by Diana Orgain
Ty, one of my “dates,” sauntered over. He was wearing jeans and boots and his trademark cowboy hat. A bungee harness crisscrossed through his legs. Despite the harness, or perhaps because of it, he looked hot. Although I was hard-pressed to think of any outfit that he wouldn’t look hot in.
“Are you nervous, Miss Georgia?” he asked.
I found myself absently wondering if he’d wear his hat while bungee jumping.
He reached out tentatively and touched the back of my hand with a single finger. “Miss Georgia?” he repeated.
I suddenly became aware of the camera rolling again and snapped to attention. “Yes. I’m nervous. I thought I’d get to pick the dates, but I didn’t. I would have never picked this. Only a lunatic—”
I heard the producer, Cheryl, grumble.
I wasn’t supposed to say anything negative about the dates, of course. They were supposed to look authentic, so that the audience wouldn’t know that I had absolutely zero control over anything. The crew would have to edit out my last comment.
Ty seemed to notice the same thing because he replied smoothly, “I’ve always wanted to bungee jump.” His lips quirked up in an irresistible manner. “And now we get to do it off this beautiful bridge.”
Cheryl, who was standing behind him, smiled. He’d just saved the scene. She liked him.
Well, in those tight jeans and boots, and with the cute southern drawl—who could blame her?
I glanced around at the others. They seemed ready to go and had started heading my way. It was inevitable, once someone started showing interest in me, that the others would follow—like a pack of dogs fighting over a lone piece of meat.
Bungee jumping off the bridge was my first date, and I’d selected five of the ten eligible bachelors—or not so eligible. The gist of the show was for me to pick a guy who was emotionally available for a relationship, someone who was on the show for love.
During casting, each guy had given a heart-to-heart interview with the producer, Cheryl Dennison. They’d confessed whether they were ready to be in a relationship. Five guys were searching for love; five guys weren’t. Because I’d worked for SFPD, somehow Hollywood thought I’d be able to figure out everyone’s motives.
I had my doubts.
If I picked the right guy, we’d split $250,000. If I picked a guy who was emotionally unavailable he’d walk off with the cash prize on his own and, maybe worse, a piece of my heart.
America would be privy to the interviews. I’m sure those clips would expose me as a fool along the way.
I pictured Cheryl’s editing staff. As soon as I said someone was cute or hot or sweet, she’d revel in playing a clip of the heart-to-heart where he told America all the reasons he couldn’t fall in love. That kind of thing would be great for ratings.
The guys I’d asked on this date were the ones I suspected might be on the show for the cash. Best to eliminate the fakes ASAP.
I’d selected Ty, the cowboy, because at the first night’s cocktail party I couldn’t actually get him to tell me what he did for a living.
Edward, the hot doctor—tall, with dark hair, a great smile, and a wonderful gentleness about him—had to have student loans from med school up the wazoo.
Scott, the brooding writer, wrote horror stories—I hoped to read to get an idea about him. He was mysterious and supersexy, with a tight body and a bit of a swagger, and he had a shaved head and dark, piercing eyes.
But who made any money as a writer?
Aaron, the investment banker, looked like the boy next door. Clean-cut, respectable, and polite.
I wouldn’t typically peg investment bankers as needing money, but something about Aaron was unsettling, as though he had some desperation vibe wafting off him.
And then there was Pietro, the Italian hunk with an accent that drove me wild.
I’d invited him because I had a weakness for accents, and weakness must be sought out and destroyed at any cost.
Everyone was suited up and ready to go. My harness felt so tight I thought I might explode out of it. It was cutting into my shoulders and crotch—certainly not a woman-friendly look. But I didn’t complain for fear they would make it too loose and I’d slip out of it at exactly the wrong moment.
Was there no happy medium for me?
The crew was urging us toward the edge of the bridge. We didn’t have time to dillydally, as the show had been granted special access for the shoot. Bungee jumping was not ordinarily allowed off the Golden Gate Bridge due to boat traffic, but the producers had been able to close down the shipping lanes for one hour. Everything is for sale in San Francisco.
Car traffic, on the other hand, was still open on the bridge. Everything may be for sale, but even Hollywood has a budget. It was nerve-wracking and noisy to have the cars whizzing by.
“If you’re nervous, maybe someone else can go first,” Ty offered.
Cheryl said, “Someone needs to go, for God’s sake. We need to get the show on the road. Aaron, want to go?”
Aaron looked surprised and Ty seemed relieved.
“Uh, yeah, certainly. Love to,” Aaron said, although he looked unsure.
Cheryl turned to me and shouted, “You, get over here and watch him jump. We need the shot.”
I don’t know what I’d imagined when I thought about possibly finding love on this show, but it certainly hadn’t included this six-foot-tall blond woman yelling at me constantly. In fact, she’d never even entered my mind and now she seemed never to leave.
Aaron took his place near the edge of the bridge and I stood next to him. The crew maneuvered around us, although one camera remained trained on my face, my every expression being recorded for posterity.
I hoped I didn’t look nauseous. I certainly felt it.
Despite the tech people assuring me it was safe, jumping off the bridge was the last thing I wanted to do.
Down below I could see the Coast Guard boat hovering, one of the conditions the City of San Francisco had put on our use of the bridge.
Cheryl hadn’t cared about the condition. In fact, she’d used it in negotiations for the show, requesting two cameramen be allowed to board and film our jumps.
“Are you ready, Aaron?” I asked, remembering to smile for the camera, but fearing it came off more as a grimace.
Aaron returned my smile, only his seemed genuine. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been jumping before. It’s really a hoot. Feels like you’re flying.” He grabbed my hand and said, “Georgia, will you jump with me?”
Before I could reply, he turned to the tech. “Is her line ready?”
I heard the tech say, “She’s—”
The din of traffic seemed to grow, a car honking at precisely that moment.
Then someone touched the small of my back and Cheryl yelled, “Action!”
Aaron let out a war cry and leapt, still squeezing my hand and pulling me forward. Someone pushed sharply on my back. I was off balance, trying to stay on the bridge.
Aaron didn’t release me and his momentum propelled me forward. I slipped off the railing, falling with him, our hands finally disentangling.
The wind howled furiously at me. I howled back. My face tight, completely stretched with the force of gravity, my own saliva streaming across my checks as I screamed. Aaron was screaming, too, only his yells were ones of sheer delight.
His arms were flung out from his sides and he held them horizontally, imitating a plane.
We were soaring through the air like birds—only birds on a sharp descent, toward water that looked like a sheet of solid glass.
Adrenaline surged through my system, everything registering in slow motion: Aaron’s expression of pure joy, the sunlight reflecting off the water and blinding me, the sound of the boat nearby.
The Coast Guard.
We were speeding, rushing closer and closer to the water. My breath caught in my throat, gagging me. I fought the impulse to retch.
How close to the water were we supposed to get?
When
would the cord tighten?
What had the tech said?
All my mind could process was the water seemingly racing toward me.
And then, suddenly, my cord pulled taut and my descent stopped. I bounced up, the water receding rapidly. The negative g-force playing havoc with my stomach.
Out of nowhere a horrific crashing, splashing, screeching sound pierced my ears.
Water shot upward.
I pressed both hands over my mouth and tried to keep the bloodcurdling scream inside, but failed.
Aaron had hit the water.
His bungee cord finally tightened and snapped to position, but he was already underwater.
I continued flying upward, the distance between Aaron and me an eternity.
It felt as if I would crash right through the bottom of the bridge.
And then my descent began again, water rushing toward me.
Dear God, would I crash into the water, too?
I was paralyzed with fear as the cord tightened and then the water raced away. Then I was falling again, zooming toward the water, now my nemesis beckoning me, luring and tempting me to give up the fight.
The cord tightened one last time and I came to an abrupt stop, suspended above the bay—so close I could feel the salt spray on my skin.
I filled my lungs with air and screamed. I kicked and thrashed about, trying to break the harness that had just saved my life. Aaron was so close to me, I needed to grab him and pull him out of the water. I was vaguely aware of the Coast Guard boat nearby, the sound of the engine revving, the fumes of the diesel gagging me.
I heard the crackle of the Coast Guard’s radio and then Cheryl’s voice frantically shouting, “Hoist him up! Holy Christ! Hoist him up!”
I raised my head and was surprised to see the Coast Guard boat so close. Without words the entire crew had sprung into action. But one camera was still trained on me. The other camera zoomed in on Aaron.
I felt a jolt and realized I was being raised back toward the bridge.
“No, no, stop! Let me go—I can reach him!” I yelled.
Then the hoist on Aaron’s harness began to crank and he was lifted out of the water.
His dripping, lifeless form hung like a rag doll from the bungee.
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About the Author
Diana Orgain is the bestselling author of the Maternal Instincts Mystery Series, the Love or Money Mystery Series, and the Roundup Crew Mysteries. She is the co-author of NY Times Bestselling Scrapbooking Mystery Series with Laura Childs. For a complete listing of books, as well as excerpts and contests, and to connect with Diana:
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
