by Lauren Layne
“You want to build an empire,” he says, studying me.
I pick at an unraveling thread on my pants. “I’d settle for a savings account, but an empire would be nice.”
“You know, your friend’s idea isn’t a terrible one. You wear the shirt every chance you get, and it stands out compared to the other girls all dressed up. Viewers are bound to notice, wonder what it’s about, Google you…”
“I know,” I admit. “I’m thinking about talking to one of the other girls when I leave, seeing if they have any interest in a few free shirts. I’m not much of a model, but if I could get someone like Brooklyn to wear it on camera, it’d be the ultimate marketing scheme. She’s gorgeous—people would kill to dress like her.”
Gage nods thoughtfully, and I feel a little stab of annoyance that he doesn’t contradict my statement about Brooklyn being a better model for my shirts than I am.
The silence stretches on, and though it’s not unpleasant, I’m increasingly aware of how much trouble I’ll be in if we’re caught. Our contract says we’re not to try to spend time with Gage when the cameras aren’t around. And though it occurs to me again that violating the terms of the contract might be the fastest way to get a ticket home, I don’t really want to go home because I got kicked out.
“I understand about LeAnn,” I say, standing and tugging at the zipper of my hoodie. “But you’ll send me home next round, right?”
He stands as well, studying me. “That’s what you want?”
I nod. “I’m not cut out for the camera or this fake falling-in-love thing. I want something real, with a real guy.”
He blinks, and I could have sworn I hurt his feelings. “I’m real, Ellie.”
“You’re Hollywood,” I correct.
“You’re right. Which equates to no brain, no substance, and I just bleed air, right?”
I feel a sting of regret. “That’s not—”
“Forget it,” he says, pushing past without looking at me. “I’ll send you home next round. Guaranteed this time.”
“Gage, wait—”
He slips out the door without a backward glance, the sound of his tennis shoes growing fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether.
I take a deep breath and reach up to flick off the light. I wait for the sense of relief. The next invitation ceremony is tomorrow, and I’ll be going home.
I have what I wanted.
But the longer I stand here, the more I have an annoying prickle of a feeling that this isn’t what I want at all.
Gage
Raven and Adam are waiting for me the second I step back into the villa after taking half the contestants out for our group breakfast date.
Do you have any idea what it’s like to try to enjoy a piece of bacon when ten women are competing to get your attention?
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I have another group date for lunch in a couple of hours, because I didn’t eat a damn thing. I was too busy listening to the Brittanys make a big deal about the fact that their high metabolism allowed them to indulge in the banana-macadamia pancakes while the rest of the women were eating birdseed (granola). I also learned that Jane plans to make me a “mean zucchini frittata” someday, that Sidney knows everything there is to know about the health benefits of chia seeds, and that Hannah’s allergic to grapefruit juice, which prompted Brittany B. to try to coax her to take a sip of juice, “just to test it.”
The only one who didn’t make my brain want to explode was Paisley, but she was at the opposite end of the table.
“You ready for the recap?” Raven asks. “We’ll talk, just us first, then turn on the camera.”
Fuck me.
I point at the large bag on her shoulder. “Any aspirin in there?”
She gives me a faint smile as she opens the bag and digs around. “That bad, huh?”
My only answer is to dump three pills out of the pill bottle she hands me. I take them into the kitchen and wash them all down with water from the fridge.
Five minutes later I’m sitting on the couch in the library, one of the few rooms designated as off-limits to contestants. That sounded great until I realized that it’s also my punching-bag room—the place where the producers drag me to tell me all the things to do more of or to do less of, the place where I go on camera to describe who I’m falling for after two fucking days in Maui.
I eye the fully stocked sideboard. A screwdriver wouldn’t be unwelcome right now, but I decide to wait until the headache passes.
“So,” Raven says, sitting across from me and crossing her long, thin legs. She leans forward, iPad balanced on one palm, as she studies me. “How are we doing?”
How are we doing? Well, let’s see, Raven. The first contestant I sent home was completely unstable. Most of the rest of the contestants don’t seem to have a single interesting thought to split between them. The one contestant that I find even a little bit interesting is heading home tonight, because I promised her.
The pain in my temple skyrockets at that thought, and I realize that’s the crux of my bad mood. Not Sidney and her chia seeds, not the Brittanys and their insistence on feeding me bits of pancake, not even psycho LeAnn. It’s Ellie who’s bugging the shit out of me. Ellie and her easy dismissal of me that kept me up all night. Ellie and the way she looked with that fucking T-shirt plastered to her slim curves that I can’t get out of my mind.
You’re Hollywood.
Her off-the-cuff comment still chafes, hitting an Achilles’ heel I didn’t know I had—or at least not one that I let myself admit existed.
Ever since Layla rejected me for something—someone—more “reliable,” I’ve been telling myself that it was fine. That the joke was on her, because I was spending my days eating sushi in the sunshine while she cooked pot roast for my banker brother.
I don’t regret following my dreams to Los Angeles.
But I regret losing the girl, and I don’t need Ellie and her fancy T-shirts reminding me of that.
She needs to go.
“I’m fine,” I say, leaning my head back against the couch and closing my eyes. “How long do I have until lunch?”
“Two hours till you meet the A group in the living room.”
I don’t bother to open my eyes. “Why are they the A group if they’re second in the day?”
“You have more chemistry with the lunch group,” she says.
I open my eyes at that. “Says who?”
“Us,” Adam says, coming into the room with his ever-present Diet Coke in hand. “We’ve been reviewing all the footage, figuring out where the sparks are.”
Adam’s a mostly decent dude. A little too slick, the way so many career TV hosts are. He’s slight, with blond hair held in place with so much gel a tornado wouldn’t muss it and an ever-present gray pinstripe suit. But he’s not as much of a douchebag as he could be.
Right now, however, he’s annoying me.
“Why not just ask me?” I ask irritably, sitting forward. “Or do I play no part in determining who I have ‘sparks’ with?”
“All right,” Raven says pleasantly, fingers poised over her iPad. “Where are the sparks as far as you’re concerned?”
I open my mouth, and the only name that readily comes to mind is Ellie’s, so I close my mouth again. I can’t say her name now and then eliminate her tonight without raising eyebrows.
Apparently assuming I’m unable to remember any of their names, Adam hands me his own iPad, where he’s pulled up the two groups of women. Those in the A group (lunch) are listed first, followed by the B group (breakfast).
Brooklyn’s at the top of the list. No surprise there. Sure, we have chemistry. A woman who looks like that probably has chemistry with a cabbage.
Ivy’s great too, and I can see why she’d be on the list, especially since I picked her for the walk on the beach yesterday and didn’t want to blow my brains out afterward.
Cora, Naomi, and Aurora are all on the list—I don’t know that I have chemistry with a
ny of them, but they’re among the least annoying of the contestants, so that’s got to count for something.
The other three…
“Eden, Maria, and Ellie should have been on the B list,” I say, handing the iPad back.
Raven’s nose wrinkles. “Really? Eden I guess I see—she’s a handful, but we keep her there for interest. And Maria’s a drama queen—she’s ripe for a diva moment to spice things up. Ellie, though…thought there was something there.”
I lift one shoulder. “Nope.”
“You got handsy with her in the pool yesterday,” Adam reminds me, as though I’ve forgotten what she felt like.
“Not only that, but she was the only one you lingered with, other than LeAnn.”
I give Raven a sharp look. “I already told you about the situation with LeAnn and why I kept her close.”
“I know,” she says calmly. “Is there a similar situation with Ellie we should be made aware of?”
There are several things I could say about Ellie. I could sell her out for still having her cellphone. For sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet me. For admitting to the fact that she was here to promote her business rather than for me.
Instead I shrug again. “Just no spark there.”
“Huh,” Raven says, typing something on her screen. “Noted. If you keep her until the next round, we’ll be sure to put her in the elimination group.”
“That’s what the B group is? The ones I’m allowed to send home tonight?”
Raven sighs and sets her iPad aside. “You’re putting words in my mouth. And you’re looking for a fight when there isn’t one. We’re just trying to keep things as easy for you as possible.”
“And as interesting for the viewers.”
“Yes, and that,” Raven says. Her straightforward honesty mollifies me slightly.
“Speaking of keeping things interesting…,” Raven continues. She and Adam exchange a look, and I brace for whatever bullshit they’re about to spew at me.
Adam apparently draws the short straw, because he’s the one who lays it out there for me. “You haven’t kissed anyone yet.”
“So?”
“So it’s been two days.”
I lift my eyebrows. “You’ve never gone two days without making out with a chick? Or dude,” I amend, not really sure which way Adam leans.
“Shit, man, I’ve been through a six-month dry spell before. But I’m not falling in love on national television.”
Neither am I.
“We didn’t hire Gage Barrett because he was a prude,” Raven says.
No, you hired him because he lost a bet to someone who was supposed to be a friend. Not for the first time, I curse Wes for getting me into this mess, and then I curse Layla and Frank for not giving me a heads-up that I was going to be an uncle. Mostly, though, I curse myself for rising to the bait.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, sitting back on the couch. “Whose mouth should I stick my tongue into?”
“Brooklyn,” Raven declares, at the exact moment Adam says, “Aurora.”
“Why not both? At the same time?”
I ask the question sarcastically, but Raven’s eyes light up at the prospect, reminding me what we’re really doing here—making good TV.
I push away the urge to argue. I’m an idiot—I know my fame comes just as much from my notoriety as it does from my talent. Maybe even more so, if I’m being totally honest.
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Excellent,” Raven says, standing and going to the door. “You ready for the camera?”
She opens the door, waves someone in without bothering to wait for my response.
Five minutes later the makeup girl is fussing around me and dabbing shit under my eyes, telling me that I need to get more sleep; the sound guy’s clipping on my microphone while singing an off-key version of “Man in the Mirror”; and Adam is babbling about the impending word-association exercise. I mostly ignore all of them.
“Okay, you got it?” Adam asks as the crew moves away.
“Got what?”
He sighs in impatience. “I say a contestant’s name, you say the first word that comes to mind. Just one word. Got it?”
Lame. “Sure.”
He starts rattling off names, and it’s harder than it sounds. Not to come up with a word, but to come up with a different word for each woman. They’re all hot, most are vapid, and a handful are awkward. How many ways are there to say that that won’t get me whacked on the head by a little old lady when the show airs in a few months?
Skylar: Sporty.
Morgan: Quirky.
Brittany B.: Sharp.
Paisley: Kind.
Brooklyn: Charming.
Cora: Confident.
Brittany M.: Sweet.
Kelsey: Friendly.
Ellie: …
…
I open my mouth, then close it again, annoyed by how much her name gives me pause. Annoying? Complicated? Driven? Refreshing?
“Honest.”
Adam looks up and smiles, and though the expression’s friendly enough, I’ve done this enough times now to know it’s his shark look.
“You hesitated with Ellie. Why?”
I give my most pleasant smile. “I guess you could say she’s a little bit of a stumper.”
“Not like the other girls?”
I lift a shoulder. “She’s not, but not in the way you mean.”
“How do I mean it?”
“Most of the women here would claim not to be like the other women here. Everyone wants to be unique. I understand the sentiment, but I’m wary of the ones who proclaim it.”
“And confidence is a bad thing?”
I blow out a breath. “No. Not in the least. But I want to know who and what these women are. Not what they aren’t.”
“And that’s Ellie.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Why are we still talking about her?”
“You tell me,” Adam says, with another of those too-bland smiles.
I lift an index finger (wishing it were my middle one) and move it in circles. “Keep going with the list.”
He pauses for a long moment, likely to let the viewers soak in the full extent of my irritability over Ellie, then continues rattling off women.
Naomi: Quiet.
Hannah: Southern.
Jane: Intense.
And so on.
Finally we’re done, and the makeup girl’s coming at me again, this time with a makeup remover wipe, which I distractedly run over my face to remove the concealer as I check my cellphone.
Yeah, I know. It’s unfair. I get to keep my cell; the women don’t get to keep theirs. I didn’t make the rules.
There’s all the usual shit: Dan asking if I read the script he emailed. The Killboy director wanting to make sure I’m maintaining my workout schedule, because the next movie involves plenty of shirtless scenes. A handful of messages from some of my usual hookups, a smug selfie of Wes in Barcelona with some B-list actress. I suspect I’m meant to envy him, but I can’t remember the chick’s name, so the only thing I’m really jealous of is the fact that he makes his own schedule instead of having to be at lunch in…
Christ, five minutes.
There’s no new message from my brother, and I tell myself I don’t care about that. Nothing from Ellie, and I tell myself I don’t mind that either.
“You ready?” Raven asks, just as I slide the phone back in my pocket.
“Is no an option?”
She shows her teeth, but it’s not a real smile. “One of these days you’ll figure out that I have no sense of humor when it comes to my show.”
“You need a drink,” I say, following her down the stairs to the living room.
“Nope, I need a cigarette. And I plan to indulge just as soon as I load you guys onto the van.”
The women of the A group, or the lunch crowd, or whatever we’re calling them, are waiting in the living room.
The cameras are already rolling, so I hide a smile when I note that Ellie’s determinedly wearing her white T-shirt again, She’s paired it with tiny denim shorts and sky-high platform sandals that dress the whole look up, while making her look casually approachable at the same time.
And lest you think I’ve been living in L.A. too long if I’m noticing women’s clothing, I’d like to state for the record that the star of the show isn’t the shoes, the shorts, or the shirt, but the very nice legs.
I expect her to ignore me the way she usually does, so I’m a little surprised to find her meeting my eyes over the head of the other women who unnecessarily hug me hello as though it hasn’t been less than a day since I last saw them.
I’m even more surprised when she comes up for her own hug, although a second later I realize why.
She goes on her toes as my arms wrap around her, lips pressed to my ear. “I need to talk to you.”
When she pulls back, she gives me a coy little smile, likely aware that the camera and the eyes of the other women are on us, as though she wants everyone to think she’s whispered something seductive and flirty in my ear.
I don’t meet her eyes, nor do I acknowledge her request. I already know what she wants to talk about—she wants to go home, wants to make sure I haven’t changed my mind about eliminating her at the ceremony tonight.
As though I’d somehow forgotten between midnight last night and this moment that she doesn’t want to be here.
I’m plenty used to people thinking actors are morons, but the fact that she feels she has to repeatedly beat me over the head with her demands rubs me the wrong way.
I ignore her altogether, instead wrapping an arm around the waists of Maria and Kelsey as we head out to the van that will take us to lunch.
Breakfast was just a short drive from the villa, but the producers have something different in mind for the lunch crew, because the drive feels endless. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I have several female voices talking over each other in an attempt to get my attention. Brooklyn, Naomi, and Ellie are mostly quiet except when prodded by the other women, and I’m grateful that I have only six women giggling in my ear rather than nine.
