Scorpio

by Lauren Landish

  His voice only gets louder as I walk off. “You know what I can’t stand about models like you?” Frances demands. “You think because you’re good-looking that you’re owed the world. Well, news flash. Hot men like you are a dime a dozen. You’re nothing special. Hell, the last model I shot was far cuter than you.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Maybe you can book a Dad Bod gig next time.”

  I stop in my tracks, my back to him, and I smile. Now I know he’s full of shit, but it’s not worth making this situation worse.

  I wait till I’m on the street before calling my agent, Jay Coleman.

  “Yo?” Jay answers in his customary greeting.

  “What the fuck, Jay?” I growl. Jay’s been my agent for the past few years when he discovered me after my injury. We’ve gotten pretty close, and we’re never formal when we speak. “You sending me on soft porn shoots now or something?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Jay asks in confusion.

  “He wanted to see my dick!” I hiss. Right as I say ‘dick’, an old lady walks by and shoots me a dirty look, forcing me to lower my voice. I wait till she passes before I continue. “He was already giving me weird vibes even before that. I walked out on him.”

  Jay laughs. “Dude, I’m sure he didn’t want to see your Full Monty. It was for the chicks.”

  “I don’t know about that man,” I say, remembering the way Frances looked at me. “Not what I signed up for either way.”

  Jay lets out a sigh. “I really wish you wouldn’t have walked off set like that . . .” his voice trails off, but I get the point. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was just a little tease for the ladies. But my mom buys every single ad I do and shows it to all of her book club friends. Talk about fucking awkward. Fuck it. It’s over now.

  “It’s too late now. It’s over and done with. You got anything else for me?” I ask.

  Jay pauses as if he’s going to scold me further for my fallout with Frances, but then his tune changes. “Yeah, I do, actually, but it’s a stretch. Some new TV show is doing auditions. Could be a good opportunity for some screen time if you make it.”

  I grunt scornfully. “Seriously? Jay, you know I can’t act for shit. What the hell would I do on a TV show?”

  “No, not just any TV show,” Jay says with growing excitement in his voice that makes me nervous. “Reality TV.”

  “Oh, fuck that, that’s even worse.” I hate reality TV. The most I’ve ever watched was a couple of seasons of Survivor when it first started. Anything else I’ve seen in passing made me want to gouge my fucking eyeballs out. Bunch of grade-A douchebags if you ask me. And the chicks weren’t much better.

  Jay presses. “Oh, come on, dude, it could actually be perfect for you. No real acting. Flash those dimples, flex your biceps, flip your hair, and I bet you’re a shoe-in.” When I don’t reply, Jay adds, “Just think, it’ll be great exposure!”

  I scratch at the fresh stubble on my jaw. I still don’t like the idea, but I don’t really have many options right now. Fuck my life. “I . . . I’ll think about it.”

  There’s a long pause on Jay’s end, a pause I recognize almost instantly. “Jay,” I say slowly, feeling a sense of dread, “what did you do?”

  Jay coughs. “So yeah, I kind of already submitted your headshots along with a video profile from the agency.”

  “What the fuck—” I begin to yell but stop when a woman with her kid walks by. She speeds up as she passes, bending over to whisper something in her son’s ear.

  “And they called this morning to invite you for an audition,” Jay says, stunning me into silence. “Congratulations?”

  It takes me a moment to recover my voice. “Dude, are you serious? You just pimp me out without even running it by me?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Jay says, a firm note entering his voice. “I’m your agent. That’s my goddamn job. And with you just walking out on this gig, a little thanks could be in order.”

  “I hate when you do this,” I growl.

  “Stop whining and get your shit together,” Jay says. “I’ll text you the info now. And by the way, you’re welcome.”

  Click.

  I stare at my phone for a moment as the sounds of bustling traffic fill my ears. A part of me wants to call Jay back and chew him out, but the other part of me realizes he’s right. He’s just doing his job.

  With no jobs on the horizon, this new gig might be mandatory. Maybe I just need to give it a try and make the most of it. What do I have to lose? And maybe I can get some face time, get something out of it.

  “Guess I’m auditioning for a reality TV show.”

  Emily

  “You’ll have to remember, a lot of these guys are here for their own personal reasons,” Meredith says as I sit before her in a room that looks like it might be used for filming in one way or another with all the props. The flow of the room is somewhat ruined by the millions of wires running across the floor, hooked up to several different cameras. “Chances are slim that any will have actual real feelings for you, but they’ll pretend that you’re the greatest thing since Nutella on celery. Most of them are just here in hopes of becoming famous.”

  I fidget in my seat as Meredith drones on with advice, warnings, and the basics of the game, still trying to wrap my head around becoming the first girl on Matchmaker. It sounds like a rehash of a thousand other ‘relationship’ shows, but they’ve got some cool twists that make it seem a bit game-show, like a spinning wheel of potential dates and pressing the button to choose a guy. There’s something about cards with pictures of the guys and me on them, but I’m too nervous to listen to Meredith go over the details. I’m still so much in culture shock that I guess I’ll just have to roll with it as it happens.

  I still can’t believe they chose me. I know there were thousands of women who sent in videos that were probably far sexier than mine. But Meredith told me it was my personality and girl next door beauty that so endeared me with the producers. Apparently, when they saw me talking and just being myself, they decided that they had to have me.

  It’s been an ego boost that they chose me, but while I feel a sense of pride, I can’t help but feel the pressure. As the first Matchmaker, I feel like I’m going to have to be extraordinary. And I’m just . . . ordinary.

  Just the thought of the pressure is making it difficult for me not to hurl my breakfast all over Meredith’s Louboutin heels.

  And then there’s the tagline for the show. “Matchmaker . . . where you’ll find your match and your happily ever after.”

  To me, it’s almost eyeroll-worthy, but who knows? Maybe it’ll catch on.

  “You just said the guys are here for their own reasons,” I interrupt as Meredith plays the credits music for me. “Am I supposed to become a great actor and fake it?”

  Meredith makes a face, sort of like she wonders how I got through high school being this stupid. “Not necessarily. There might be a couple of genuine men here looking for love. It’s your job to weed out the real from the douchebags, something I don’t think you’ll have a problem with. And if you do, that’s what I’m here for—to help you choose and go down the right path. It might be a flawed process, but people do occasionally find real love on these shows. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” She pauses, looking reflective, and I wonder what her past is on this kind of show. “Now listen . . .”

  She goes back to explaining the rules, but I get lost in my thoughts. Does anyone really find love on a TV show? I mean, I love watching them myself, but I’m not stupid. I don’t expect them to live out their lives together after the show. Hell, the tabloids usually start popping up about couples splitting shortly after the show ends. Even if they do get married, it’s only a countdown until the inevitable divorce.

  Still, I can’t deny that I’m feeling somewhat excited under all the anxiety. Even if I’m probably not going to find true love, getting to go out with a bunch of hot guys and do crazy, adventurous things sounds fun to me! Who knows, maybe one will be
worth dating afterward. What single girl wouldn’t be onboard with that?

  Meredith is still going on about details of the show that I really should be paying close attention to when I hear footsteps and clicking heels behind me, followed by voices.

  “Don’t you even try it, biatch,” a sassy, high-pitched male voice hisses. “I’m doing her makeup first.”

  A woman’s sultry laugh follows. “Go ahead, sweetie. I’ll try my best to keep her foundation pristine when I wash her hair.”

  “Bitch, please. You fuck up my makeup and I’ll fuck up your life.”

  Standing in front of me, Meredith stops talking and shakes her head in disapproval at the newcomers, but I can’t help but laugh. Curiosity forces me to turn my head to get a look at the pair.

  A curvy woman with pink hair done in pinup curls and a petticoat peeking out of her circle dress approaches me, a smile on her face as she looks me up and down. “Hey, sweetie,” she says, flashing a smile that I’m not sure is genuine. “I’m McKayla Quinn.”

  “Nice to meet you, McKayla,” I begin to say, “I’m—”

  She talks right over me, waving her hand. “You can call me Buffy. It’s what everyone calls me anyway. I’ll be your hairstylist for this shindig. But do me a favor. After I’ve spent hours making your hair perfect, keep it that way and we’ll get along quite well. Hmm?” She finishes with a big open-mouth wink.

  I smile politely. “I’ll try my best—”

  “And this is Brangelina Cooper,” McKayla says over me again, gesturing at the flamboyantly dressed man beside her. He’s tall and thin, wearing a pink shirt and designer blue jeans, his hair dyed platinum blonde with pink streaks. I think he has the bluest set of eyes I’ve ever seen and dimples that make me jealous. I wish mine were half as cute.

  “His real name is Brad,” McKayla continues, not even pausing to take a breath, “but he likes to be called Brangelina for some reason.”

  Brad scoffs. “Bitch, that’s because I embody Angelina’s beauty and Brad’s hotness. And I’ve got a better ass than both.”

  “Apparently, no one’s told him that Brad and Angie are finished,” McKayla mutters. “And his ass isn’t that good.”

  It’s difficult to hide my smile as Brad offers me his hand and I take it.

  “Excuse her,” Brad says, smirking at McKayla. “She doesn’t get out much. I’m delighted to inform you that I’ll be your makeup artist while you’re here.” He leans in close and I catch a whiff of a woodsy feminine fragrance. “Between the two of us, we’ll keep you primed and polished for your every close-up! I’ll have your face looking beat and snatched at all times.” He boasts as he flicks his wrist and snaps his fingers.

  “Any questions before I take off?” Meredith asks, drawing my eyes back over to her. Judging from her body language, she isn’t pleased at the interruption but she doesn’t outright say anything. The look on her face alone says it all.

  I have a million and one questions running through my mind, but I’m too tongue-tied to ask any of them. Plus, I don’t want her to know that I was only half listening to her sermon. Instead, I slowly shake my head. “No, none right now.”

  “Good. I’ll leave you in the dynamic duo’s capable hands before we parade you in front of the producers.” Meredith’s expression doesn’t match her complimentary words as she looks at the two like they’re children. “They want to see how you’ll look on camera all dolled up.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Mere,” McKayla says in a way that makes Meredith grit her teeth, “We’ll take good care of her.”

  “We promise,” Brad echoes. “She’ll look better than any fifty-dollar Sunset hooker by the time we’re done.”

  Meredith lets out a dramatic sigh, raising her head to the ceiling. “Lord, if you two weren’t so good at what you do, I’d . . .” she trails off, not finishing the threat.

  “I don’t care what you do with us as long as you pay me,” McKayla says distractedly, turning her eyes on my hair. It looks like she’s already making plans on the styles she wants to use.

  “I know that’s right,” Brad echoes. “A bitch gotta eat. Those happy meals are expensive.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” Meredith growls, throwing her hands up and walking to the doorway. Before she walks out, she stops to order curtly, “Just as long as you get her ready.”

  McKayla and Brad burst into laughter when she leaves. “I bet you her Spanx just got a little tighter, so tight she’s about to burst out of it,” Brad says.

  McKayla laughs. “She did look a little flustered.”

  “Are you two always like this?” I’m forced to ask, shaking my head and giggling.

  Brad looks at me like I’m crazy, doing a neck roll that I’m surprised doesn’t make his head pop off. “Are you serious? Girl, yes! It’s the only way we can do our job without dying of boredom. Not only will we get you camera-ready, but you’ll be loosened up and ready to kick ass.”

  McKayla looks at me, gesturing toward the door. “All right, let’s get a move on. Come on, baby girl, we gotta get you ready before Cruella Deville has our tits for breakfast.”

  Chuckling, I climb out of my seat and follow them several rooms over to what looks like a dressing room. Despite the constant back and forth, I like these two. Something tells me that they’ll be the breath of fresh air that I need.

  Brad has me change into a pair of comfy shorts and a matching tank, explaining that I’ll be able to take them off for wardrobe without messing up their masterpiece. I’ve definitely never been called that before. I sit in the salon-style chair and try not to flinch as they swarm around me. Sparring and gossiping at the same time, McKayla and Brad go about getting me ready.

  I never knew I needed so much work to look presentable, and I have to wonder what the producers really thought when they saw me for the first time. I get shaved, plucked, exfoliated, washed, dried, straightened, and curled, and then it feels like Brad paints three pounds of makeup on my face. “Why not use a power sprayer next time?”

  Brad laughs. “Don’t tempt me. Now chin up!”

  When they’re done, they stand back, appraising their work. I stare at myself in the mirror in awe, hardly recognizing the girl looking back at me. Big hair, big makeup, big change. I look so different, I’m not sure if I should be shouting for joy or crying.

  McKayla, on the other hand, isn’t so impressed. “Why’d you pick that highlight?” she complains to Brad, peering at my face critically. “It’s too glittery. She looks like a Vegas showgirl.”

  Brad twirls on McKayla like he’s about to pop her. “Girl, are you nuts? You’re looking at pure perfection right here!” he brags. He snaps his fingers, twirling his hips and sticking his bony ass out. “Honey, she’s glowing like an angel dusted her cheeks.” He looks at my hair, clucking his tongue. “Trying to talk bad about me, but what the hell is up with this Texas-sized bouffant on her head, huh? You could hide a family of rats up in there. Looks like a Tammy Faye bobble head!”

  McKayla brandishes her curling iron in Brad’s face. “Bitch, now you’ve gone too far. Those big, juicy curls will bounce every time she moves.” She flips one of my curls and it bounces up and down for full effect. “You’re just jealous because you only wish your ass had this much bounce.”

  Wow. I literally can’t with these two, and I don’t know if I should burst out laughing or cry. As they insult each other as if I’m not even there, my head ping-pongs between them, trying to decide which one is going to throw the first punch.

  “I think you both did a good job,” I finally say, silencing them. They both pause, looking at me. “I love the makeup and the hair.” I’m not really sure if I love either, but if it will shut them up, I’ll live with both.

  “See, I told you she liked my angel cheeks,” Brad boasts to McKayla, who rolls her eyes. “Jealous ho.”

  “Difference is, I don’t need her opinion. I know my shit looks good.”

  They square off toward each other, hips popped a
nd bitch faces in full effect. At this point, I’m convinced blows are about to rain, or maybe an epic bitch-slap fight with nails and glitter exploding everywhere. Before either can ask me to hold their earrings, I start to slink away from my chair in a desperate bid to get some distance from the inevitable battle. Keeping an eye on their staredown battle, I see the switch in Brad a moment before he bursts out laughing. And just like that, the tension is gone as the two laugh at each other and do a little high-five, causing me to let out a relieved sigh.

  McKayla snaps her fingers at me when they’re done. “All right, chickadee, let’s get you to wardrobe. Our work here is done. You look good, and you should be loose enough to deal with getting poked and prodded.”

  I can’t help but let out an audible groan.

  McKayla chuckles at my distress. “What? You don’t feel like Cinder-fucking-rella yet? Just look on the bright side. You’ll get to try on more clothes than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

  Without another word, we’re hustling down the hallways.

  Hayden

  The hum of my Harley dies down as I slowly pull to a stop at the huge gate. I stare through the bars for a moment, spotting the looming mansion and beautiful manicured grounds. I don’t know what the fuck Jay’s gotten me into, but I hope it’ll be worth the trouble.

  I lean forward and press a button on the callbox attached to a brick column near the gate. Shit, even that’s fancy. There’s no static at all, nothing but smooth silence before a voice answers, asking for my identity.

  “Hayden Bishop.”

  There’s no reply, but the gate sweeps open and I slowly pull up toward the house.

  A young guy who looks like he’s only eighteen but is probably a bit older runs up and stops me. He’s clutching a clipboard in his hands, looking rushed. “Name?”

  “Hayden,” I reply. “Hayden Bishop.”

  He looks down at his clipboard and then marks me off the list, gesturing off to the side. “Park your bike over there.” The guy begins to turn away and then stops. “Oh, and make sure that when you head inside, turn left down the first hall, and then go into the den on the right.”