by Diana Orgain
Part of me wanted to back right out of the room. What? Was I here to answer Paul’s questions?
I was annoyed at how fast he’d become all buddy-buddy with the L.A. cop.
They called it a brotherhood, not a sisterhood, for a reason.
I suddenly missed the protectiveness of Edward; hell, I even missed Scott’s stupid ghoulish and inappropriate behavior.
I patted the pockets of my skin-tight jeans. “I don’t have my ID. I don’t have anything on me—”
Paul waved a hand. “We all know who you are, Thorn.”
I bit my lip. I was no longer Georgia to him, sweetheart, fiancée, whatever. I was back to my cop nickname. Always the surname, and usually a shortened version or derivative of it. Mine was Thorn and, at this moment, Paul had a pained expression on his face as if my presence were literally a thorn in his side.
I took a deep breath. “All right. Well, then, fire away. What can I help with?”
The LAPD officer pulled out a black notebook and asked me a string of predictable questions. When had I last seen Pietro? How well had I known him? Did I know if he was severely depressed or suicidal?
“Is that what you think? He killed himself?” I asked.
The officer said, “We don’t know anything yet. I’m only covering what’s in the realm of possibility. People who go on these reality shows . . . well, no offense, but most of ’em don’t have their head screwed on properly.”
Paul seemed to laugh a little too gregariously at the joke and I felt like I was about to lose what little patience I had left.
“What about the other guy? Aaron. Seems to me maybe Pietro knew something about the bungee-jumping accident and that maybe—”
The officer held up a hand. “Right, right. Everyone’s got theories. We’ll see what the coroner says.”
“Don’t cut me off,” I snapped.
The officer shrugged. “Look, whatever happened in San Francisco could be related, but S.F. isn’t my jurisdiction.” He glanced at Paul, who nodded in agreement. “I’ve got techs in your dressing room right now. What I’d like you to tell me is if anyone else was in there today with you.”
“Kyle, the makeup guy; no one else that I know of.”
The officer made a note while the walkie-talkie on his shoulder beeped. A series of police codes went off from dispatch, which he ignored. Apparently a burglary on the east side of town and a domestic violence call downtown weren’t as exciting to him as the call he was on now.
Paul leveled a look at me. “Georgia, did Scott or Dr. . . . whatever his name is come and see you in your dressing room?”
There was something in his look. Was it jealousy?
Yes! He is jealous of the others!
My heart did a stupid little fluttery thing.
“No one came to see me,” I said.
The officer and Paul exchanged glances, disbelief wafting off of them.
“Really?” the officer asked, then snickered.
I frowned. It wasn’t fun being on the outside of a joke. What the heck were they snickering about? “You can ask the makeup guy if you don’t believe me. We were alone. Why are you guys pressing me on this?”
“Both of those two were gone from the mansion for a while this morning and, come to think of it, so was the cowboy. But it’s not that—”
“We found something in your dressing room—” The officer stopped himself short and glanced at Paul.
The walkie-talkie chirped again. The officer was needed. Which was a good thing. I wanted to grill Paul in private.
The officer excused himself and walked out of the room.
“What did you find?” I asked.
“A note.”
“A note? From whom? What did it say?”
Paul leaned close to me. “‘Your indifference to me has made all the difference.’”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but you need to watch your back, G.”
Nine
INT. LIBRARY DAY
Pietro is looking into the camera, his dark hair gelled back away from his face and his eyes gleaming. He has a stubby beard and is dressed in a cerulean blue silk shirt with a red and white scarf around his neck. His legs are crossed and a bright red Italian leather shoe peeks into the frame every three seconds as Pietro shakes his foot around.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Hi, Pietro, can you tell us a little about yourself?
PIETRO
(shrugs) Of course. What would you like to know?
CHERYL (O.S.)
How long have you been in the country?
PIETRO
Five years.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Italians are big into love and families, right?
PIETRO
Sì.
CHERYL (O.S.)
So are you hoping to find your dream girl on the show?
PIETRO
(laughs) Ah, what a world it would be if we could just go on a show and find a wife!
CHERYL (O.S.)
You don’t think that can happen?
PIETRO
Perhaps, but not for me. I’ve already found the one.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Oh. So you’re on the show in hopes of winning the prize money?
PIETRO
(waves his hands around) A rubar poco si va in galera, a rubar tanto si fa cariera.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Care to translate?
PIETRO
(laughs) It’s an Italian saying. “Steal a little, go to jail; steal a lot, make a career of it.”
CHERYL (O.S.)
You’re going to steal the money?
PIETRO
No, but it feels a little like that. I have to steal the girl’s heart.
• • • • • • • • •
The police finished questioning everyone and we found ourselves escorted back to the mansion. Cheryl had requested that the cast gather back in the main living room for another meeting. This time I was sure the show was canceled.
I was so relieved.
I could barely contain my excitement. I was planning my immediate departure from L.A.
Although I actually had no plans.
What would I do? Where would I go?
San Francisco no longer seemed like home and I found myself daydreaming about my hometown of Cottonwood. I’d grown up on a small farm in northern California. Could going home—going back to that small town—be an option?
I entered the room and surveyed my surroundings. Becca and the crew were across the room in a huddle. There were no cameras on and the set felt strange without the warmth of the lights, almost as if someone had turned off the sun.
Paul was absent; presumably he was working with LAPD.
Dr. Edward and the cowboy, Ty, were seated next to each other in aluminum folding chairs that had been vacated by the ordinary crew. Ty was leaning in close to Edward, discussing something with him, in a manner that could only be described as urgent and hurried. Ty’s hand was covering his mouth as he spoke and his head bobbed up and down as he rapidly whispered something to Edward.
I cleared my throat as I crossed the room. Ty’s eyes flashed toward me, but he continued his intense talk with Edward. Edward, for his part, glanced up at me and offered me a soft smile.
In the center of the room was Scott perched in the middle of the brown leather couch, his legs crossed with an ankle over his knee and his arms spread open on the back of the couch. He looked about as comfortable and secure as a guy could get—his confidence annoyingly sexy.
God, Georgia, don’t fall for the biggest jerk on the set!
I took a seat on far right end of the couch, but Scott scooted closer immediately, his right knee pressing against my left. Heat surged between our bodies and I involuntarily jerked my leg away. Scott lowered his eyes toward the gap that now existed between us.
After a moment, he whispered, “It’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it? Two guys dead in within a
couple days?”
“Aaron isn’t dead. He’s in a coma,” I said.
Scott shrugged. “You know what I mean, though. It’s like the show is cursed.”
“Cursed? Come on. You’re not superstitious, are you?”
He rubbed at his shaved head and flashed me a crooked smile. “Not at all. That’s why I said it couldn’t be a coincidence.”
The sound of a woman’s hurried footsteps followed by more footsteps brought a close to the side conversations in the room, each of us looking up expectantly. Cheryl flew into the room followed by the other male contestants. The men looked confused as they filed into the room.
Nathan, the surfer, smiled when he saw me and took a place behind the couch where he could stand directly behind me. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Is everything okay? You all look shaken.”
Before I could reply, Harris Carlson entered the room and spoke with Cheryl in hushed tones; the rest of us were quiet, watching their interaction. Nathan’s hand fell away from my shoulder and finally Cheryl turned to the cast. “Listen, we had an unfortunate incident today on the set. Pietro committed suicide—”
I jumped up. “What? Wait a minute!”
Cheryl put a hand up. “Hold on, Georgia. Let me finish—”
“No!” I said. “We don’t know that he committed suicide! He was—”
“The police are investigating. Certainly,” Cheryl said. “But right now the main thing they’re looking into is suicide.” She flashed me a strange look, a cross between pity and something else, as if she thought I came from another world and she wasn’t sure what to do with me. “Given that this is the second incident on our show, I’ve spoken with our attorneys and they’ve instructed me to give you all the option of resigning.”
The cast stood frozen. It felt like a cold gust of air had hit us; my skin pebbled and I shivered involuntarily.
“What do you mean, resign?” Derek, the Afghanistan vet, asked.
At that moment, Paul stepped into the room and crossed to where the cast was seated. He said, “The production staff is giving us an opportunity to get off the show.”
Yes! What a relief!
I would get to go back home to Cottonwood, or even San Francisco if I wanted, but mercifully I would be off the show.
I jumped off the couch. “Thank you!”
All eyes in the room traveled to me. I nervously smoothed down my jeans, staring back at the cast. “What?” I asked.
“You can’t just bail out!” Nathan said.
“I’m not bailing out. Two guys are . . . this is wrong. We can’t keep going with the show!” I said.
“Why not?” Richard, the attorney, asked. “Obviously, Aaron had an accident and Pietro was severely depressed. All that is sad and all, but what really does it have to do with us?”
“No! I’m not staying on the show. This is totally morbid and I don’t buy that suicide thing someone is—”
Paul stepped toward me. “G, can we talk?”
I felt more uncomfortable now than before. Not only were all eyes on me, but it felt like they were boring holes right through me.
Can I say no?
“Uh . . .”
Paul wasn’t actually waiting for an answer, though; he’d already crossed the room and had a hand on my elbow.
Scott stood up. “Hey, no private one-on-ones! It’s a rule. I mean, if we’re going to continue with the show, then we should be following the rules!”
Edward nodded in agreement. “Yes! Why does he get one-on-one time? That’s not right!”
Paul held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No problem.” He smiled conspiratorially at the other men on the cast. As if he wanted them to think he was just like them. I figured he’d probably been about to pressure me to stay on the show, perhaps so he could continue to investigate, but now he’d struck a nerve with the other contestants. He must have thought I’d feel the peer pressure and stay.
I glanced around at the men’s faces. “You all want to stay on? I mean, seriously? Every single one of you?”
“I do,” Scott said.
“Me, too,” Richard chimed in.
There were various nods and agreements, but I noticed that Bruce, the techie, and Mitch, the real estate investor, were both silent.
“You two don’t want to stay on?” I asked hopefully, reaching for a lifeline.
“Well,” Mitch said, “it’s definitely been an adventure, but I have to be honest, I really would like to be off the show.”
“Me, too,” Bruce said. “No offense to you, Georgia. You’d be any man’s dream, but I don’t think I’m the reality show type of guy.”
“Especially when the reality is that people are getting hurt or worse,” I said, flashing an angry look at Cheryl.
She studied her hands for a moment, as if searching out an answer from her nails. Suddenly she looked up. “You both don’t have to stay on the show. We’ll have a champagne ceremony tonight. You can choose to be eliminated. Will that work?” she asked.
Bruce and Mitch exchanged glances.
“I don’t see why not,” Bruce said.
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Is any of this up to me?” I felt the warmth of Scott’s hand on the small of my back.
“It’s okay. Let them go,” he said.
“But I don’t want to stay. I want to go.”
Edward turned to me. “Oh, Georgia,” he said. “We’ve all had a big shock, but really you came on the show for a reason. Don’t you want to see that through?”
Paul was upon me. I could feel the weight of his frenzied energy pushing at me. “Georgia, you need to stay on.”
I don’t know if I imagined him saying it through gritted teeth or if he actually did, but either way it seemed like it was another order. I glanced around the room and saw Becca, her face a mixture of pleading and support. I knew she’d be my friend no matter what I decided to do, but finishing the show would probably launch her career and bailing out on it meant she would have to start over.
Cheryl’s eyes seemed to bore holes through me. “We can get everyone into hair and makeup right away,” she said. “Film the scene and then take the night off.”
The men around me nodded.
Cheryl smiled. “Besides, we have a special guest arriving tomorrow and I know you’ll want to see him.”
“A special guest? Who is it?” I asked.
“Someone who will help you through all the decisions you have to make.” Cheryl dangled the offer in front of the others, baiting me to ask again.
Normally on these shows a best friend was brought in to consult with the bachelorette on her choices, but my best friend was already here. Cheryl glanced at Becca. She knew I’d stay on the show for Becca’s sake, no matter what.
“Who?” I asked again, pressing.
“A very special guest.” Cheryl smiled triumphantly, as if declaring she had the ace in the hole.
Ten
INT. LIBRARY DAY
Mitch is looking directly at the camera. He is seated in the library on a gold wingback chair. His ankle is crossed over a knee and he picks an imaginary piece of lint off his pants. He has a chiseled face, with a strong chin and nose, and is alarmingly handsome.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Hello, Mitch, can you tell the audience a little bit about yourself?
MITCH
(nods slowly, his expression calculating) I’m from Los Angeles. I am a real estate investor and I’ve done pretty well in the market . . .
CHERYL (O.S.)
Good for you.
MITCH
Until recently . . .
CHERYL (O.S.)
Sorry to hear that.
MITCH
Well, everyone has ups and downs. And it’s certainly not fatal. All I need is a quick infusion of cash and I’ll be right on track.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Are you hoping to find that here?
MITCH
Cash?
CHERYL (O.S.)
Yes. Are
you on the show for love or money?
MITCH
(laughing) Well, love would be great, if she was rich, too. Can’t beat that combo.
CHERYL (O.S.)
Let me be clear. Are you searching for love?
MITCH
Well, ultimately yes. But I’m too young to settle down right now, plus I’m sort of in a bind. (He makes a pained expression.) Need the cash right now. So I’ll pass on love if it gets me the prize money. (He nods repeatedly to himself.) I’m on the show for the money.
• • • • • • • • •
We were taken to hair and makeup. Florencia was curiously absent again and I longed to talk about that with Becca, but she’d been dispatched to the control center, a studio where she’d watch the live feed from the various cameras during our elimination ceremony.
Kyle did my makeup quickly and even though I wanted to talk to him about Pietro, I felt oddly self-conscious, not sure who to trust or confide in. Someone dropped off a rack of dresses and Kyle picked through them.
“What do you think? Green sleeveless chiffon or do you prefer a slinky gold gown?” He held out the dresses for me to look over.
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
He made a face. “Whatever?”
“Sorry, I’m just not feeling it, Kyle.”
He swirled my chair so I could see my reflection in the mirror. “Come on, girl. Look at your face. I’ve made you stunning! Well, even more stunning than you normally are. Smile! You got a squad of hunks who wag their tongues every time you walk into the room.”
I looked into his eyes through the glass. “I’m spooked.”
Kyle shook a finger at me. “I won’t talk negative. No, ne, nyet, nein.” He fixed a glare at me in the mirror. “You shouldn’t, either.”
“He was in my dressing room, Kyle! Do you know if anyone else went in there?”
“Oh, honey, don’t you know all good stylists have a mantra for success?”
“And what is that?” I asked.
“See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
“Come on, this is a serious matter. If you saw something, you have to tell me.”
