Taming Cupid

by Emily Bishop

  I take a deep breath and don’t let her words get me. She’s trying to work me right now. “I asked will it be filmed in America?” I reiterate.

  “Parts of it.” She tilts her head toward me. “You could get away from all this. Reset. Come enjoy American culture. Meet beautiful American women. Take them on fun dates. There’s no obligation. Six weeks of your time. You tell America which date was your favorite, and she goes on a vacation. Woo. We muse on the difference between upper and middle class. We put money in a charity. Boom. Done.”

  “I thought this was an interview, Candace, not a pitch,” I admonish her, eyes turning over the dozen cameras pointed in my face right now. “You’ve got two vans and twenty people here. It is an ambush. You know that, right?”

  “I couldn’t believe that you agreed to it, either,” she confesses slyly. “We always film the request, and I must say, Blake, we’ve already got some amazing footage of you. You were made for TV. Hell, you were made for magazines and bedroom posters and canvases, boy.” Her eyes shimmer as they wander over me. I wonder if she just sees a giant stack of cash instead of a man. “We got you saying that you don’t care, storming off, looking so gorgeous, and then, the dramatic turn, the ‘I could beg them’—oh, god, Blake. It. Is. Gold. You’ve got to say yes.”

  I scrutinize her, teetering in her heels, so determined. “No,” I answer simply. “Sorry. Was close. But no.”

  Candace’s face falls. I turn from her and direct more guidance to Miles. I want the footage and cameras to be confiscated. I have not yet signed anything which would condone their use on my property. Meanwhile, behind me, Candace yells for a touch-up from the makeup artist.

  She must think this battle isn’t over, but it is.

  “I don’t need to run away to America,” I explain to her, twisting on my heel. I press one finger into my palm to illustrate each point I’m going to make, and there are four, but then I freeze. And everything freezes. I forget all my points.

  A young woman crosses the porch in slow motion. In fact, she seems to hang, suspended in the exact second that my eyes first spark on her.

  I know her.

  How do I know her?

  Her hair is loose, wild, and kinky on her shoulders, black tipped with gold. Her skin is radiant and young, but her dark eyes are wizened, dusky, and mysterious, like some Egyptian princess. I normally do not care much for makeup, but on this girl, it’s flawless. She’s wearing a little too much, though. I wish I could peel it back and see more of her eyes, her lips.

  I wet mine as her hips swing back and forth in an excruciating rhythm.

  How is she crossing the porch so slowly? How big is this porch?

  “We donated over one million dollars to cancer research last season,” Candace boasts, turning toward the makeup artist and eclipsing her from my view. “Think about that, Blake. What could Our Billionaire Bachelor do for you?”

  “Isn’t the show My Billionaire Bachelor?”

  “Not yet!” Candace laughs. “But I’m pleased that you’ve heard of us.”

  As she speaks, I catch flashes of the raven-haired girl from over her shoulder, touching a flesh-colored pad beneath Candace’s eyes, alleviating the bagginess and shadow there.

  I watch her move and let a breath escape my chest. I didn’t realize I’d been holding it.

  Maybe I don’t know her.

  She just looks an awful lot like the girl I met at that yacht party.

  But it’s not her.

  Her cheekbones are a shade too high and round, reminding me of a cat. She holds herself much differently, too. That girl was wound up tightly in her own shell, terrified of the whole world, but this one holds her head like a queen as she works. Maybe she’s an aristocrat, too. Her eyes focus with pinpoint accuracy on Candace’s eyebrows as she brushes them with some tinted gel. Her lips pout while she’s focusing. I wonder what she looks like without lipstick. I wonder what her lips feel like.

  They look plush, yet resistant. Like ripe fruit.

  “I’m sure you know that the bachelors we’ve featured in our short, yet insanely popular previous seasons have all become fixtures, really, in pop culture. We take men such as yourself and turn them into household names. Last year, our billionaire bachelor was Jeffrey Sterling, the tech magnate. Only a certain demographic could identify him by name. But now, he’s getting a movie made about his life.”

  I glower at the thought of a movie being made about my life. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Anyway, why am I still on this stoop? Why is Candace still talking, instead of being led back into that milieu of bottom-feeding harpies where she belongs? Forget the girl. She’s inconsequential. I don’t know her.

  She just looks like someone I met once.

  “Look, Candace, I’m sorry, but I don’t need any—”

  Candace turns to listen to me fully, and her arm bumps the girl’s palette, spinning it. It drops between our feet and the makeup artist hurries over, shuffling between Candace and myself. “Shit, sorry.” Her voice is husky.

  I recoil in surprise as she drops at the waist to scoop up her fallen tools. My mouth involuntarily fills with saliva. It’s only a split second of a glimpse up-skirt, but I have to swallow, and my peripheral pulses red. I weaken. The curve of that ass. The tantalizing strip of her panties.

  I definitely don’t know this girl.

  And I would remember thighs like these…

  Succulent, tapering from the frayed hem of her denim mini-skirt. But all I get is a glimpse.

  The girl pulls herself erect again and glances at me from over her shoulder through a tumble of black curls. “Sorry,” she breathes again. Our eyes connect for the first time, and my heart squeezes. They’re not just dark eyes. They’re a haunting slate gray. Storm clouds.

  I do know her.

  I remember those eyes.

  And then she’s gone. Back into the crowd. Her path is only cut for a second, and then cameras cluster into the space and close her off from me.

  I stare after her in complete shock.

  What is she doing here?

  “Blake? You were saying?” Candace prods me. “You don’t need any…?”

  “Thing,” I fill in for her. I meet her gaze, and the next words to spill from my lips are: “Just a six-week commitment, right?”

  Candace’s face lights up again. “Six to eight weeks,” she answers cheerfully. “Twelve max with an option to extend. Eight episodes.”

  “You got me,” I acquiesce, heart thundering with renewed vigor. I’m a hunter on the scent. “Let’s sign.”

  Chapter 2

  Roxanne

  “Just break one rule…”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you have to hold this one down,” Ms. Madden informs me sharply as we traipse over the expansive Berringer grounds. “He hates the cameras. He doesn’t want to be here.”

  I remember. “Sometimes I need to escape from everything, too,” he told me once.

  Not that he remembers. Not that it matters. He’s one of the billionaire bachelors. He’s one of the richest hunks in the world. So he gave me a key once. He was probably drunk; it was five years ago on a boat filled with hundreds of people, and there are thirty people here now, all wearing matching shirts. I certainly blend in with the rest of them. He’ll never realize we met once.

  All around me, people churn, murmuring, yelling, exchanging money and cameras and headpieces and boxes and forms. This isn’t the first day of shooting, but it feels like it. Everything is still clogged up and hectic.

  “I have no idea why he said yes,” Ms. Madden goes on, “but he did, and he’s trending on Twitter, so we have to take him. Even if he is…” Ms. Madden glowers in the direction of our new star, sprawled in my makeup chair, white linen shirt fully unbuttoned in the bright midday sun. Is he tanning? Right now? “Weird,” she finishes. “Can you go give him abs?”

  “Go give him abs?” I hiss. She can’t be serious. His torso already looks like the sculpture of David.

&
nbsp; “Just contour and highlight,” she suggests. “You can never have too much of a good thing. We’re going to roll soon, so don’t let him wander. Thank you, Roxy!”

  Ms. Madden marches off, embroiled in a constant state of light PMS.

  I trudge across the green so meticulously fertilized that it’s almost some neon emerald shade, and slow to a stop at my makeup chair. I settle back on my hip and take stock of this year’s billionaire bachelor. Heir to a banking fortune. The man who inspired me to beg Candace Madden for real work and a sizable loan. The man who met me at rock bottom.

  Blake Berringer. Oh, excuse me, Sir Blake Berringer. So suave and cultured. Oh, I see someone with a camera. I’m going to go put them in the hospital.

  He doesn’t notice me yet, so I let my eyes take the scenic route to his face, trailing from his long, powerful legs, draped in sheer white linen pants, to the beautifully etched torso and broad chest. How is it possible that he actually got bigger since the last time I saw him?

  My eyes tip over his chin and fall along his plush lips, the bump in his nose that he never got fixed, those regal cheekbones, the hair he let get thick and loose…

  “If you’re just going to stand there and do nothing, I think you should clock out,” Blake suddenly advises me, and I jump, my eyes flicking to his.

  His are still closed. “I wasn’t doing nothing,” I lie.

  “I can hear you, clear as day, doing nothing. At least grab me a drink.”

  I bristle and square my shoulders, taking a deep, seething breath. I have to take control of this conversation. He’s not going to talk to me like I’m one of his servants. I didn’t claw my way out of a goddamn homeless shelter so this privileged Adonis could tell me to get him a drink. I don’t care how many third world hospitals he’s financed. I’m not some lackey. I’m a passionate, driven cosmetologist slash rock star.

  “I’m Roxanne,” I introduce myself firmly. “I’m the cosmetologist. I’ve been sent to give you abs.”

  Now his eyes crack open and squint up at me. “Excuse me?” he demands.

  “Abs,” I repeat, extracting my palette and preparing to make the magic happen. “I guess she wants to get a shot of your chest. Serves you right, sunbathing on the set.”

  “Meditating,” Blake corrects me. He sits up straighter and watches me too closely. “I was meditating.”

  I gesture at the Hollywood-born bedlam around us, uncomfortable with being his focal point. “Here?”

  “Can you think of anywhere better?” He extends his hand to me and I glance down at it. His fingers are long and graceful. I remember them. I remember how warmth seemed to spread from my old bruises. “Blake, by the way.”

  I shake my head with a little grin and take his hand, giving it a quick shake, praying that it doesn’t get all warm and tingly again. I pull it back before anything crazy happens. “I know who you are,” I remind him, turning to prep my palette.

  “I assure you, you don’t,” Blake promises me. I look at him more closely, and he cocks his head with a grin. “Now, how about that drink?”

  “No, no, no,” Ms. Madden chides, swooping in from out of nowhere like the Wicked Witch of the West. “You know the golden rules of My Billionaire Bachelor, sweetheart,” she chirps in a sing-song tone to Blake. Then she swivels and jabs a manicured fingernail into my chest like it’s a dagger. “The rules, Roxy,” she commands me. “What are they?”

  “Um…” I rack my brain for the stupid show rules. I’ve worked for her for three straight seasons now, and it’s hard to keep all her random demands straight. I spent a year as her maid before she financed my cosmetology certification: never open this door, always let the machine answer this phone, stack the plates like this, not that. We spent last season in Maui: don’t go down to the beach after sunset, and no one is allowed to get food from local venders. The first season, no one was allowed to wear green. It was never explained, though I think it had something to do with special effects. We were also in Ireland, but that’s probably a coincidence.

  “Okay, we’re not allowed to drink,” I begin, stalling. Just as I say the words, one of the gophers ducks around me and passes a shot glass of clear liquor to Blake, one inch crusted with salt and a wedge of lime on its rim. Ms. Madden opens her mouth, but before she can get a word out, Blake nods at the gopher and the shot is enthusiastically chugged.

  Blake winces and beams up at her, victorious.

  Ms. Madden shakes her head at him, then swivels back to me, counting the rules on her prematurely wrinkled fingers. “No wandering the grounds after dark. Don’t take any souvenirs from the property. I don’t even want to find a dead flower in anyone’s suitcase. No drinking on the job or the property, please. We have enough idiocy without alcohol. And don’t flirt with this one.” She claps a hand on my shoulder and pats it twice, then gives me an unnecessarily brutal squeeze. “Jenny!” she calls out randomly, taking off as quickly as she swooped in.

  A girl scampers from the crew to join with her as she walks, scribbling in a small notepad. Jenny must be her new assistant. Ms. Madden tears through assistants like toilet paper.

  “Does she always say ‘no flirting’?” Blake wonders.

  “Roxy! Abs! We’re rolling at three!” Ms. Madden’s voice splits the crowd.

  I twist to face Blake fully and command him to stand with my hands. He rolls his eyes slightly, but follows my semaphore and stands.

  I kneel at his crotch, just beneath his abdomen.

  Don’t be dirty. This is where I’m going to work. Please. This guy is one of the stupid billionaire bachelors. No way.

  “Yes, she always says to not flirt,” I tell Blake, even though she has never told me not to flirt with a bachelor. Why would she ever need to tell me not to flirt with one? But that’s none of his business. He doesn’t need to know that Ms. Madden felt the need to single him out to me.

  “That doesn’t seem a little fascist to you?” Blake wondered aloud. “Controlling whether or not you can flirt?”

  “She doesn’t control whether or not I flirt,” I inform him. “I do.”

  This sociopolitical, philosophical conversation is great, but this is my job, and we’re rolling soon. I start shading outside the taut line of his already defined oblique.

  Blake gasps lightly and then laughs a soft, breathless laugh.

  “What is it?” I ask, not stopping. “Ticklish?”

  “Not ticklish,” he clarifies. Gooseflesh pricks along his skin, right beneath my fingertips, and I pause. My eyes flick up to him and he glances down at me. I know it’s crazy, but when he looks at me, another world opens up.

  “Still feeling lost?” he wonders.

  I force my eyes back down and continue shading.

  “You remember,” I murmur. “How impressive.”

  He’s one of the billionaire bachelors. Never gonna happen. He’s not even a regular guy. He’s a celebrity. A hero.

  “I thought it might be you. You know,” Blake says to me, using a soft, husky whisper, as if we share a secret now, “the Japanese call this pressure point ‘the rushing door.’” His finger skates along the hollow outside his oblique, where I’m currently shading. “It is frequently used by lovers.”

  “Fascinating,” I say, still shading his ‘rushing door.’

  The crotch of his white linen pants stirs, and I force myself to focus on the oblique. Focus on the oblique.

  His erection brushes the underside of my right hand, the one holding the palette. The blush thunders up into my cheeks so hard that I can physically hear it. Neither of us say anything for several beats, but my chest is rising and falling quickly, and I know he can see that.

  I force my eyes to his abdomen, even though I can still feel his broad cock. I feel kind of dizzy being this close to it, like he’s giving off some sort of magnetic pulse, throwing my entire brain into disarray. I can’t focus. I can’t.

  “Just meditate,” I command, brushing his ‘rushing door’ as quickly as I can. But that only seem
s to make matters worse. I see the way his abdominals flinch beneath his skin, delighted, exhilarated by the touch. He’s so hard by the time I finish.

  “I like the new color,” Blake comments idly, fingers scooping down into my hair and fingering a solitary lock. I blink up at him, feeling naked. “Mm,” he murmurs, a deep rumble mostly expressed in his chest. “Very sexy.”

  I gasp and drive myself off my knees, ashamed and amazed at how quickly the world just disappeared from around us, how quickly it seemed like we were alone, on our knees at the foot of a bed—but we aren’t. We stand next to my trailer, and people are all around us. People with recording devices are all around us. We don’t even know each other. He’s the star of the show. Anyone could look over here at any moment. This is the only job I have. What was I thinking? That I was just going to jack him off right here?

  What is wrong with you?!

  “Take a walk,” I snap at him. My heart hammers in my chest. This guy—this spoiled Billionaire Bachelor #6—is sexually harassing me with his throbbing hard-on! I don’t want to see his thick cock come to life for me. I don’t, damn it!

  “Deal. Meet me in the hedge maze.”

  And, with that, he turns on his heel and marches away, dividing a small cluster of milling camera people and striding completely across the property.

  “Wh-where is he going?” Ms. Madden splutters loudly. She yells it to me through about twenty people. “Where is he going, Roxanne?”

  “I don’t know,” I call back to her. I know exactly where he’s going. The fucking hedge maze.

  “I don’t have all goddamn day, I’m melting out here,” Ms. Madden barks at me. “Go get him. We’re about to roll. Come on, people! Get it together.”

  “Um, um, yes, ma’am,” I say, sprinting toward his mansion after him.

  ***