He’s semi-attractive in a dark, twisted way—that is if you’re into piercings, tattoos, and scruffy hair. Some people are drawn to that sort of thing. I can’t imagine why.
In the commercial I saw on TV, his attitude screamed jackass. Every other picture online was of him with a different girl. I’ve dated guys like him before. Well, minus the outside appearance anyway. I need another asshole in my life like I need more sleepless nights. I’m not sure why I think I can change people. I tighten my ponytail. It seems to be slipping.
I’ve come to the realization through experience not only in my job, but in dating, that if you look like an asshole, you are an asshole. His pictures and reputation speak volumes. Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve been disqualified. I truly believe things happen for a reason.
The producer enters the room and sits back down across from me. “I apologize for the delay. Would you mind answering a few more questions?”
I lean forward, realize I’m frowning, and quickly readjust my expression to indifference. “I thought you said I was out?”
“I may have been too hasty. Could we continue?”
“Sure.” What the fuck?
“You’ve been with the Los Angeles PD for seven years. What made you go into law enforcement?”
I sigh and briefly close my eyes, trying to decide how to answer that question and how much personal information I want to tell the world. “I had a difficult childhood and I decided to be in a profession where I could learn to protect myself as well as others.”
“What kind of difficult childhood?”
“Let’s say it wasn’t ideal. Definitely not Full House,” I say with a small chuckle.
“Oh, I loved that show,” he responds with a smile. “More like Married with Children?”
“More like a cross between Rosanne if there wasn’t a dad or any other kids, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”
He nods enthusiastically, and I can tell I’m speaking his language now.
“Care to elaborate?” he asks.
“No.”
He seems to be waiting for me to say more. “You don’t like to share personal details, do you?”
“No,” I say without breaking eye contact. I may not be doing myself any favors, but I won’t be bullied into divulging more than I want.
“Some might say the past predicts future behavior,” he says, leaning back and folding his arms.
“If the past predicts the future, you should know I’ve solved over sixty cases as a detective and arrested well over two hundred people.”
He smirks. “The more we know about you, the greater the chance you have of making it on the show.”
“Okay… Let me be more specific. I can and have taken down a man twice your size. I have perfect aim, and I can recognize a sleaze ball from a mile away. Through the years, I’ve learned not only how to solve a crime, but also how to recognize someone who’s about to do something they shouldn’t. I can do this job. I’ve spent the last seven years risking my life for the people of the great state of California and I’m fully prepared and willing to risk my life to protect your client. Isn’t that what’s really important here?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. I suspect he’s trying to figure me out. He stands and holds out his hand. I take it. “Thank you, Ms. Manning. We’ll be in touch.”
I’m lead through corridors to an elevator. I get in, push the button for the ground level, and lean my head against the wall. That could have gone better. It also could have been worse.
I suppose I could have told them my mom left my abusive father after she walked in and saw him still hitting me after I was unconscious. I could have told him she agreed not to press charges against him if he gave up custody of me permanently and promised to never contact either of us again.
Maybe it would have helped if I’d told the producer we moved to LA when I was nine to get away from my father and I’m originally from Portland, Oregon. Or that my mom worked two jobs to provide for me and she tried to make a good life for us, even though she wasn’t the nurturing or loving kind of mother my friends had.
But I don’t live in the past. I don’t want sympathy or pity. I want to get on this show because I can do the job, not because someone knows my past and thinks they know me.
As I step off the elevator, a stranger shoots me a look of concern. I realize I’m holding myself and shaking. I immediately relax my arms and continue past the front desk and outside.
The sunshine blinds and simultaneously warms me. It was a little too cold in there. Maybe I’m too cold as well, but it’s who I am and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that. As the heat of the sun warms me, I’m reminded that I’m not sure I know who I am anymore. Maybe it’s time to reinvent myself once again.
I just finished getting my nose powdered. It was probably one of the most emasculating moments of my life. Filming is about to start and apparently I need to look as matte as possible. Esto said they have something special they want me to wear and Clark approved it. I’m almost afraid to see it. If they think I’m wearing some kind of skirt from the Roman Empire, they’re sadly mistaken.
They brought in a guy who runs a worldwide security company to “assist” me in judging the contestants. Apparently Esto knows him and he’s provided security for Seamore a few times. I guess he and I went to the same grade school, although I don’t remember him. He was several years older than me, so it makes sense I wouldn’t. From what Esto says, Jean Paul Beck is a big deal. He’s written a couple of books and seems to know his shit. They claim I have the final say, but I’m not sure I believe them. I know one thing for certain. They’re not telling me a whole hell of a lot.
I met with JP, as I call him, a couple of times last month to make sure we were on the same page with what I want in an EPO, or executive protection officer. He looks like your average Joe. There’s nothing remarkable about him on the outside. Medium build, about five-foot-ten, with brown hair and brown eyes. I guess that’s what you want in a bodyguard—someone who blends in with the crowd.
Dawson is a bit taller and wider than JP, and he might not blend well, but he knows protective services. Dawson’s face will never make it on camera, nor will anyone else from the team Dawson assembled. This isn’t about them. I’ve been clear that keeping contestants and crew out of my personal space is paramount. Everyone agreed, but I’m still paranoid. I don’t need anyone to know any more about my life than I want them to.
I watched the video interviews of the candidates they felt were worthy. JP, Esto, Dawson, and I narrowed it down to ten. I thought I’d have to argue for the suspended cop, but I didn’t. Turns out she had damn good references and Esto got the scoop on her. She was suspended for beating the crap out a man who abused a child. In the time since she interviewed and today, the investigation was finalized. She got a suspension until she completed a psych evaluation and an anger management class. JP argued to let her in and I didn’t have to say a word.
Esto fought hard to let a martial arts guy on the show. He had a major chip on his shoulder and I wasn’t sure I liked his interview, but Esto said he’d add flavor and I should give him a chance. After all this promotional bullshit, I can see now this is less about finding me a new guard and more about ratings. It’s too late to pull out now. I signed a contract. The hefty paycheck I’m getting better make all of this worth it.
There’s a knock on my office door and Dawson opens it. I can’t see who he’s talking to, but when Dawson steps aside, I recognize him immediately. How could I not know him? His face is all over television. He’s probably one of the highest paid hosts of all time and his smile is almost blinding.
“Mr. Creed, it’s so nice to finally meet you. My name is—”
“I know who you are.” I stand and walk toward him. “You’re Bryce Donahue, host extraordinaire.”
He places a hand over his heart, like I’ve touched him somehow. “Wow, the fact that you know me almost makes my life.”
I usually don’
t believe such flattery, but damn if he doesn’t have the most trusting face and kind eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m not into dudes, but man, he’s almost pretty. I smile as we shake hands. “Please call me Roman. Mr. Creed is my father, and I don’t like him enough to want to be associated with him.”
“I understand. Thank you, Roman. I’ve already spoken to your agent, Clark, several times, but I wanted to personally let you know I’m here for you. I’m always ready to answer any questions or concerns you have about the ins and outs of the show.”
“So you know everything that’s about to happen?”
His head teeters back and forth. “I’d like to think I do, but… By any chance did you see The Fabulist?”
I know where this is going. “I did. I assume that’s your way of telling me you only know as much as they want you to know.”
“Exactly,” Bryce says, nodding in relief. “I got a lot of flak from people who assumed I knew who The Fabulist was, but I was as shocked as everyone in the end.”
“I believe you. You have an honest face. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
He smiles. “My wife tells me I’m too honest and too nice. But so is she. It’s what drew me to her in the first place.”
I pretend I know what he means. No one has ever said I was nice and my honesty is usually brutal. People don’t particularly care for it. I hear asshole more than anything, under people’s breaths. I like it that way. Nice people get shit on, I should know. I knew someone nice once.
“Mr. Rivera asked me to make sure you were clear that while each challenge has a purpose and something to do with executive protection, they’ve been constructed to also be entertaining.”
I sit on the edge of the desk. “That’s what I’m told.”
“The goal is to get the person with the most potential and entertain the viewing audience—whenever it airs, that is.”
Clark and Dawson were adamant the show be aired at a later date and not be live to maintain my safety. I guess that’s why I pay them the big bucks.
“Along with reiterating the show’s purpose, and letting you know I’m here for you, I also wanted to tell you I’m a huge fan of your music. My wife and I, separately and together, have been to five of your concerts,” he says with an awkward laugh.
“Maybe when this thing is over, I can meet her and, I don’t know, maybe sign some stuff.”
His eyes light up. “She’d love that. Thank you. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll see you in a few for the run-through.”
“Sure thing.”
After he exits the room, I turn toward the window.
Dawson sighs loud enough to draw my attention. “Please don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Stand in front of the window. As long as this show is going on and there are so many unknowns, I don’t like you being opened up more than you need to be, much less standing in front of a double-paned window.”
I huff. “You really don’t want me to do the show, do you?”
“You know how I feel, but that’s never stopped you before,” he says with another hearty sigh.
I glance at my pad of paper and decide against doing another caricature of him, even though his expression warrants one. How many more times can I draw him grimacing with his eyebrows squeezed together? I must have done at least fifty this year alone. “Did your mother ever tell you to stop making faces before it freezes that way?” I ask him.
“Probably, why?”
I cross my arms. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but you have a permanent scowl.”
“No, I don’t. I can smile when I need to.”
“I don’t believe you. I’ve never seen you smile.”
“Number one, I’m not paid to smile and number two, you’ve never give me a reason to be happy.”
I laugh, because he’s right. I question him daily and constantly make his life a living hell. He’s had to work day and night, preparing for all the people coming into my house. He did background checks and interviews. He’s very thorough. I should thank him. As I open my mouth, there’s a knock on the door.
Dawson pushes me out of sight. “Who is it?” he questions.
“Mr. Creed, we’re ready for you,” someone says gleefully from the other side.
Dawson sighs yet again. His job just became ten times more difficult with those words. He stares straight into my eyes. “Are you ready for this?”
I don’t think I am, but it’s too late now. The show must go on. “It’s another performance,” I tell him. Judging by the expression on his face, I think it’s safe to say we both know that’s a lie. This show is going to change my life. Only, I’m not sure if it will be for the better or worse.
They brought us here, wherever here is, on a chartered bus with blackened windows. Finalists were instructed to meet at a hotel downtown this morning. It wasn’t a big deal for me; I only had to drive there. Some of the contestants flew in from all over the country.
I steal a glance at my watch and note the time. Almost 8:00 p.m. This has been a long-ass day of doing nothing but waiting. I sat in my room for most of the day and watched old episodes of Cops, Gilmore Girls, and Hell’s Kitchen. I haven’t watched that much TV in years.
They brought us meals and asked us to stay in our rooms until they called us down. We were instructed not to speak to one another, and we haven’t, but I’ve already done my fair share of studying and character analysis since the moment I laid eyes on the others.
There’s a guy here from the day I auditioned in LA. We didn’t speak to each other at the audition, but I heard them call his name. Raul Martinez looks military to me. There’s something about the way he holds himself. He only speaks when someone talks to him and he has amazing posture. I sit up a little straighter, thinking about it. I like that he’s quiet. Too much unnecessary chatter gets you into trouble.
There are three other females besides me on the bus. Everyone seems to be trying to psych each other out and the testosterone almost makes the air too thick to breathe.
In general, the group seems pretty fit, except this one guy who seemed winded from climbing into the bus. I bet myself a taco dinner if I’m right and he’s the first to go. If I lose, I have to tack another mile onto my run. I’m not losing that bet with myself if I can help it. The guy sitting across from me looks like he ate someone for breakfast. He’s big and tall.
I’m glad I continued to work out during my suspension. I’m supposed to go back to work in a few weeks and I put off turning in my anger management paperwork until after I get home. The Praetorian could film for up to two weeks. It doesn’t seem like much time for a show, but if one show airs once a week, it’ll seem like we’ve been here for months. I could be here the entire time or I could be going home tomorrow, depending on how I perform.
I’m competitive by nature, and even though I haven’t decided whether or not I want to leave the police force, it sure would be nice to have options. The $100,000 the winner receives is my main motivation right now. I’d like to get myself a house and pay off my student loans for my degree in Criminal Justice. Those payments are never-ending.
They took our luggage from us when we got on the bus. Phones and computers were confiscated at the hotel. I’ve never been one of those people who’s glued to their phone anyway, so I don’t miss it. One chick almost lost her shit when they made her hand it over. I straighten in my seat and see the back of her head a few seats forward. Poor thing.
We’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes, waiting. Good thing the air is on or we’d be wilted by the time we got off. It’s been hotter than usual lately.
I adjust my watch, then my ponytail, before staring down at my navy-blue blouse and gray slacks. They told us to dress casual for today, but I wanted to make an impression of professionalism so I went for business casual. They were oddly specific about what kind of clothes we needed to bring. Workout gear, suits, and even evening wear, which was a stretch for me. I never wear dresses unless I’m goi
ng to a funeral. Ah, who am I kidding; I wear pants to those too.
The doors to the bus open and Esto Rivera steps onboard, along with a cameraman. I was kinda hoping to see Hogan Harper behind a camera, but I guess since The Fabulist, he doesn’t do that anymore.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I apologize for the delay, but we’re finally ready to get started. Our host, Bryce Donahue, will call you off the bus one at a time to do a brief interview with him. As you were told at the hotel, everything is being filmed.” He points to the front and back and I’m reminded that even the bus has been equipped with cameras. I’m surprised they aren’t making us wear them.
“I’m certain you’ll have a lot of questions, but let’s save them for after we’ve filmed tonight.”
Rivera grabs hold of a handrail running along the top of the bus to steady himself. “Once you’ve answered a brief question from our host, I’d like you to step toward me, to the right of the camera. Please remain quiet at all times. Now remember, everything you do and say will eventually be seen by the people at home. They vote for the winner in the finale, and it wouldn’t hurt if they liked you, hated you, or remembered you during the show, so play to the lens.”
He claps his hands together excitedly. “Okay. We’re ready to start.” The cameraman hops down the stairs and Esto watches him eagerly. He takes a clipboard from an unseen person at the bottom of the stairs.
“First up is Cedric Calloway.”
A tall, muscular black man stands and shakes Esto’s hand before heading out for his interview. There is an air of anxiety on the bus I haven’t felt before. Maybe I’m simply aware of my own nervousness. I think back to all the things my friend Andrea, from the department, told me before I left. Smile. Be confident. Fake everything else. I need that money. I can do this. I need to practice the techniques I learned in my anger class and make sure I watch my temper. I don’t want to be known as the angry girl.
The Praetorian Page 4
