My Bachelor

by Tess Oliver

  “Now, Eliot, I don’t want you to be too upset when I tell you this—” she paused. “You’re in the car. I’ll tell you another time and just suffer the terrible reality alone for awhile. I, of course, don’t want to tell Georgie. She has enough to worry about.”

  “Mom, just tell me.”

  She sighed in resignation as if it had taken a great deal of effort to coax it out of her. “Fine, but again, don’t let it ruin your day. I’m in the beginning stages of dementia.”

  “No, no you’re not. You’re only fifty-eight. You’ve got years to go before you lose your mind and become a burden to me.”

  “I don’t think this is something you should make light of. The signs are all there. Well, the first sign anyhow. I keep forgetting where I place my car keys.”

  “Mom, if that was a sure sign of dementia, then half the people in the world would have it. Everyone misplaces their keys. That’s what car keys are for. Misplacing. If I could get back all the time I’ve spent looking for my damn keys—” My eyes flashed over to the side view mirror and I noticed a policeman. “Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m not supposed to be on the phone. You’re fine. I’ll call you later.”

  “Have a good day at work, Eli and try not to worry about me too much. I’m sure the deterioration will take some time.”

  I took a deep, exasperated breath. “O.K. fine. I’ll talk to you later. Hopefully you’ll still be able to recognize my voice and remember my name when I call. Love you, Mom. Bye.”

  I hated being curt and sarcastic with my own mother, but I couldn’t help it. I was working two jobs and going to school and in between making sure that she and Georgie had everything they needed, and I just didn’t have time for her illnesses.

  The cars started moving faster. The highway patrol car came up on my left. I smiled innocently, kept my eyes on the road and placed my hands at two and ten o’clock, just like the driving instructor had taught me. I held my breath as the officer drove past. Once he was out of sight, I pierced Henry through a few hole shots and made my way to the studio exit. I would only be a few minutes late, and on day one of a new season, everyone was generally racing around like crazed hyenas trying to get things running smoothly.

  A much needed yawn finally caught up to me as I drove toward the guard kiosk and entrance gate. I’d gotten less than four hours of sleep and those hours had been draped over the kitchen table. My head and body were feeling the effects of it.

  I grabbed my cold coffee, hoping it would give me the boost and second wind I needed to start my day. I held it and the steering wheel with one hand, while I searched through my purse for my parking pass. It didn’t matter how often you’d driven through the gates, every employee still had to show their pass. The car in front of me drove through.

  Exhausted from the speedy run through traffic, Henry sputtered and chugged into the narrow passage between the guard’s station and the wall running along the parking lot. The security guard, Vernon, a big man with a permanently red nose, leaned out of his kiosk.

  “Hey, Eliot, good to see you again.” He took a cursory glance at my pass and hit the button on the gate. The striped red arm wobbled as it lifted slowly like the crossing gates on a railroad track. While I waited, I brought my coffee cup to my mouth.

  A thunderous roar behind me rattled Henry’s windows and startled me enough to drop my cup. Coffee splashed across my shirt.

  “Damnit.” As I hastily reached for the fallen cup, my foot slipped off the brake and my car hopped forward and to the right. My passenger side view mirror broke off and clattered to the asphalt.

  During the chaos, the gate arm had reached the top and was already starting on its way back down. I shot through it and glanced up in my rearview. A big black motorcycle with an equally big rider, dressed head to toe in black, stopped to talk to Vernon.

  I had no time to fret about the mirror or the huge coffee stain on my shirt. If the producer called a meeting first thing this morning and I wasn’t there, I’d lose my position as social media coordinator. I parked, grabbed my envelope of information and raced inside.

  My feet nearly slid out from under me as I screeched around the corner on two wheels and nearly smacked into Jackson, my one true work friend. He’d been perfecting a new, fresh off the beach, surf hairdo, a wild, messy look that he insisted took him more than an hour to achieve. His bleached blond hair was combed back off his face, and he’d added another silver stud to his ear.

  Jackson raised a pierced eyebrow as he stared aghast at the stain on my shirt. “Good Lord, El, ever heard of a washing machine?”

  “Jeez, someone’s in a bad mood. And I didn’t pull it out of the hamper like this. I spilled my cup of coffee in the car when some giant motorcycle rumbled up behind me at the entrance gate.” I wiped at the massive brown stain. “Is it super noticeable?” I looked up at him.

  “As long as you didn’t pull it out of the hamper that way.” Jackson squinted and pushed aside the curl on my forehead. “My god, El, you know if you’d put all the same effort you put into being un-pretty into being—” He waved off what he was about to say. “El, I know your fashion sense is questionable, but why on earth would anyone get the word enzyme tattooed on their forehead?”

  “It’s permanent marker. I was working—” I shook my head. “Long, boring story. And thanks, by the way, for the biting sarcasm on my first three steps into the building, Jack.”

  He dropped his hand on his hip and twisted his mouth under his neatly trimmed moustache, which was several shades too dark for his bleached hair. “First of all, it’s Jackson. If I have to share a name with that relentless stray curl of yours, at least call me by my real name instead of Jack. And you should probably just stay clear of me today. I’m in a terrible mood. Michael and I had a big messy fight about where to go on our vacation.”

  “Deciding on a vacation spot is a debate not a fight.”

  The caterer shuffled past us with his cart of bagels and muffins. My mind drifted along with the baked goods until Jackson snapped his fingers in front of my face to regain my attention.

  “Sorry, I didn’t have time for breakfast and I just realized I’m starved.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a debate,” Jackson said curtly. “It was a knock-down, drag-out fight. I want to go somewhere tropical. It works with my new Malibu look. Mike wants to go to Alaska.”

  “Knock-down, drag-out? You mean you guys were hitting each other?”

  His blue eyes rounded. “Not literally. Shit. We’re not barbarians. We just call it that so there’s a good excuse for dramatic make-up sex.”

  Other staff members were rushing back and forth through the hallway. The bachelorettes were being hurried through the rear door for their complimentary hair and makeup sessions. It was the usual parade of tight bottoms, sparkling eyes and flawless skin.

  “Well, Jackson, I’d love to chat about all this fascinating stuff with you for the rest of the morning, but I need to get to my office.”

  “Your office,” he laughed, but the guffaw was cut short. Jackson’s perfectly tweezed brows knitted together. His eyes dropped to the still taped envelope in my hand. “El, have you looked at your emails this morning?”

  “Nope. Just wasn’t that kind of morning. Why?”

  Jackson’s ears wiggled slightly, a predictable twitch that I noticed whenever he was anxious or upset. “Christ, El, I can’t believe I’m having to break this to you, but there’ve been some changes in lower level positions.” He took my free hand. “You said you were hungry. You’d better have some sustenance before I drop the bomb.” He dragged me along the corridor to the main studio room where the food tables had been set up.

  “What bomb? What’s going on, Jackson?”

  I stood behind him as he set himself the task of preparing a plate for me.

  “Do you want plain or hone
y walnut?” he asked without looking back at me.

  I grabbed his arm. “Stop with the bagel already. What’s going on? What bomb?”

  He had a knife covered in cream cheese in his hand as he turned around, and it almost seemed he’d decided to arm himself before breaking some dreadful news. “I’m going to be the set director’s assistant this season,” he said with forced cheer and the knife still clutched securely in his hand.

  “That’s great, Jackson. You’ve always wanted that position.” I paused to puzzle out how this changed things. “So, who is going to be the bachelor’s assistant, or butler, as you so fondly like to call your old position?” The bachelor’s assistant was a nice title for the poor devil who had to be on call to tend to all the needs of the star of the show, the bachelor. It was a dull, mostly thankless job, especially if the bachelor was a whiny, demanding asshole. Which, since most were millionaires, happened more often than not.

  “Why don’t I finish fixing that bagel.” Jackson moved to turn around, but I caught his wrist and plucked the cream cheese covered knife from his fingers.

  Raymond, the cameraman, walked past and patted my shoulder. “Good luck this season, El.” He continued down the hallway.

  “Jackson, what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s you. You are the new bachelor’s assistant.”

  I laughed. “No, I’m not. That’s impossible. If you’re the decorator’s assistant, then Tricia must need a new position. She’ll be the new butler.”

  “Tricia?” he asked. “You mean the woman who is most assuredly a size ten but who wears size six? The woman who loves to wrap her over-plumped lips around every—” Jackson broke into a broad, fake smile and his tone changed to sugary sweet. “Tricia, there you are. We were just talking about you.”

  I was standing in a state of shock, still trying to process what the hell was going on. Obviously some big mistake had been made.

  Tricia, who it seemed had once again had her lips injected and was starting to look a little clownish, stopped next to Jackson. “Don’t honey coat it, Jaxy. I’m pissed as vinegar right now.” Tricia acknowledged me for the first time by boldly looking me over from head to toe and finishing with a slight curl of her nose. She would have curled her lips in distaste, but it seemed they were too puffy to move. “I should have at least been given your position as bachelor’s assistant. They’re going to waste all this”—she waved her hands in front of her skin tight clothes—“by shoving me in a dark, dreary office.” She turned to me again. “By the way, how soon can you get your things out of my office?”

  “My things?”

  “Yes, those ghastly paintings and the other artsy crap.”

  “Those belong to the studio. You’re on your own with the artsy crap.”

  Tricia harrumphed as she shuffled away in her extremely ill-fitting skirt and blouse.

  I felt sick to my stomach, and the activity in the room was making me dizzy.

  “Are you all right, El? You look pale.”

  “I don’t get it. Why the heck did they give me that position?”

  Jackson took a deep breath, as if he had more bad news. “The assistant spends a lot of time alone with the bachelor. And you know how they hate scandals and staff members flirting or sleeping with any of the contestants.” He put his hand on my shoulder in an attempt to soften the blow. “They knew they couldn’t give the position to Tricia. You were the safe choice.”

  I absorbed what he’d said, and my throat tightened. I looked down at my oversized, coffee stained t-shirt and blinked a few times to clear away the tears in my eyes. “Who knew the word safe could feel like such a slap in the face.”

  “Eliot,” Jackson started, but I shook my head to stop him.

  “No, I’m fine. I’m safe. They’re right. I blend into the damn furniture.” I took a deep, steadying breath and ripped open the envelope. “I guess I should find out what this guy is like.”

  “Shit, El, you haven’t read the package yet?”

  “No, Jackson. I’m busy. You know how much I have going on, and my mom’s car needs tires and—” I swallowed hard to stop the waver in my voice.

  “I’m going to fix you that bagel, sweetie. Then you’ll feel better.” Jackson took the knife back and turned to the table.

  “What a morning,” I muttered on a long sigh. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tricia shuffling back toward us. I pulled the papers out of the envelope to find out just what kind of a silver-spoon, conceited, spoiled jerk I’d be working for. “Rafe Rockclyffe,” I scoffed. “There’s a made up name if I’ve ever heard—” I stopped cold as Jackson spun around and joined Tricia in a wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare.

  “What?” I asked, but neither of them responded. That was when I noticed a large shadow had fallen over us. I turned slowly around. My gaze fell directly on a very prominent Adam’s apple, in a thick neck that was perched directly in the middle of two massive shoulders.

  A deep voice rained down on my head. “I guess, technically, the name is made up . . . by my mom. But I have to give her some slack because, as she’s told me many times, she had just pushed a ten pound baby out into the world.”

  The smooth as whiskey voice went stunningly well with the face. The studio light might have been playing tricks, or maybe it was just from my lack of sleep and the shock of losing my media position, but the color of his eyes seemed to drift back and forth between green and coffee flecked brown.

  Jackson and I weren’t the kind of people to be easily stunned into silence, but we both stood stock-still as if we’d been turned to stone. Tricia, on the other hand, released a very long sigh that sounded as if she’d just been handed a tall cool drink on a sizzling hot beach.

  “I might have to pinch myself,” Tricia muttered from behind.

  Her foot slid forward, and she kicked the back of my heel. “I officially hate you, Eliot.”

  “Me too,” Jackson huffed.

  “Eliot,” the deep voice continued. “You’re the person I’m looking for.” He lifted up his hand. For the first time, I noticed he was holding my broken side view mirror. “I think this might have been my fault.” He looked pointedly at the coffee stain on my shirt. “I guess I caused that too.”

  I took hold of the mirror and finally found my tongue. “That was you on the thunder machine. The mirror was half my fault. I need to get my car aligned.” My face turned up to the towering man. His long, dark hair touched his shoulders. His black beard stubble and the tattoos poking out from the edges of his t-shirt collar and sleeves made him look more like a badass biker than America’s next bachelor. It seemed, after the last dull bachelor choice, the producer had decided to veer far away from the boy next door type. They could not have steered more clear of wholesome if they’d picked Satan himself. And this time, it seemed they’d gone full tilt toward breathtaking. He was, for lack of a better word, an Adonis, a Greek god of manly perfection. And I’d started my new position as his assistant by making fun of his name. How perfectly Eliot of me.

  I lifted the envelope and shot him a sheepish grin. “It just sounded like a stage name.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I get that a lot.” He reached into his pocket, which caused his massive arm and chest muscles to bunch up and strain his shirt.

  Behind me, Jackson released a dreamy sound that was somewhere between a hum and a moan. I swung my elbow back to shut him up.

  The new bachelor plucked a paper out of his pocket and read it. “Eliot Hampton, right?” He showed me the paper. My name was on it next to the words bachelor’s assistant. “Interesting name too,” he quipped. “Oversized baby? Or was your mom just in an adventurous mood?”

  “Actually, I was premature and weighed only three pounds. I’m Eliot and my sister is Georgie. We’re named after—”

  “The nineteenth century author
or I guess I should say the penname of the female author Mary Ann Evans.”

  My mouth dropped open. “That’s right.”

  “Now that’s impressive,” Jackson said from behind. “Beauty and brains. Ratings are going through the roof this season.” Jackson reached his hand past me. “I’m Jackson, the assistant set director and now extremely disappointed ex-bachelor’s butler. Or at least that is what some of us on set call the position.”

  “Rafe. Good to meet you.” He turned his gaze back to me. “So, Eliot, you’re my butler?”

  I cringed at the title of butler. He picked up on it.

  “Or should we switch it to Girl Friday?”

  I twisted my mouth in response.

  “Guess that’s not any better. Assistant?”

  I took a deep breath and stuck my hand out. “I’m Eliot. Your assistant. You can call me El. And I have to warn you that I’ve been in charge of social media in the past seasons, so I know nothing about being a bachelor’s assistant. But I’m a fast learner.”

  “Sounds good.” He stopped for a second, and then, without warning, his finger scraped lightly across my forehead as he pushed Jack, the curl, not the man, out of the way. “Enzyme?”

  My face warmed. “Fell asleep on my nutrition notes.”

  Doug, the director came around the corner. “Rafe, there you are. We’re waiting for you in the office. We need to go over a lot of details about the show.” Doug glanced my direction. “El, you can fix Rafe a plate of breakfast and bring it to my office.”