Million Dollar Marriage

by Evans, Katy

  I guess it’s good that it’s private. I can wait until later to embarrass myself in front of millions.

  As we drive, Courtney’s spouting off random tips. “You can act smart. But don’t be a know-it-all. And for god’s sake, don’t lecture people or roll your eyes.”

  “I never do that.”

  “You always do that.”

  I shrug. “I can’t help it if I find people tiresome.”

  “Okay, okay. Do your best not to, Nell. Really. If this is anything like Survivor, before you can win, you’ve got to get people to like you. Bond with you.”

  I cringe. People don’t do that with me. They avoid me.

  “So even if you hate someone, pretend they’re your favorite thing in this world.” She thinks for a moment. “Like, pretend they’re all the Sunday New York Times crossword.”

  I stare at her. “Saturday is a bit more challenging, actually.”

  “Okay, okay . . . pretend they’re the Saturday crossword. Whatever. Just don’t go off on them for their ignorance. Okay? I don’t want you blowing your shot by being socially inept. The social inepts always get voted off the island first.”

  I can’t argue with her. I am socially awkward, I know. “First, I’ve only seen one episode of Survivor, when you watched it, and it scarred me for life. They ate centipedes. Secondly, how do you know that this’ll be anything like Survivor?”

  “I don’t. I’m just warning you.”

  “Well, if I have to eat a centipede, I’m out. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Smile. Relax. Look like you’re having fun. Try to make alliances with the most likeable, social people. Don’t think about the money or else you’ll start looking constipated, and . . .”

  “I’ll get voted off the island. And?”

  “And if there is a challenge that involves swimming . . . offer to do the smallest part of it. Actually, any physical challenge. Just . . . don’t.”

  “I’m an okay swimmer.”

  She snorts. “Nell. You look like a drowning insect, flailing.” She moves her arms wildly in the air for a second before fastening her hands back on the steering wheel.

  “Fine. But . . . Courtney.” I suck in a breath.

  “What? I can tell there’s something really bothering you. Spill it.”

  “It’s just that . . . remember how you said that you wanted to watch Millionaire Bachelor so we could make fun of the contestants? Does that mean people will be watching and making fun of me?”

  She gives me a sympathetic look. “Aw, hon. You’re not going to please everyone. Sure, there will be people who make fun, but there will be people rooting for you too. The producers chose you out of thousands for a reason.”

  I sink down in my seat and stare straight ahead. My voice is quiet. “Do you think . . . Gerald will be watching?”

  She closes her eyes, like she can’t bear to look at someone as pathetic as me. I guess holding a torch for a guy who told you absolutely no nine months ago is kind of sad. “Yeah. He probably will.”

  When we used to double date, Gerald was always talking with Joe about reality television. Gerald was a big fan and always saw himself as a contestant on Survivor. While I was studying, he was in the other room, his eyes glued to the television screen. I’m sure if he wasn’t so busy as a resident, I might have seen him in the audition line. I cringe. He’ll be watching me potentially make a fool of myself?

  Maybe that was part of the reason I agreed to this in the first place. I wanted to get in front of him again any way I could, even if I look pathetic doing so.

  “Don’t focus on him. Do your thing. Just be you.”

  Right. Be me. I can do this. “Minus the eye rolling and the lecturing and the social ineptitude. Right?”

  She nods. “Right. And swimming. Don’t forget. No swimming.”

  Ugh. “Are you done?”

  She’s not. She starts saying more, but at that moment we pull into the lot for the rec center. It’s packed. There are at least twenty trucks there with camera crews, and a massive eighteen-wheeler is parked out back with MILLION DOLLAR MARRIAGE on the side, along with a picture of the bald guy I met, Will Wang.

  I start to shake again.

  She pulls up to the front doors and lets out a sigh as I look at the entrance.

  “I am so jealous. This is going to be life changing for you!” I know. Good or bad, I don’t know, though. “You have everything?”

  I run through the checklist on my lap again. “I think so.”

  I reach into the back and pull out my giant heavy-duty backpack. Then I hug her. “They say we can’t be in contact with anyone during the filming, and we can’t use our phones. I put you down as my emergency contact. So, bye. I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too,” she says. “Give ’em hell!”

  This is it. This is really it.

  I put my hand on the handle and push open the door. The second I step onto the curb, I’m accosted by a woman with a microphone. Where the hell did she come from?

  “Excuse me, are you one of the contestants for Million Dollar Marriage? Do you know what this show is about? Is there anything you can tell us about the filming happening today?”

  I stare at her, mute.

  Actually, I can’t tell her anything. They’ve really kept us in the dark. And one of the clauses in the contract said not to divulge anything in the folder to anyone. But the camera’s in my face and I can’t even seem to remember how to walk, or talk, or breathe.

  Suddenly someone snakes a hand around my waist and yanks me toward the door. I let out a shriek in confusion as a male voice says, “No comment. Get the fuck away.”

  I look down and see a massive tan hand splayed on my midsection.

  Up, and there’s a hairy beast of a man. The yeti. I get my voice back in a hurry and pound on his hand with my fist. “Let me go!”

  He pulls me through the doors and deposits me roughly on the ground. “As you wish, sweetheart,” he says, grinning at me. “You know, if you’re actually gonna win this, you’d better start getting more comfortable around cameras.”

  I scowl at him. “What are you doing here? This is just for contestants.”

  He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a folded piece of paper. When he unfolds it, I realize it’s the contestant paperwork.

  Oh no. No no no no. “You’re a contestant?”

  “Hell yes,” he says. “And I’m going to clean the floor with your ass.”

  My scowl deepens. Courtney wants me to be nice to everyone? Forget that. I heft the bag onto my shoulder. “We’ll see about that. Leave me alone.”

  I stomp off toward check-in, but he follows right behind me. “What, you didn’t bring your massive textbook with you?”

  I pat my bag. I have a lot of reading with me. Then I realize he doesn’t need to know. “That’s no business of yours.”

  He’s still trying to talk to me as I hand my registration papers to the woman at check-in. I decide to ignore, ignore, ignore.

  “Welcome,” the woman says to me, reading my name on the paper.

  I swear, the guy is right on my heels, breathing down my neck. I reach for my ponytail and smooth it, flicking him in the pecs.

  His superhard Superman pecs.

  “Penelope Carpenter. We’re happy to have you as a contestant. The rest of the contestants are getting ready for filming, through those doors over there.”

  “Thank you.”

  I walk through the doors, my teeth chattering again. They told us to wear and bring athletic-type clothing. I didn’t have any, so I went to Target and put $200 worth of workout bras, spandex capris, T-shirts, and a pair of sneakers on my credit card. When I get inside, I realize that “athletic clothing” means different things to different people. There’s one insanely muscular woman in nothing but a bikini top and tiny boy shorts. Another beautiful woman with a long braid down her back is wearing an entire bikini. One man is in a pair of tight bike shorts, muscles bulging. A lot of
people, actually, are baring way too much skin. Aren’t they afraid of a boob or some other body part slipping out on film?

  I know I am, as I’ve packed the baggiest T-shirts I could find.

  I skulk along the outskirts of the room as I watch the men flexing and the women preening in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  I am so in the wrong place.

  As I’m wondering whether the $20,000 is worth this, I trip over the foot of a girl who’s sitting on a bench. She’s dark skinned and is wearing a sari over shorts, plus sneakers. Her boobs are fully undercover.

  “Hi,” she says, scooting over to make room for me.

  I sit beside her, my heart beating like mad. “Hi. Are you a contestant?”

  She nods. “I am so, so, so nervous,” she says, in a tiny and very soft voice. “I have no idea why they picked me for this!”

  I smile. “Me neither.”

  She extends her hand. “Shveta Patel,” she says. “From New Jersey. I’m trying to earn money to send back to my parents in India so that they can get a surgery for my younger brother.”

  Oh. That sounds noble. Much more worthwhile than the stupid mess I’m in. I shake her hand. “Nell Carpenter. From right here in Atlanta.”

  “I’ve been looking around,” she says, “and I think they tried to get people as different from one another as possible. I mean, it’s a real cross section of America. You’ve got young and old, all races, athletic and non, all walks of life. It’s very interesting.”

  I look around and see what she means. Still, one thing most of them have in common? Their private body parts are all in a precarious position.

  Just then, I catch sight of the yeti. He’s wearing a tight T-shirt and cargo shorts. He doesn’t need to preen or flex—he clearly knows he’s all that. He’s talking with two other beautiful people, laughing like they’ve been friends forever. The blonde with barely any clothes is clearly enamored with him, as is the tattooed older woman in a leather bustier who’s sitting on a bench, watching. Actually, all the women are staring at him. And as he tells his story, using hand motions and talking animatedly, more people take notice, gravitating to him.

  I can almost hear Courtney’s voice in my head: He’s the one. Form an alliance with him.

  Good thing she’s not here. Because I refuse to go anywhere near that guy.

  Besides, Shveta’s much more my type. We talk a little, and I find out that she’s an epidemiologist. She tells me she’s a slave to reality television and knows everything about it, since growing up in India she wasn’t allowed to watch TV at all. She’s a huge fan of Millionaire Bachelor, Survivor, The Amazing Race . . . all these shows I know nothing about. I won’t hold that against her. Since she knows so much, I decide that she might be a valuable ally to have.

  But I can’t stop looking at the yeti, at the way he effortlessly works the room, making every single person turn toward him like flowers to the sun. They love him. Why?

  As I’m contemplating, he stops talking midsentence, and his eyes settle on me. Those raw, pure emerald, unnervingly sexy eyes. He winks.

  Everyone in the vicinity turns to look at me.

  My face heats. My skin prickles with awareness.

  He goes back to his story. I want the bench to swallow me up. Then I hear someone with a bullhorn yelling names. “Penelope Carpenter. Please report to the red door for your confessional.”

  I look at Shveta. “Confession? I’m not religious . . .”

  “No, no. I just did mine. Don’t worry. It’s not scary. They just lock you in a room and film you answering questions. Like, why you’re here. What your initial impressions are. What you think the premise of the show is about. Who you think your biggest competition is.”

  Not scary. And yet, I’d completely freaked when that lady thrust the camera in my face outside.

  I go, my knees wobbling a little, but it turns out it’s not so bad. The woman behind the camera is nice and is able to pull answers from me pretty easily. At the end of it, she says, “You’ll be expected to do confessional twice a day, as long as you’re still in the competition. Good luck, Nell!”

  Feeling a little better, I go out to the locker room, where I realize everyone is lining up, women on one side, men on the other. I get to the very end of the line, and we’re taken out into a dark hallway and then into an empty basketball court. Will Wang is there, in his suit with no tie, waving at us. “Ready for your official class photograph?” he says.

  The woman—Eloise Barker, the executive producer—is there. She’s scrutinizing each person. “Can you remove your shirt?” she says to one man. Then she shouts out, “For publicity purposes it would be really helpful if you wear as little as possible, since this is going on the billboards and we want to get people’s attention. So get naked, people! Within reason! Especially you, Luke!”

  People start ripping off clothes, like it’s no big deal. All the men are shirtless. The women aren’t much better. The girl in the bikini top is rolling her boy shorts down to bare her flat tummy.

  I cringe. I look down. I am already wearing tight capris and a big T-shirt over my workout bra. I don’t want to lose anything else, or my dignity will be next to go.

  Thankfully, when Eloise’s eyes scrape over me, she doesn’t ask me to take the T-shirt off. I push my glasses up on my nose and wonder if I’m really that repellent that people would rather have me clothed.

  The staff members start to line us up, alternating the men and women. As I climb to the second row of the bleachers by an Asian man, I realize who’s going to be on my other side.

  The yeti bounds up.

  I can’t look.

  Because holy chest.

  He’s all smooth, tanned, rigid muscle. Tattoos galore. A massive six-pack. For someone I thought was so dirty, he smells really good.

  And the thoughts he conjures up in my head? Beyond dirty. I can’t help it. He looks like something I’d want to eat with a spoon.

  He snakes an arm around me. All that hardness ends up wrapped around me in a tight little package. “Fancy meeting you here, Penny.”

  Every pore on my skin seems to rejoice from his touch, pricking with arousal.

  I refuse to let that continue.

  I scowl at him as the rest of the people line up. “Don’t call me that. No one ever calls me that.”

  I try to nudge him away, but that’s impossible without actually touching him, which I’ve sworn not to do. The staff members seem intent on squeezing us together like sardines. They keep motioning us to squish closer. His arm drapes over me, and I press against his hard pectoral. I feel the heat of his bare chest, even through my T-shirt.

  The photographer is looking through his viewfinder. “You know, all of you, kind of turn to the side a little so we all fit.”

  We do. Now he’s behind me. The heat from his body is making me dizzy. “I’m Luke,” he whispers in my ear, and I do my best not to concentrate on every inch of hard, naked flesh . . .

  Don’t care. Don’t care. Don’t . . . oh my god. I suddenly feel something twitch behind me.

  Is that his cock, pressing against the small of my back?

  I shove forward into the Asian dude in front of me and let out a gasp as I lose my balance and nearly tumble off the riser. Two massive hands grasp my arms, hauling me back onto steady ground before I can make the plunge and knock everyone else down like bowling pins.

  “Steady.” I look up, and he’s giving me this cocky grin. Eyes almost feral and catlike, with thick, dark lashes. He has very white, straight teeth for a man so dirty. I wiggle my arm so he’ll release it, and he does, but slowly, his fingers lingering there.

  My knees weaken. I feel this odd sensation, like he’s branded me. No man’s touch has ever done that to me.

  But he’s him. And I’m me.

  And never should the two of us come together. It’s insane. It’d totally upset the laws of the universe.

  Finally, the photographer snaps the pictures he needs. I hold m
y breath almost the whole time.

  “Now, I’m warning you all,” Eloise calls to everyone as we step down from the risers. “Don’t wear anything that doesn’t wash well. The first challenge is going to be a little dirty.”

  Dirty? Ugh. I hate dirty.

  But then I look at Luke, walking away from me. No, strutting away from me, like he knows he owns the whole damn room. With a spring in his step, he reaches down and picks up his shirt. I can’t stop staring at the way the tattoos dance across his perfect, tan, muscle-bound back.

  And I think I might not hate dirty as much as I once did.

  Luke

  My ideal woman? Shit, who knows? All I know is I haven’t met her yet. I ain’t met a single girl who’s made me say, “Yeah, I want to have that in my life forever.” Haven’t even come close.

  —Luke’s Confessional, Day 1

  I don’t know if alliances are important in this thing, but I’ve got them.

  I’ve always been good at making friends. Filming hasn’t even started, and I’ve already got an understanding with Ivy, the blonde bodybuilder; one with Michael, the IT kid; and in a foursome with a bunch of athletic guys who look like the “cool kids.” We’ve made a pledge to help each other out until the end. Add that to my in with the executive producer, and I think I’m in pretty good shape. I’ll add a few more.

  Like Penny.

  Or . . . not.

  She likes to run in the opposite direction now. But when I was close to her a minute ago, she couldn’t hide the way her body reacted to mine any more than I could hide the way my cock thickened for her. The little girl had goose bumps everywhere, even on those cute little freckles of hers.

  We line up again to go into the next room, girls on one side, guys on the other. “All right,” one of the staff members announces, walking up and down the aisle. “This isn’t live television, but we’re shooting it all in one take, so no language. No nudity. Keep it clean, folks. We’re going to start filming with Will Wang walking backward toward those doors. The camera will be on him, and I want you all to lean in and give a wave or high five as he goes past you, and introduce yourself to the camera. Then when he announces ‘This is Million Dollar Marriage!’ you’ll all run through those double doors and line up on the marks on the floor. Do you understand?”