Reality TV Bites Page 6

  Hunter smiles at her. “Thanks.”

  She ruffles his hair and looks at me and Dave. “Want anything?”

  “A gun?”

  Rory ignores me and says, “I’ll get you a glass of water, too, Dave.” She disappears into the kitchen.

  “After all the trouble I went through getting you a sip of Gatorade the other night, how come you don’t offer to get me a glass of water?” Dave asks me.

  “Because I don’t like you.” I grab the arm of the couch and attempt to pull myself out of Dave’s trap. He doesn’t try to stop me, just runs a finger down my back, following the line of my spine all the way to the waistband of my low-rise jean shorts. I freeze.

  “You don’t really hate me, do you?” he asks, but his voice is low so Hunter doesn’t hear.

  I glance at him over my shoulder, a sarcastic remark all ready to go, but his golden eyes look so sincere that I falter. “You weren’t even jealous, were you?” I whisper.

  Shit! Why did I say that? I wasn’t planning to say that.

  Dave doesn’t answer right away. He looks like he’s thinking about it, then sort of shrugs and says, “Should I be?”

  “What does that mean?” I hiss with a glance at Hunter.

  “Means what I said.”

  “I was kissing him.”

  His face darkens. “Yeah, I saw that,” he mutters.

  “So, you don’t care?”

  Shut up, Allison. Shut up. You don’t care.

  “I don’t like it, but you’re going to do what you want.”

  I glance toward the kitchen to see if Rory’s heard the argument, then turn back to Dave. “That’s right. I’ll do what I want.”

  I heave myself up, ready to flounce away, when Dave murmurs, “I will, too.”

  I round on him. “You will, what? You’re going to cheat on me?”

  “Can I cheat? Are we together?”

  Goddamnit! Why does he always do this to me? I get all confused and turned around when I talk to him. “You know what I mean!” I finally shout.

  Hunter cringes. “You’re not going to throw anything, are you?”

  I ignore him. On the couch, Dave spreads his arms over the back and levels his gaze on me. “Maybe I am drunk, because I’m not following you.”

  “Forget it. Why are you even here? You don’t like me.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dave rests an ankle on his knee, appearing even more relaxed than ever. Meanwhile, I’m as tight as an arrangement by Count Basie.

  “You know why.” I turn away from him, intending to join Rory in the kitchen, but she’s standing frozen in the doorway, watching the battle.

  “Is all this because I wouldn’t sleep with you?”

  My jaw drops, and if I were a cartoon, the top of my head would come off and steam would shoot out. Rory’s hands fly to her mouth to stifle a gasp and Hunter’s lips form an O.

  I round on Dave. “Please. I wouldn’t sleep with you if—”

  “I was the last man on earth. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Then you should know this one, too. Fuck you.” I stomp down Rory’s hallway toward the bathroom. I’m perilously close to tears, but no one needs to know that if I can get the door closed before I start crying. I’m almost there when Dave’s hand snatches my wrist and he pulls me into Rory’s bedroom and shuts the door.

  “What are you doing? Get out of the way.” I try to push past him to open the door, but he takes my shoulders and backs me against the wall. Despite the fact that I hate him, I’m breathing hard and the look in his eyes is making me very, very warm.

  We stare at each other, then he says, “So you think because I wouldn’t sleep with you that means I don’t like you?”

  “I never said that.” I try to think of some biting remark, but a traitorous tear slips free instead.

  Dave catches it with a finger. “Are you crying?”

  “No.” I sniffle, and three more tears make their getaway. Dave shakes his head. He must have sisters because he’s not freaked out by tears like most guys are.

  “Red, have you ever considered that maybe I didn’t sleep with you because I like you?”

  “My name is Allison.”

  “Allison,” he murmurs and traces a finger along my cheek.

  “That doesn’t make any sense. If you liked me—”

  “I would have fucked you?” His voice is hard, but his touch is gentle when he runs his hand through my hair to cup the back of my head. “If that was all I wanted from you, I would have taken it. On our first date.”

  I snort. “Please.”

  He raises an eyebrow, and I shut up. After all, I’m standing here, shoved up against the wall, his arms around me, and his leg parting my thighs. Now isn’t the best time to argue the point. “So what do you want?” I ask, then shiver at the way his eyes darken to goldenrod.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  I shake my head. “Then just forget the whole thing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jerk. Who is he to tell me when this—nonrelationship relationship—is over? But before I can correct yet another of his misguided assumptions, he pulls me to him and kisses me. Not his usual playful kiss. Not even a nice kiss. This is not the kind of kiss men give women in movies—at least not the kind I watch. This is hot and rough and so electric I feel like I stuck my finger in the light socket.

  And then Dave begins to pull back, and I can’t let him. I should let him, but this kiss is too amazing. So I grab his shirt and pull him closer, and his hands are all over me—in my hair, on my face, cupping my breasts, fitting me to his body. Finally we break apart. I’m panting and Dave’s not exactly unruffled. He leans his head over my shoulder, resting on the wall behind me. His hands are snug on my waist and his breath tickles my ear.

  “Still think I don’t want you?” he murmurs, his voice like velvet next to my ear.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Still crying?”

  I stiffen. I hate that he saw that. “No.”

  He moves to nuzzle my ear, whispers, “Still hate me?”

  “Yes,” I moan. He kisses my neck then my jawbone, his mouth like a slow-acting drug.

  “Sure?”

  “I never want to see you again,” I say, trying to catch his mouth with mine.

  He manages to evade my lips, then kisses me softly on the forehead. Not what I had in mind, and before I even open my eyes, the toad steps back, opens the door, and says, “If you change your mind, you know how to find me.”

  5

  Life Goes to a Party

  It’s the first day of filming, and I take deep breaths in the elevator to calm myself. When I get off on the seventeenth floor, the camera crew will be there, ready to film my every moment. I smooth my navy Carolina Herrera wrap dress. I thought about wearing something flashier—my wool Schiaparelli military brisk suit—but then I decided I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

  When the elevator door opens, I consider going back down. I hadn’t expected things to look quite so crazy. There are three guys toting huge black cameras and followed by guys holding furry gray mops on the end of sticks. The staff is trying to look busy, and at the same time, talking really loudly to be heard by the furry mics. Miranda is in her office. It looks like she’s posing for publicity photos, and Josh is standing next to Natalie’s desk while a woman holds up what looks like a little tape recorder and points to it. Josh is the one who prevents my escape.

  “Sweetie, you’re here! Finally!”

  Finally? It’s quarter to nine. I’m early.

  At Josh’s words half a dozen people turn to look at me. A moment later, they descend, and I’m wired and propelled into my office for my own publicity photos and an interview. You know how on The Real World the cast gets pulled aside to explain their personal take on something? Or on Queer Eye how the friends and family of the straight guy make comments throughout? That’s what this footage is for.

  They hook me up to
a wireless body lav mic, and since I don’t have a pocket or waistband, a woman attaches the transmitter to the back of my bra. I look like a hunchback, and I have to lean forward when I sit. While they’re hooking all of this up a guy who reminds me of Ron Howard reviews the rules for me.

  “Okay, Allison, just want to remind you that everything you do or see today and in the weeks ahead falls under the confidentiality agreement. Don’t talk to your friends, your family, and especially not to the media about anything. You got that?”

  “Sure,” I say. Like anyone’s going to care about a show pitting interior designers against one another.

  I’ve been sitting and talking for what feels like hours when I spot Nicolo through my office window. He’s standing in the middle of the office talking with Miranda, and I wonder how long he’s been here. One of the producers has a book of questions—I swear, it’s like two hundred pages—and they just go on and on. The lights are hot, my back is starting to hurt from leaning forward, and Natalie’s been giving me frantic looks for the past forty-five minutes. My phone hasn’t rung once, which means she’s holding my calls. I’ve gotten no work done this morning, and it’s past eleven.

  The Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real says that producers often try to wear you down, so they can get footage of you all harried and bitchy. I’m resolved to stay as cool as Antarctica. And yet still friendly and approachable.

  Nicolo looks up, sees me, and smiles. His blue eyes crinkle when he does that, and it looks really sexy. Miranda gives me an annoyed frown. What’s up with that? She’s married. I think.

  “So would you call interior design a hobby then, Allison?”

  “Huh?” I look back at the Ron Howard producer interviewing me. “Oh, um. No. It’s my job, not a hobby.”

  He waves a hand. “But you don’t need the money. Your parents are quite well off.”

  “I don’t want to talk about my family,” I say. Then, at his raised eyebrows, I add, “My parents are rich, but it’s not my money. In any case, I like interior design. I’d do it even if I didn’t have to.” I just wouldn’t work for Miranda. Speak of the devil, Miranda catches my eye, taps her watch.

  “Is that all?” I say. “I really have to do some work.”

  The producers try to throw a few more questions at me, but I swivel toward my computer and pretend to ignore them. I always thought it would be fun to have people asking me all sorts of questions about myself but believe it or not, after half an hour I was sort of sick of me.

  I glance over my shoulder, and the film crew is still there, still filming. “Just go about your usual routine,” the Ron Howard producer says. “We want some footage of you working.”

  Okay. I turn back to my computer and try to look busy. Normally, the first thing I do is play a game of solitaire, then read my hotmail, then play another game, then read my horoscope. Obviously, that’s out. I decide to check my work e-mail, and when I open it, the camera guys zoom in. The first thing I see is a message from Miranda with the subject line all in caps: STOP TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF AND GET TO WORK.

  I scramble to close the screen before the camera gets a shot of that. Okay, I’ll check my voice mail. As I pick up the phone, the producer says, “Can you put it on speaker, so we can hear, too?”

  I’m not thrilled with the idea, but I guess it’s part of the show. I press the button for my voice mail, and a computerized voice says, “You have sixteen new messages.”

  “Shit,” I mutter. Then I glance at the camera. “I mean, super.” I smile—or at least try to.

  “First message. Nine twenty-one A.M.,” the computerized voice says.

  “Ms. Holloway, this is Edith M. Bilker-Morgan. You were to call me at nine sharp to discuss my choice of side table for the study. I do not like the photo of the yellowish white one you sent. You called it”—there’s the sound of paper rusting—“distressed. I am most distressed. Please call me back. If it’s not too inconvenient.”

  “Ouch,” the cameraman says, and I keep on smiling.

  “Second message. Nine twenty-seven A.M.”

  “Ms. Holloway, this is Sherrie from Dr. Orion’s office. I’m calling to confirm your appointment for a pelvic exam and Pap—”

  “Next message!” I say, hitting the forward button.

  “Nine forty-two A.M.”

  “Hi, darlin’. It’s Daddy. I know it’s still a week away, but are you coming to the lake for Memorial Day? You know how your mother gets when—”

  “You know what?” I hit the button to disconnect. “Maybe I’ll check messages later.”

  The intercom beeps, and I almost jump. “Allison?” Miranda’s tone is short and sharp.

  I clear my throat and smile at the camera again. “Yes, Miranda?”

  “Quit playing around and get out here. Mr. Watanabe has arrived, and we need you in the meeting.”

  “Thanks, Miranda. I—” But I hear a click, and she’s gone.

  “Excuse me.” I head for the conference room, and the camera crew follows. On the way, I pass Nicolo. He’s leaning against the desk of a petite blonde junior designer we hired about a month ago and flirting with her. Note to self: Fire Britney. Or is she Katie?

  I give him a smile, and his eyes follow me. I glance back, but the camera crew is still following, and wouldn’t they just love to get a shot of me flirting with Nicolo?

  About halfway through the meeting with Watanabe and the rest of the Japanese contingent, which Nicolo never does bother to join, I motion to Miranda to speak privately. We won’t miss anything anyway as the meeting is being conducted in Japanese and Yamamoto is translating about a tenth of it.

  In fact, for the past twenty minutes, Josh and I have been playing tic-tac-toe. Miranda meets me just outside the door, and I cover my mic with my hand. I don’t know if that will mute my voice or not, but I can’t get it off by myself.

  “Miranda,” I say as soon as she closes the door. “Do I have to be in on this meeting? I need to get the details and schedules together for the Wernberg project. We were supposed to have a team meeting on that at one.”

  Miranda glances at the conference room, keeping her mic covered, too. “That’s not going to happen today, Allison. We’ll do it Monday.”

  “That’s a big contract, and I still haven’t seen the budget. I’ve got Josh’s numbers on the lighting and some preliminary numbers for the furnishings, but I haven’t talked to Lila or Dylan about the flooring or the interior finishes. And who’s checking on the codes?”

  “I need you in there, Allison. Give what you have to Dylan and tell him to be ready to present a complete budget Monday.”

  I frown. “Dylan’s only been here a year.”

  “And it’s time he proved himself. Your budgets are always off anyway.”

  I gape. “One multiplication mistake and—”

  “It was a five-thousand-dollar multiplication mistake. Now go talk to Dylan, then get your butt back in there.” Miranda goes back to the conference room, and I head across the room to Dylan’s workspace. He’s got his Luxo lamp over his drawing board, and he’s erasing something from canary-colored tracing paper.

  I cover my mic. “Dylan?”

  “Yeah?” He doesn’t look up.

  “Miranda and I need a favor.”

  Now he looks up. He’s got brown eyes and long dark lashes. Very cute, except that he’s about twenty-two and engaged.

  “We need you to get the budget together for the Wernberg project. I’ll have Natalie give you everything I have so far, but it’s not much. We’ll need the numbers by Monday.”

  He swallows. “Okay. You know, I haven’t really done a budget before.”

  Damn Miranda. This is so unfair. Normally I would help the guy out, but I have to get back to the stupid meeting. “Just do your best. I’m sorry. I’d help, but—”

  Dylan glances at the conference room. “TV calls. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Dylan.”

  “Anything I can he
lp with?”

  I turn to see Nicolo standing behind me. He’s wearing a charcoal suit with a red power tie and his eyes are sapphire blue. “Thanks, but I think we’ve got it under control.” The way I say it, I almost believe it myself.

  “I am looking forward to our date tonight.”

  I glance around. No camera crews watching. “Me, too. But it’s a professional outing.” I tap his tie with my finger-nail, painted OPI’s Wanted…Red or Alive, then run my finger down the length of the crimson silk. Nicolo smiles.

  “Until tonight.” And he walks away. I grind my teeth. I’m not liking the constraints this TV thing is placing on me. I have no time to work, no time to flirt…I wonder if this is how Carson feels on Queer Eye? Well, if Carson can do it, so can I. We all have to make sacrifices.

  “Okay, sweetie, I’m here now.” Josh kisses my cheek. “It’s all good.” Josh steps into my apartment dressed in black leather. A short attractive guy peeks around Josh.

  “Jello. I’m Carlos from Cuba.” Carlos is dressed in sandals, slim Guess jeans, leather belt, and a wife beater with an open button-down shirt over it. His clothes are pressed and the pants hug his ass, but his look is intense, and the five o’clock shadow belies the usual baby face I’m used to on gay Latino guys.

  “Allison from Chicago.”

  “Ooh, jou look gorgeous.” He waves a hand, indicating I should spin for him. I do, stepping back so he can see the complete effect. The dress is black with a fitted bodice that extends all the way down my hips. Then it fans into a full skirt. My arms and shoulders are bare except for two silk straps that snake behind my neck and cross over my bare back.

  “Vintage?” Josh asks.

  “Hmm-mm. The thirties. Ever heard of Jeanne Lanvin? This is from her mermaid line.” I motion Josh and Carlos to follow me upstairs and into the kitchen. I have a great kitchen. It’s got white marble countertops, white walls, pewter drawer pulls, and a stainless steel fridge. It stays white because I never cook.

  Josh and Carlos sit on bar stools, while I lean against the counter.

  “So, what am I here for?” Josh asks. “You look scrumptious.”