The Jenna Rollins Real Love Tour

by Janci Patterson

  “You think music producers are going to give me a chance based on me appearing on this show.”

  “I think music producers want to work with you,” Bobbi says. “But none of them want to be connected to your flaming descent into infamy. The audience hates you, Alec. You’re polling like John Mayer.”

  The car in front of me stops again, and I slam on my brakes. “I am not John Mayer. How can you say I’m John Mayer?”

  “I’m saying people hate you like they hate John Mayer,” she tells me, like this makes it all better.

  “I’m not John Mayer,” I say. “I do not do interviews where I rate the sexual proclivities of different actresses. I don’t talk in pseudo-philosophical riddles trying to sound like I’m smart or deep. I don’t—”

  “Alec. What do you suppose the odds are that you saying that is going to change the public opinion?”

  “Zero,” I say. “Given that nothing I’ve said in the past year has made any damn difference.”

  “Exactly,” Bobbi says. “Which is why we need an opportunity for them to reconsider you. The show will give you a different platform, and a new chance to make a different impression. Think of it as evolving your image. Another chance to show people how charming and likable you are.”

  I see her point, but that doesn’t mean I like it. “And you don’t think this will evolve my image in a way that makes everyone perceive me as a has-been?”

  “I think this is a chance for you to make the public love you again, if you play it right.”

  “And putting me on an island with a bunch of other famous people that I’m supposed to ruthlessly vote off while simultaneously starving and sleeping in the dirt—this is what you think will bring out this loveable, charming side of me? I’ve never even been camping, Bobbi. I don’t think I’m going to be full of sunshine and roses under conditions like that.”

  “Okay,” Bobbi says. “Can you be full of shit? Because last time the public loved you, you were lying your ass off.”

  I groan. “Yeah, okay. But I kind of suck at lying. When I was pretending to still be with Jenna, all I had to do was act like I like her. And I do like her. So it didn’t feel like as much of a lie as it looked like it was.”

  “You were pretty convincing when you proposed on stage.”

  I groan again. “Yeah, I know. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Seriously, Alec,” Bobbi says. “People used to love you. Every woman in America wanted you to be her boyfriend.”

  “Yeah,” I say. The traffic is starting to pick up, but I’m not getting my hopes up. We’re probably going to stop again in a mile. “But did they like me, or did they like Jenna?”

  Bobbie pauses. “If you can only be likeable in a relationship,” she says after a moment, “maybe you should think about how to work that angle.”

  I’m silent. “You want me to get another fake girlfriend.”

  “No. I want you to go on this show and pick some hot girl that you’re able to at least pretend to like, and cuddle up to her and remind the women of America what a good boyfriend you can be.”

  I consider that. It’s not a terrible plan. “Get in a relationship on national TV,” I say.

  “Right. It worked for Rob Mariano.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” I tell her.

  “You also need to beef up on your Survivor,” she says. “He was this total nobody who everyone had pegged for a villain, and then he hooks up with this cute girl on the All Stars season and suddenly they’re both America’s sweethearts. They got married and had a bunch of kids and are cute as hell.”

  “I’m not going to get married to some girl I just met on a reality show,” I say. I’m willing to do a hell of a lot for my career, but even I have limits.

  “You don’t have to get married. Just be a decent human being for the duration of the show and flirt it up. Remind everyone why they want to sleep with you.”

  I take a deep breath. “You make a good point. I’ll do it. But they better be letting us take those luxury item things, because I’m a hell of a lot more likable when I’m holding a guitar.”

  “I’ll put in that request for you,” Bobbi says. “But I hear Cece Martinez agreed to join the cast, and I doubt she’s going on TV without a guitar of her own.”

  I nod, a little impressed despite myself. Cece Martinez was a huge country singer, though she’s a generation older than me. She lost a lot of her audience when she came out ten years or so ago, mostly because the demographic of country music fans she catered to wasn’t quite ready to jump on the pride train.

  She’s not as popular as she once was, but she’s definitely not what I would call a has-been.

  “Do you know who else will be there?” I ask

  “Not for sure. I heard a rumor that Chad Montgomery is considering it.”

  Ha. I wouldn’t be the only one on the show trying to clean up my image, then. Chad’s an action movie star who lost his agent a while back for grabbing said agent’s wife’s ass at a dinner party—a story I heard through Jenna and Felix, who are friends with the wife of the agent in question. That probably wouldn’t have affected Chad’s career much if it hadn’t been followed with a long line of sexual harassment accusations by various actresses who worked with him, including several of the women who stand behind him in formation in those ridiculous V movies.

  Next to him, it shouldn’t be that hard to look likable.

  “All right,” I say. “Tell them I’m in.”

  “Thanks, Alec,” Bobbi says. “You’re going to do great.”

  The traffic stops again, just like I thought it would, and I lean my head back against the headrest.

  I had better rock the hell out of this gig, or I’m going to end up writing commercial jingles for car dealerships—or worse, that failing airline with the sexy dancing stewardess ad.

  I can do this, I tell myself. They always get hot girls for these shows, and Bobbi is right. I’m more sympathetic when I have a girl on my arm.

  I just hope they cast someone who doesn’t annoy the hell out of me, because otherwise it’s going to be a really long show.

  Two

  Alec

  Let’s try that again, Alec,” the producer with the shockingly square jaw says, frowning at me from where he stands behind the cameraman. “But this time, when you come out of the water, could you pause and survey the island? Maybe run your hand through your hair? We want a good shot of those abs.”

  It’s probably a good thing I’m already squinting from the bright sun reflecting off the wet sand, so I don’t automatically glare at him. I’m a musician, not an actor or a model, but clearly this guy doesn’t care. And really, I put a lot of time into working out the last few months to get ready for this, so I might as well show that off. Sex sells, after all, and if America wants washboard abs on her Favorite Boyfriend, then I’m ready to give that to her.

  Anything to get me back in the music scene again.

  I wade back into the ocean, which looks cool and refreshing from the shore, but feels like warm bathwater. I submerge myself again, and then “burst forth”—a direct request for this special shot they want of each of us. I’m not sure if they’re hoping it’ll look like we swam all the way from LA for this, or maybe like we’re emerging from some underwater Atlantean city full of has-been celebrities who are ready for a comeback.

  I pause, looking around the island as if I’ve never seen one before (and haven’t just been standing around here on the beach for the last hour, waiting for my turn), run a hand through my wet hair, and try to stand so the camera gets the best view of my newly-enhanced and now glistening ab definition.

  I feel like a complete tool. But Square Jaw approves. “Great, man. Got it. You’re done.”

  Thank god.

  I can hear even more enthusiastic approval from the producer/cameraman team about twe
nty feet down the shore, finishing up with a similar shot of a tall, leggy blond girl who appears close to “bursting forth” from her tiny string bikini. On the boat ride from Trinidad to this deserted island where we’re shooting, I heard this girl—whose name I can’t remember—mention to Chad Montgomery that she’s a famous underwear model, but I’m pretty certain the thing that actually earned her the dubious fame for this show was the two seconds she dated A-list actor Blake Pless.

  “All right,” Square Jaw (who seriously looks like a character from that Minecraft game I used to play with Jenna’s son, Ty) says to all the rest of the contestants. Most of them are standing around uncertainly, though some—particularly this really cute Asian girl in a neon green bikini and matching shorts who is grinning widely—look downright excited to get started. “You’re all on your own now. Don’t speak directly to the cameras unless it’s for your aside interviews. Your first challenge will be tomorrow, and you’ll receive details on where to go for that later.”

  “What about our luxury items?” This from Cece Martinez, the country singer. She’s an older Hispanic woman, probably in her late fifties or early sixties, and she’s wearing a modest one-piece swimsuit and board shorts. I kind of hope Bobbi was right and that Cece brought a guitar too—I’d love to get a chance to do a duet with her. I’m not a big country music fan in general, but she’s a fantastic songwriter and a bit of a legend, and hell, I can do some country if that’s what gets me back in the industry.

  Not that she’s a potential for my on-screen “relationship” that will win me back the love of my betrayed fans. Massive age difference aside, she’s both married and a lesbian, so I doubt I’d have much luck regardless.

  Fortunately, I’ve got several other possibilities here.

  “You’ll receive them soon, don’t worry,” Square Jaw assures us. “And tomorrow at the first challenge, you’ll finally get to meet Krissy Calhoun.”

  There’s some general interest from the other contestants, though some of the bigger names here—Chad Montgomery, for one—don’t look overly impressed. Krissy Calhoun is our Jeff Probst for this show (I studied up on Survivor these last couple months, marathoning most of it while on the treadmill.) Although unlike Jeff, Krissy brings extra survivalist credentials to her role as host. Not only was the she the wife of the late “Alligator Wrestler” Mack Calhoun, but she’s the star of her own survival-themed show, Wild Woman. Which sounds like porn, but trust me, it’s not.

  One contestant’s big smile at this news, though, catches my eye—mostly because of how gorgeous that smile is. Another girl whose name I don’t know, but this one I definitely recognize. I may have watched her viral “sexy singing stewardess” airline commercial more times than I care to admit, like pretty much every other straight guy in America. She’s got dark brown hair and light brown skin, and a lean dancer’s figure.

  She sees me looking at her and her smile drops a little, like she’s embarrassed to be caught. But she eyes me for a long moment before flicking her dark-eyed gaze back to Square Jaw.

  Yep, some definite possibilities.

  Square Jaw finishes up reminding us for like the tenth time to ignore the cameras, which seems excessive even for a group of attention-starved celebrities desperate enough to be on a reality show. Then he and the other producers head off on the boat to wherever their little production base camp is, where they (and the cameramen who will rotate out) will actually have food to eat and a comfortable place to sleep.

  Unlike the ten of us.

  And looking around at the other “stars,” I have a sinking feeling that none of them have any more practical experience than I do at obtaining these things.

  I go over to my small pile of personal belongings—basically a long-sleeved, light cotton shirt they didn’t want me wearing for the “bursting forth” shot, a pair of sneakers we were each advised to bring, and a small bottle of sunscreen (one of the very few luxuries we’re allowed—apparently they’re cool with us starving to death, but not with any unattractive farmers’ tans.) Nearby we have a crate with a few more things—a machete, some canteens, and a pot for cooking, should we ever figure out how to start a fire. The sun is sweltering overhead, and I’ve already been bitten by about a dozen of these tiny little gnat-like bugs, so I put on my shirt to protect my arms, re-apply some of the sunscreen to my face, and survey the island for real this time.

  It’s honestly beautiful. Aquamarine ocean laps up against golden sands, which end in lush green jungle vegetation about a dozen yards back from the beach. It reminds me of the weekend trip Jenna and I took to Costa Rica to celebrate the breakout success of the first AJ album.

  Except then, we were lounging on the beach under a silk canopy and getting Mai Tais and shrimp cocktail brought to us by waiters, and we had plenty of bug spray and I had both a girlfriend (real, at that time) and a music industry reputation on the rise.

  I can’t do shit about the bug spray, but the others—food, shelter, girl, and image—I can, and I might as well get started. I walk up to the closest group.

  “. . . Not to mention more than a few awards for Soap Opera Digest’s ‘Hottest Medical Professional,’” a tall, dark-haired guy is saying. Ryan something, I think his name is. There are several people standing around listening to him, not to mention the camera and sound-people we’re supposed to ignore, but he’s pretty directly focused on the blond underwear model—or at least the parts of her squeezing out of her bikini.

  “Have you ever saved someone’s life?” the model asks, her blue eyes wide.

  Ryan blinks. “Well . . . no. But my character Trevor Everlake has, many times.” He leans in closer. “He defused a bomb once, too—saved the whole pediatrics ward.”

  “So cool,” the model gushes. “I bet you know lots of medical stuff from being on that show. You could probably be a doctor yourself!”

  Good god. The producers of this show aren’t shattering stereotypes about lingerie models by casting this girl. I check her off my list of possibilities. There’s no way I’m a good enough actor to seem into that for long. Besides, no audience is going to find me super likable if I’m going for the hot but dumb underwear model.

  An older woman standing next to them—Judge Liz, from that daytime courtroom show—snorts in disbelief. “He’s an actor, Melissa. On a soap opera.”

  Ryan glares, but Melissa the model shakes her head. “When I dated Blake Pless—he’s also an actor,” she adds, completely unnecessarily, “he told me he learned how to do Morse code when he played some famous dead guy for a movie.”

  “You mean Samuel Morse?” I can’t help but ask. Three of my sisters were obsessed with that movie, though really, they’re mostly just obsessed with Blake Pless. Melissa looks blankly at me.

  Liz opens her mouth, perhaps to tell her that learning Morse code isn’t exactly the same as getting a medical degree, but Chad Montgomery steps in. “For my last V film, V Five, I trained with one of the world’s experts in Krav Maga. So it’s true that actors can learn a lot from their roles.”

  If I wanted to be an asshole, I might ask him if consent was finally one of those things. But I don’t exactly want to alienate anybody this early on in the game—we’re going to be voting each other off, and if this show is going to make me likable again, I’ve got to be on it long enough for it to do so. And there’s also the million-dollar cash prize, I suppose, which I don’t exactly need, but could use to start my own damn production company, if it came to that.

  But what I really want right now is to not dehydrate out here. “Hey, does anyone have any ideas about getting started on food and water? Maybe shelter?” I ask, and all the heads swivel towards me.

  “Good idea,” Ryan says, nodding. “We’ll need to boil the water first, so we need fire.”

  “Technically, we need to find water. Because we aren’t drinking salt water,” I say.

  “Right. That’s what I m
eant,” Ryan says, though I’m one hundred percent positive he was planning on drinking boiled ocean water. “I’ll get started on the fire.” He squints into the jungle. “We just need a couple sticks, rub them together . . .” He leers at Melissa on this last part.

  “I could do the fire, too,” Chad says, scratching at a bug bite on the top of his head, where he’s sporting a buzz-cut so short it looks like he’s about to start boot camp. Or one of his V films.

  I have seen enough Survivor to know how hard it is to start a fire by rubbing sticks together, not even for the most hardened Navy Seal. There’s no way a soap opera actor and the wannabe Jason Statham will be able to do this, but whatever. I’m not going to create a good first impression by arguing with these people.

  Meanwhile, the cute Asian girl in the neon green bikini top has wandered over to our group, along with a broad-shouldered guy with spiky blond hair. They look almost comical next to each other, because she’s so petite—barely above five feet tall, I would guess—and he’s got to be at least 6’3”. But they both have big grins on their faces.

  “Hey, guys,” the girl says.

  I’m the only one that says “hey” back, because the other two guys are too busy posturing for Melissa, and Judge Liz just looks annoyed at them.

  “I think we’re supposed to eat fish,” Melissa says, thinking hard. “But I don’t know how to catch them.”

  “I can get fish,” Chad jumps in. “I just need a sharpened pole. Like a spear. My character in V once—”

  “We don’t have a pole,” I say. “Or a spear.” I’m starting to get a headache, and I doubt it’s because dehydration has already set in.

  The big blond guy with the spiky hair folds his muscular arms across his chest. “Only the weak need a fishing pole,” he says, way louder than necessary. Does he think the mics aren’t picking us up at normal decibels?

  “Really,” the green bikini girl says, lifting an eyebrow. “So how do the strong get a fish, Jason? Do they run out there and grab it?”