by C. L. Riley
Seacrest provides a summary of my career, highlighting my ‘bad behavior’ and then continues with a brief snapshot of the talent event and how the show and voting will work, after the first three women are eliminated. Next he introduces us as judges and moves on to the contestants. Their pictures, accompanied by name and age, are featured one by one on the movie screen while another Crude Element song plays. At least our music is getting a solid push.
Once the basics are laid out, the performances begin without delay. First up is my blue-haired surfing partner. Her personal video clip plays, featuring scenes from her life.
I lean back and wait, stretching my legs and crossing my ankles.
Besides the video, each woman will give a brief statement, describing why she’s the ‘right one’ for me. Seacrest, of course, will ask a few questions of his own, as needed, to put them at ease before they move on to their acts.
Judges are allowed to provide minimal feedback after each performance but will wait to determine the final outcomes, during Joint Venture’s two song mini-concert. The band is new on the scene, and their first hit is racing up the charts, making them an ideal band to showcase.
I have no issues with the band selections. The contestants are a whole different story. In fact, given the choice, I never would have picked any of them to compete for my affections.
Letting that realization sink in, it occurs to me that before meeting and falling for Cadie O’Shea, I would have fucked each one of the women at least once. All those gossip rags I made a habit of blasting had been right all along. I’d been a certified manwhore with no remorse for my actions.
At least, I’ve upped my standards.
The woman who made the changes possible shifts and taps her fingers on our table, projecting a certain nervous energy. I’m afraid if I look at her for too long, I might laugh again or remove that silly scarf and kiss her neck. Her lips are too burned, but her neck is still kissable territory. I took note of that last night. Her hair, thankfully, had shielded her neck’s creamy skin from the sun. There are other places I could plant my mouth, my favorite places to taste, tease, and torment are all sunburn free.
Don’t think about those places, I silently warn, giving my thoughts a nudge in a different direction. I’m supposed to be falling out of love with Cadie O’Shea, not obsessing on where to put my mouth.
I leave the sexual images behind, trading them for a review of her work ethic. I’ve never known a woman as determined to do her job. So dedicated, she is willing to come out here cocooned in something not worthy to be called clothing while seriously suffering. I anticipate things will get extra interesting when the pain pill kicks in. Last night she got pretty loopy after just one…my little lightweight.
Had it been me, before rehab, I would have swallowed down three or four without giving my actions a second thought. I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to pocket a few last night, but I managed to fight off the stinking thinking my counselor warned me about. Today I feel stronger. Stealing her pills would have erected another barrier between us, and regardless of our non-relationship status, the desire to impress my red haired goddess continues to be high on my list of things to achieve. There’s no denying, her opinion matters, far more than I’ll ever admit.
You better believe, I’ve never been an approval seeker, unless it was in relation to my music, and even then I had a fuck you attitude when it came to my talent. It just didn’t occur to me to doubt my song writing or singing abilities. I’d always believed, deep down, I was meant to be a star. Not everyone knows this, but I can play guitar, bass, and piano. Music has been my life ever since I can remember.
My father did everything in his power to discourage my dreams, putting me down and referring to me as his “sissy boy.” He drank to excess, no surprise there, and had turned to prostitutes and gambling before my mom finally woke up and left him, unfortunately for me, the damage had been done.
When Lila, the one girl who kept me sane, betrayed me, I turned into a younger, more successful version of my father. Something I wasn’t aware of until rehab. Talk about an uncomfortable moment, realizing you’d become what you hate the most. My father is supposedly sober now, remarried, and doing well, but I have no desire to speak to him. My treatment counselor strongly recommended I work on forgiving my sperm donor. I’m not sure I can, even if I want to. And I don’t.
Fuck. Why am I dredging all this shit up now?
Cadie nudges me. “Are you watching?”
Shaking off the thoughts, I turn my attention to the stage. Blue Lightening is demonstrating wrestling moves in an actual ring. She’s performing with another female wrestling superstar I vaguely recognize. Dressed in sparkling body suits, the two perform a well practiced routine that looks surprisingly real. I’m fascinated by the training that had to be involved while creating the intricate fighting sequence. They make the moves look so simple. When at last Blue Lightening pins her opponent, I cheer along with everyone else. Carol Holmes, at the very least, has won points for originality and skill level.
“Nice,” William confirms my sentiment.
The pageant judge just stares, mouth gaping.
I gather he’s never witnessed an act quite like this one, during his tenure with Miss Universe…no surprise.
At that moment, a second, motorized projection screen with our show’s logo lowers into place, allowing the stage hands to tear down the ring unseen. Seacrest steps up with his mike ready.
“Wow. I can see why they call you Blue lightening,” he laughs. “Another hand for Carol Holmes.”
The audience is generous with their applause, assuring me they too were impressed.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and feminine.
“Now that you’ve dazzled us with your wrestling skills, can you tell Mr. Steal why you’re the woman he needs in his life?”
Her smile widens. “I have a theory about Shag…”
“Oh, do tell,” he prods, earning a few chuckles.
The camera closest is capturing my reaction to their conversation. I grin and shake my head, making sure I appear engaged.
“Shag is a man who likes control, but what he really needs is a woman to share that power in a positive way. We all know Shag is sex personified. I’d like to take him to a new level of sexual expression while providing a safe atmosphere for him to grow as a man and a performer. What do you say, Shag? Wanna get in the ring with me?”
She winks and I laugh along with everyone else.
Everyone but Cadie, that is.
Chapter Nineteen
Cadie
“Once you feel like you’re being dicted by other people’s expectations, it usually backfires.”
–Rob Zombie
Holy Blue Lightening bitch! She’s such a phony.
Can she get anymore pathetic in her attempt to impress Shag? She may have fooled the judges and audience, but she sure as hell didn’t fool me. These women want two things: my man’s dick and his money. Not him. They don’t know him the way I do.
So I get he’s no longer my man, as if he ever was, but still. I feel like a jilted pet owner forced to watch ten cats in heat parade past my treasured tomcat, swishing their tails as they attempt to lure him away from home. The contestants are like a bunch of strays looking for a free meal and a warm bed with Shag in it. Whoever came up with this stupid concept for a show should be publically flogged and forced to eat canned cat food for a year, the cheapest brand, of course.
Too irritated to let my feelings pass without some acknowledgment, I elbow Shag’s arm, hard.
“Ouch! Why’d you do that? I thought your pain pill would make you feel better.”
“I don’t feel better and I don’t like her. She’s not the right one.” I lift my face-covering to glare at him. There’s really no reason to wear the damn thing. I’m sitting in the shade. Between the palm trees and Jagger’s canopy, the sun can’t touch me.
“Put your scarf back on. What if you get…”
I don’t let him finish. “I’m fine. See. No sun.” I point up. “Is it because my face looks like a tomato?”
He just shakes his head and smirks. That same freaking smirk I’ve come to love and hate. “No, babe. It’s not because you look like a tomato. But I can’t lie, those lip blisters aren’t your best look.”
I slap my hand over my mouth. Big mistake. Now my lips sting even worse. “You’re a jerk. You know that.”
“You’ve made sure I know.”
Before I can say more, the next contestant bounces across the stage, her energy is off the charts. It’s none other than the Barbie-the-bimbo, Honey Partridge. Her act, if that’s what you want to call it, makes me want to gag. She does a cheerleading routine.
I kid you not.
It’s like she’s reliving her high school role as cheer captain. When she does her first in-the-air splits, she treats us to a vision of her lady parts. She should have worn knee-length shorts not narrow-crotched spankies, because her bush has grown into a garden and is in dire need of trimming. Her spankies can’t contain the substantial overgrowth.
From the perfect image she projected in her promo materials, I never would have suspected what she was hiding, or I should say, not hiding, under her flouncy skirt. Women who do spread eagle jumps typically groom their gardens. Her legs at least appear waxed and smooth. Maybe she forgot the rest?
More than a few gasps and giggles assure me I’m not the only one who notices the jungle.
“Fuck,” Shag jeers. “A man could get lost in all that. Where’s my machete?”
I burst into laughter and heads turn my way. So does a camera.
Shit!
Ducking, I yank down my scarf, trying to hide my face, which sends Shag and William into fits of laughter. Our prestigious (or is it pretentious?) pageant judge shoots us a dirty look meant to shame us into silence.
It doesn’t work.
After several more, revealing crotch-shots, Honey’s leaping and cart-wheeling comes to stunning conclusion that features three back handsprings and the splits. None the wiser, she offers the audience a huge smile, hands raised high.
Crossing the stage, Brian Seacrest appears lost, his eyes uncharacteristically wide, like he’s witnessed a fatal car wreck. He manages to collect himself and joins Honey center stage.
“That was quite a performance, Miss Partridge.” He clears his throat.
She beams, oblivious to the fact everyone is fighting not to laugh, or in my case, throw up.
“Why thank you, hon. Is it time for me to tell Shag why I’m the best gal for him?”
“Go right on ahead. You ready, man? This woman knows what she wants.”
Shag, playing his role to perfection, rises to his feet. “All right, Honey. Tell me why you should be my honey.”
“Oh, please,” I hiss, earning another chastising look from judge number three.
Honey’s too busy giggling at Shag’s comment to notice there’s trouble at the judges’ table.
“Shag, I’m hot. You’re hot. I’m tall, and so are you. I like sex. You do too. What more is there to say?”
Still standing, Shag crosses his arms. “Wow, Honey. That’s a profound answer. Simple and to the point. And you’re right. I definitely like sex.”
The crowd laughs, and Honey claps her hands. “Pick me and I’ll show you how limber I am. What you saw up here was just a sample of what I can do.”
“Thank you, Honey Partridge.” Seacrest directs her off stage without running her video clip. No one seems to care.
For the next two hours we’re made to suffer through piano playing, dancing, singing, more singing, standup comedy, more dancing, a harp solo, even baton twirling.
What is this…a chance for these women to relive their childhoods?
Flying high on my pain pill, I can admit, I’ve actually enjoyed a few of the performances. Tiffany is an excellent piano player. Diana Garcia can dance and should be on a Broadway stage or in a music video, and Sarah Miller could definitely be more than a backup singer. She’s got some serious pipes.
Harlow, the resident Goth Girl, indulged us with a terrifying poetry reading. After hearing her dark thoughts, I will do everything I can to stay out of her way. Her answer for wanting to be with Shag was just as frightening.
“Because my Ouija board said Shag Steal belongs to me. I cast a love spell to assure he won’t be able to resist the Cosmo’s call.”
All right then.
If I was Shag, I’d be getting a restraining order.
Moving on to the final contestant, the only woman possibly scarier than Harlow—Lila Richards.
Lila is yet another singer. Her personal video runs longer than the others and features old photos of her and Shag; back in high school; holding hands by some lake; her watching the band practice in a garage…it goes on and on. I sense Shag growing tense beside me. I want to put my hand on his leg and tell him to relax, but that’s not my role. I also want to march out into the sun and demand that Lila reveal her master plan. Had the video gone on a minute longer, I might have given in to my impulse.
As the recording finally fades, background music flows out through the speakers, signaling the start of a ballad. I can’t lie, after a few seconds, the music begins to seduce me, drawing me in. Worse, her voice is like honey, smooth and sweet, making me wonder why she’s not famous in her own right. As much as I hate Lila Richards, the girl can sing.
Shag isn’t at all impressed, or at least he doesn’t show it. Instead, he shifts uneasily in his chair and mutters under his breath.
The affect on me is quite the opposite.
Her song is about everlasting love and touches me deeply, reminding me how I feel about the man beside me, and it makes me question, all over again, my decision to end our affair, relationship…whatever ‘it’ was. I can’t go backwards, and he made it clear he plans to bury any feelings he still harbors for me. We are work colleagues and future family, nothing more.
So why won’t my heart accept that final verdict?
There isn’t enough time to answer the question that just keeps nagging, begging for an answer.
The ballad reaches its climatic finish, and Lila drops her head. The audience erupts. People are on their feet, cheering for their obvious favorite. Even William and Pageant-Judge-Josh are applauding with more enthusiasm than I’ve seen from them all afternoon. I understand why.
Lila’s love for Shag is genuine, shining bright through her music. I’d been searching for some mysterious motive for her being here, when all she wants is her former lover.
“This is bullshit!” Shag growls, shoving his chair back from the table.
I start to speak, but he’s already striding away, several cameras following his retreat. Brian Seacrest continues with the program, chatting with Lila and then providing a closing summary. He alludes to Shag being so overwhelmed, awed even, by his ex’s performance that he had to escape and compose himself.
I’m pretty sure that’s not the reason for his hasty exit. Overwhelmed with anger is more likely from what I observed.
Joint Venture is now onstage, instruments ready. I didn’t even see them come out. With the first guitar riff, the big screen comes alive, this time highlighting the chaotic scene from yesterday’s cast and crew meeting—the women screaming at Lila, followed by Blue Lightening body slamming her—is right there, in vivid color, for the world to see.
I’ve already witnessed the damage firsthand. There’s no reason for me to watch it a second time. We can’t vote without Shag, and that’s what we’re supposed to be doing during this segment. Not sure what else to do, I take off after Shag.
As his PA, I need him to come back and complete the selection process. Once the judges identify the seven remaining contestants, the editing team, with the director’s and producer’s oversight, will make enough cuts to get the premiere under two hours with commercial breaks. Shag is required to hand out backstage passes to the women who are continuing on in the competition. Allege
dly, the episode will end with that scene and the three rejected women, walking away.
“You sure you don’t want me to go?” William calls from behind.
I spin around, realizing I’m still wearing my ridiculous outfit. I’m also dizzy and feel faint, but no one but me is going after Shag.
“I’ll do it. If I need you, I’ll call.” I hold up my cell phone.
He offers a thumbs up, in a show of faith that surprises me. I better make sure I come through and get their star back where he belongs before they send out a search party.
* * *
Shag
That bitch took the song I wrote for her, a song no one was supposed to have access to, and made it her own. She sang the fucking hell out of it too, almost making me believe she meant the words I’d penned so long ago.
How could have she gotten a hold of those lyrics? Only the band has access.
No way.
No. Fucking. Way.
None of my guys, or my one girl, would betray me like that. They were all there the day that song played for the first and final time. Despite the pressure from William’s father, who had heard a demo before we signed, we refused to use it on our freshman album and it was permanently shelved. That was one concession our manager at the time managed to get us, the only one.
Right about now, I need my own concession, one that will allow me to medicate my emotions the way I want, with what I want. A big, fat line of high grade blow, a shot of whiskey, and a blunt should just about do it. But even if I could have all that, what I crave most is a chance to bury my face between Cadie’s thighs. I want to attack her pussy and eat her like my last meal.
Unfortunately or fortunately, depending how you look at things, what I fucking want isn’t mine to have. Not anymore.
“Shag…?”
Cadie’s voice is not what I expect to hear, but she’s behind me, and I’m not sure how she got so close without me knowing, but she managed. I am so caught up in my crazy ass thinking, I’ve lost my edge. It’s a good thing I’m on a secluded island instead of in some dark alley.
