comment like I’m some prize pedigree at a dog show.

  “We should get the dynamic duo on her,” another producer says. “They can do something about that skin and her hair.”

  “Oh, and make sure we get her measurements. I want to reduce that hippiness that’s going to show up on-screen,” someone says, and I’m beginning to feel like a reject from the dog pound. Seriously, bitch? Hippy?

  “We’ll take care of all that,” Meredith says. “Just remember, Emily, we might sound cruel, but this is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. We’ll be in touch soon.”

  Damn, she had to say that last line. I’m hooked again.

  “Miss Parks?”

  I look up, realizing I’ve been lost in thought. “Sorry. Yes?”

  “We’re at the airport.” The driver lets me out, and I quickly go through security and board the plane. First class, something I can certainly get used to. On the flight over to LAX, I try to sleep, but I’m so nervous I can’t keep my eyes closed. I have no clue what awaits me at my final destination. I’m supposed to ‘find out when I get there’.

  When we touch down, I’m a ball of nerves and I have to drag myself through the airport to my waiting ride—another decked-out limo. It’s chaos as we pull out of the terminal into bumper-to-bumper traffic, but I relax against my seat as I peer out the tinted windows. We make our way to the congested highway and the crowded, seemingly never-ending urban landscape.

  Los Angeles. The City of Angels. Some people call it the city of sinners, but I really don’t know anything about all that. As a small-town girl, I’m taken aback at the enormity of the place. It’s HUGE. And the traffic is insane. I swear it seems like hours since we left LAX, yet we probably haven’t even gone five miles. Thankfully, the limo is comfy and I can sip at a mineral water as we crawl along.

  Apparently, we’re headed to Beverly Hills, a place where I hear mansions are a dime a dozen and being rich is the natural way of life. After what seems like an eternity, we finally make it through traffic driving well outside the city into an area where the houses are appropriately called estates and the rolling hills are truly golden mini-kingdoms.

  My chest tightens with anxiety as we finally slow down, pulling up in front of a wrought-iron gate. After a moment, it slowly swings open and we move forward again. That’s when I see the mansion, the air fleeing from my lungs.

  A big circular drive surrounds an architectural marble fountain, tall windows cov
er the front facade, and there are unusual blocks of stucco popping out of the sections of design. The effect is one of sleek contemporary luxury like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  The driver jumps out and opens my door, helping me out of the opulent cabin. I’m not even on my feet long enough to admire the gorgeous estate before a harried looking guy dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, and square black glasses rushes up to me.

  “Emily?” he asks, giving me a cursory lookover and then offering his hand as I nod. “I’m Nate, Meredith’s assistant.”

  I take his hand, flashing a friendly but nervous smile. “Nice to meet you, Nate—”

  “Let’s get you inside. They’re waiting on you,” he says, cutting me off and turning away.

  My heart pounds in my chest as my anxiety rises. “Oh, sorry . . . am I late?”

  Nate turns and looks at me, smiling sarcastically. “Well aren’t you polite? No, you’re not late. We’re just on a timeline. Move it, toots.”

  Okaaaaay. Looks like I’m going to have to exercise my behavioral skills I reserve for misbehaving children. That is, if I don’t want to end up going off and ruining whatever this is.

  I know this is Hollywood and that things work and move differently here. But damn, have some manners.

  Don’t complain now. You always wanted to know what it was like to see how things were behind the scenes. Now you’ll get to find out.

  I keep my smile plastered on my face as Nate speed-walks into the house. I try to keep up through a twist and turn of hallways and two flights of stairs, but I find myself having to jog or risk getting left behind. By the time we make it to where we’re going, I’m nearly out of breath.

  Rapping on a huge frosted glass door once, Nate slides it open, inviting me in with a wave of his arms. Before I can say a word, he’s shut the door behind him with a whispered, “Good luck, toots.”

  Silence envelops me and my skin pricks as my eyes fall on the group of people seated at a large table in front of me. I look from face to face, my heart pounding like a battering ram. I recognize several from the Skype call, but there’s a few new faces too, and almost none of them look happy to see me.

  They’re staring at me. Hard. The silence is so thick, I swear they can hear my heart beating out of my chest. Finally, someone speaks. “Well, she isn’t just a photo-only star.”

  “That dress is horrendous, though. What is that, five years ago?”

  “I’d say seven. But Wardrobe can work that out.”

  The comments go on, leaving me feeling like a side of beef again before an impeccably dressed woman with a sharp grey side-bob rises to her feet and silence drops over everyone. I recognize her immediately. Meredith. She walks around the table, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor, and fixes a friendly smile on her face.

  “Emily, my dear,” she greets in a no-nonsense voice. She might be trying to sound friendly, but I suspect she eats baby seals for breakfast with the ice she’s got in her eyes. “So good to see you again. I trust your flight was excellent.” She pauses dramatically, as if waiting for my response.

  Not trusting myself to speak, I softly nod, trying to calm myself.

  Her smile grows wider and she gestures to a chair on the opposite side of the table. There’s a stack of papers in front of it. “Please, have a seat. We have a lot of ground to cover.” The tone of her voices makes it clear that I’m not to interrupt and any questions are simply rhetorical.

  I sit as commanded, looking at the stack of papers. It looks like I’m about to sign my entire life away. “Uh . . . what is all this?”

  Meredith glances at the group of men and women, a silent exchange passing through them. Then she turns around and claps her hands. “Ah, yes. First . . . contracts. We’ll need you to sign stating that you are, in fact, who you say you are and the information you provided in all interviews and paperwork is true and complete. We don’t want any surprises.” Her voice drops low on the last sentence. A part of me feels slightly disappointed. I’m a woman of my word and I told them I had no secrets. But I have to remind myself that she doesn’t really know me. Who knows how many people have said the same thing but then turned out to be anything but?

  I stare at the contract for a moment, my heart still pounding. I was sent mock copies to go over before I came, but now that the real deal is right in front of me, it feels surreal.

  Sweat beads my brow as I feel the weight of eyes on me, and I quickly scribble my signature on the dotted lines on each page that requires my name.

  When I’m done, Meredith gestures and someone takes the papers and slides some more in front of me. “Next is the NDA. What we’re sharing today and what will occur throughout filming is all hush-hush until after the season airs and promotions are complete.” She taps the table. “Sign.”

  I gulp as I look down at the dotted line. But there is no use fretting. I came all this way. No way I can leave without finding out the details.

  I quickly sign the next few pages, and for the next fifteen minutes, it seems to go on and on. Waivers and contracts, agreements for media usage, licensing of my image—I have an image? On and on and on until I feel like I’m on autopilot.

  When I get to the one agreeing to be on the show, I pause, something occurring to me. “Before I sign this last one,” I say, a moment of clarity striking in the whirlwind of papers, “can you finally tell me what this is going to be about?”

  I swear I’m going to wilt under Meredith’s stern gaze, but I hold steady. She had to expect it. Who’d sign everything without even knowing what they’re committing to?

  Meredith exchanges glances with the producers. They each silently look at each other, long, dramatic pauses that draw out the moment long enough to make me want to pull out my hair and scream.

  Finally, they come to a silent consensus. Meredith gives me a warm smile, proudly announcing, “The show will be the hottest new reality show. We’re honored for you to become our first matcher.”

  I frown in confusion. “A matcher?”

  Meredith’s smile grows wider. “Yes. The show will be a romance format. You know, like The Bachelorette? Similar, but our version is going to be called Matchmaker.”

  Hayden

  “Move your arm down just a little,” the photographer orders as several blinding shots go off in my face. Frances is a skinny French guy with a bald head and hawk eyes. He pauses once, motioning at me with a hurried gesture.

  Moving my hand down my stomach, I do as he says, all while trying to keep my pose. I’m wearing a towel balanced precariously around my waist, so there’s not much to it, but I’m careful not to let it fall. Something tells me Frances would like that a little too much.

  “Yesss, yesss,” he hisses admirably in his French accent, moving around me like a snake and snapping multiple shots. “Perfect . . . pretty boy.”

  I ignore him and zone out the sound of his voice, keeping my facial expression frozen and hard. He talks too much for my taste and seems to dig my physique in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable. But it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I just want to hurry up and get this over with.

  For the second time today, I wonder how I ended up here, doing modeling jobs for second-rate labels. I had everything going for me in high school. I was practically destined for the big leagues. Everyone was convinced that I’d be the next big thing, the next baseball legend. Then the unexpected happened. A long fly ball, an outfield fence that was a little too low, a bad landing . . . and I was sidelined by an injury that wiped away my dreams of a sports scholarship to play ball. But a chance encounter with a scout a few years ago got me out of my small town, which was the real goal anyway, so I guess posing for some pictures isn’t all that bad. It’s damn sure not baseball though.

  I swallow, clenching my jaw and forcing away the memory. I hate thinking about it. It just pisses me off and sets me off my game.

  For my photoshoot, we’re using an abandoned building that looks like it went through World
War II with stripped walls and dilapidated architecture.

  There’s dust and debris strewn across the floor here and there throughout the large room, leftover remnants of a wall that was torn out, and gang graffiti was spray-painted on the wall behind me. But the worst part about it is the smell. It smells dank and musty, like the local bums come here to piss their drunkenness away. I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face through it all.

  It definitely isn’t a spot that I would’ve chosen for the shoot, but it’s not like I really have a say in the matter. I shoot where they want me to shoot most of the time. Besides, posing in front of graffiti in a rundown warehouse is supposedly edgy and plays into the sexy bad boy image that I usually get booked for. Guess that’s what happens when you’re jacked, inked, and wear an aura of cockiness like a favorite leather jacket.

  “Perfect!” Frances exclaims, smiling at me and then gesturing again. “Now turn around just a little and show me some of your butt.” I don’t like his tone, but I’m professional. Besides, a little top of the ass was agreed upon before the shoot. I start to do as he says, but then he adds, “And hook your thumbs in the front of the towel to lower it. Show a smidge of hair and the base of your cock.”

  I freeze. That wasn’t part of the agreement. “No. Dick pics aren’t in the contract and you damn well know it.”

  Frances’s eyebrows lift up and he seems surprised I’m not just doing what he says without a second thought, probably accustomed to people jumping anytime he demands. But I just stare back at him as he blows up, ranting about how he knows what sells better than some asshole model who thinks he’s hot shit.

  What the fuck am I doing? I’m not a damn porn star. Fuck this.

  I walk over and grab my jeans and t-shirt, not saying a word. I pull my jeans up while Frances gawks at me and I think he’s still looking at my ass. As he realizes I’m actually leaving, his tirade continues. I’m pretty sure he even tells me to fuck myself in French as I slip my t-shirt over my head, but I can’t be sure.