His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia

by Theodora Taylor

  “But don’t worry,” I tell him, circling a hand around his new sexy tux look. “I’ll tell Sandy you’re not signing any of her releases. Then I’ll go do my duty tonight. I’ve got one more segment where I shop with Dad for their big thirtieth anniversary wedding renewal ceremony tomorrow, and then…”

  I grab him by both hands to promise this next thing, “And then we’re going to leave for Seattle and pretend none of this ever happened. It’s just one more episode and then my contract on this show is done, okay? It has nothing to do with us, or the life we’re going to live together.”

  But he shakes his head. “That ain’t going to work.”

  Oh God. My heart clogs my throat. Yes, I realize I’m the one in the wrong. The one who purposefully kept things from him, the one who remained stingy with her love until he forced the truth out of me, the one who didn’t take the time to prepare him properly for a life as the husband of one of the most notorious bitches on reality TV.

  But now I finally get what it feels like to have your behavior backfire on you. Every single time I’ve ever misbehaved, the show’s gotten higher ratings, but now the only man I’ve ever loved—for real love, not pretend love—is heading for the door. Walking out of my life for good.

  Or at least I think that’s what’s going on, until he stops at the grand piano that sits between where I’m standing and the entryway.

  “Now that I know this ex-boyfriend of yours Sandy wants me to make jealous is gay, I’m going for sure, Doc.”

  He leans over the piano, which I can now see has one of our show’s standard guest star contracts.

  He carefully signs it with the fountain pen Sandy left behind. Then he walks back over to where I’m standing and says, “I guess I really am part of your family now.”

  And all I can do is press my knuckles to my lips and laugh when he holds up the last page of the contract for me to see. The signature reads, WOODS MELLO.

  He chuckles, too, but then he sobers to say, “I’m your husband now, Doc. Where you go, I go. Even when you’re pretending to be somebody you obviously ain’t.”

  I have never in my life loved anyone as much as I do Woods in that moment. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him with more passion than bitchy Nitra Mello is ever supposed to show. I can’t help myself. He’s my husband and he’s accepted my whole package. Bitchy reality show diva and all. I know then that I’ll never be able to wrap my head around how I got so lucky to find a man like him. A man who now knows me like no one else in all of America ever has or ever will.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Dolby Theater, formerly the Kodak, is one of the best known event venues in the world thanks to hosting the Oscars, the VMH “Vemmies” Award Show, and the season finale competitions for a few popular reality shows. So it’s no surprise that some of the biggest music, movie, and TV stars in the world are already on the red carpet when the limo drops the three of us off.

  However as my family, which now includes rapper C-Mello, Woods, and a grandchild I’m not telling anyone about yet, starts making their way across the red carpet, paparazzi and talent wranglers from several news outlets start yelling out to us.

  There are bigger stars, I suppose, but none of them got promise married in Vegas yesterday.

  “Oh, this right here’s about to get nuts,” my dad all but promises us as we wave at the fans.

  Per Sandy’s instructions, we don’t stop for anyone, just keep walking until we get to the four-panel step and repeat emblazoned with VMH’s logo.

  Not surprisingly, we find Lane Anderson, the same guy who hosts all of our season reunion specials, waiting for us with a mic.

  “Nitra Mello!” Lane squeals, as if I’ve taken him totally by surprise. Even as my father keeps going—as instructed earlier—to the next panel to join Colin Fairgood for an interview with another VMH on-air personality.

  “You got married??? What are you doing? What are you doing, babe?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer with a laugh. “I guess I’m in love. You know, it ain’t just thugs. Bitches need love, too.”

  Lane laughs. “So it’s true, you actually got married in Las Vegas?!?!”

  Shocking, I know, since my father and mother were, until now, the only couple on Rap Star Wives who are actually formally married.

  “True, true, it’s all true,” I answer. “I mean, Vegas! How else you going to do?”

  “Well, I know this is certainly a shock to all of us here at VMH. I wonder how Terrell’s handling the news.”

  I roll my eyes and suck my teeth, the very picture of an unrepentant woman in Versace. “You know, I ain’t even thinking about that little boy and his…”

  I trail off, unable to say all the phrases that used to fall out of Nitra’s mouth when it came to talking about Grenada, the other RSW College Mic Drop castmate who supposedly “stole” my boyfriend and upset me so bad, I left the coast. My usual go-to words are hussy, side-piece, ghetto ho—even though she, like me, had been privately tutored around shooting hours, and neither of us would ever really use words like that outside the show in our real-life interactions.

  Tonight, standing next to Woods with his hand wrapped around mine, reminding me who I really am…well, I just can’t.

  “You know what? I’m here with Woods, and that’s all that matters to me,” I say to Lane. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we should go find our seats before the show starts.”

  “Okay…” Lane says agreeably enough. But he looks over my shoulder at the red carpet talent wrangler, while flashing two fingers at me below the camera’s field of vision. I’m supposed to do a full two minutes with Lane, and he’s got to be pissed that I’m trying to leave before he’s had the chance to properly turn the microphone on Woods.

  In fact, the talent wrangler he signaled is already texting, so I’m more than certain I’ll be hearing from Sandy about this.

  But like a true pro, Lane maintains his bright smile as he switches the direction of his mic toward Woods. “And Woods, how does it feel to be married to the Mic Drop Princess? Any concerns Terrell might try to steal her back tonight?”

  “It feels like I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he answers with a lazy smile. “And the answer to your second question is no.”

  As it turns out, Woods is a lot better at the reality show game than I would have thought. His utter confidence plays well into the conceit of my ongoing drama with Terrell without him actually having to play along with it.

  “Good job staying true to yourself,” I murmur as we walk away from Lane after our mandatory two minutes.

  As we move past all the step and repeats, I glance back at Colin and Dad who are still talking with the female half of VMH’s red carpet team. Only to mind stutter a little bit when I find Colin looking straight at me.

  Strange, he seems more interested in our departure than his on-carpet interview. Old habit makes me seek out his songwriter wife, Kyra Fairgood, standing dutifully on the other side of the carpet, a good six or seven months pregnant if her baby bump is any indication. She’s not famous enough and probably not interested enough to stand with him in the spotlight, and like most of the non-famous celebrity spouses, she’s texting while she waits for her famous half to be done with all this red carpet nonsense. She either doesn’t notice or care that Colin’s looking hard at another woman right now.

  “Nitra!!!!”

  The squeal of my “best friend” Dyana—at least on TV—cuts into my confused observation of Colin Fairgood and his wife. She comes running up, checking to make sure at least a few of the standing red carpet cameras see us, before stopping right in front of me for as affectionate a hug as two women who are trying to avoid all face contact can give.

  “Did you see what that bitch is wearing?” she asks, taking me by the arm. “The same dress as you! You know she did it on purpose!”

  I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead I hold on to Wood’s hand as tightly as I can. Letting him anchor me in the real
on one side, while Dyana drags me into fake drama on the other.

  Unlike the Mellos, Dyana’s family was kicked off the show years ago. So now she rarely gets any camera time unless we’re at the same event. It’s never bothered me before, but holding Woods’ hand while listening to her throw outsized shade at Grenada…it makes me queasy with shame.

  And of course Grenada and Terrell are seated right next to us when we’re directed to our seats.

  “It’s not real,” I promise Woods, right before I do what I have to do.

  “I know,” he whispers back.

  He squeezes my hand before letting it go, so I can charge up to Grenada and demand, “Are you serious with this shit?”

  For once, I don’t call her a bitch, but we both do a good job of getting up in each other’s face as we argue about which one of us actually chose the dresses our stylists picked out in real life along with the show’s costume designer.

  So good, I can practically feel Woods’ twinkling blue eyes on me as he watches his formerly overly constrained doctor act a straight fool in public.

  With perfect timing, he and Terrell pull us away from each other, and after checking that the million cameras that panned over to shoot the almost-fight got their footage, we all sit down. Each couple—both the fake and the real one—on either side of Dyana.

  “That’s it for our part of the night,” I whisper to Woods with a mean smile on my lips, so it looks like I’m talking about Grenada as opposed to expressing my relief at not having to ever talk to her again. “Now they just need some reaction shots from us after Dad and Colin perform and have their awards announced. Then we’re out of here.”

  “Good,” he answers with a sincere smile. “I’m missing my wife. My real wife.”

  Thank God the duet award is scheduled early, as is Dad and Colin’s performance. I’m exhausted and can’t imagine making it through another hour, much less the entire three-hour ceremony.

  But Colin and Dad are the first to perform, and they kill it onstage. The fact that a country singer would enlist C-Mello for his album speaks volumes to the iconic status Dad has managed to achieve in all parts of the music world. But the tall and lanky blond singer matches Dad swagger for swagger, strutting across the stage with the neck of his fiddle in one hand and performing hype man duties as my dad spits out his verse.

  I come to my feet, goosebumps rising on my arms, when they take on the last chorus together, their well-known voices caterwauling and crooning in perfect harmony until auto-tune takes over the last note, echoing their voices out across the crowd as the song finishes.

  Fatigue forgotten, I clap and wolf-whistle along with the rest of the Rap Star Wives cast as Colin and Dad wave and touch hands with the cheering crowd of concert goers below their feet.

  Dad looks so happy on stage, being adored by fans. And even though I don’t want anything else to do with this circus my family calls a life, I hope he gets what he wants. That the drama I provided is enough to get the contract renewal he’s hoping for.

  As if sensing my good wishes, he finds me in the seats and points to me. I blow back kisses I know he can’t see, but will treasure later on camera.

  Yeah, we’re a very strange and crazy family, I think after sinking back into my seat. But there’s one thing Rap Stars Wives got right about us from the beginning: we truly love each other and I could not be more proud of my dad.

  “That wasn’t half bad, Doc.” Woods murmurs in my ear before kissing my temple.

  Flashes go off, and I can tell the photogs are eating this up, along with the two close-up cameras that panned across the audience to get our reaction shots to Dad and Colin’s performance. Sandy will definitely be pulling this footage from the network’s camera feed. And if the show plays their contacts right, the pic of Woods kissing me in his patented way will appear between the covers of at least a few gossip rags on Tuesday. I can almost see the headline now, “Secretly Married to a Mysterious Hottie!”

  And though I thought I’d become used to being watched in this way, my muscles tense under all the camera attention. I love the way Woods treasures me, but I hate sharing the real us so openly. A feeling of wanting to get out of here and on the road to Seattle overtakes me. And my heart aches with the wish that we could hide together. Somewhere where no photogs or backwoods motorcycle gangs or reality show producers will ever look for us.

  So it comes as a huge relief when I’m back on my feet ten minutes later. This time jumping up and down as I cheer Dad and Colin’s Best Duet win.

  As soon as they walk off stage with their golden microphones, I tell Woods, “I’m tired. Mind if we go home?”

  This much is true. I’m barely standing in my heels at this point, but thanks to all my TV training, I know to keep the smile on my face to prevent the possibility of a picture being taken that could be used for an “On the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown?” story.

  “Not at all, Doc.” He doesn’t have any camera training, so he looks down at me with sincere worry which I’m pretty sure will be construed by at least one blog as “Trouble in Paradise?”

  No longer caring about my makeup, I grab ahold of his Prada and close the distance between our mouths to give him a kiss.

  “I’m sorry for dragging you into all this craziness,” I whisper as I wipe off all the purple I left behind on his lips with my thumb.

  But before he can answer, my special phone rings directly to the smart watch I’m wearing as part of a branding agreement with the show.

  It’s Sandy.

  “Showtime,” her message says. “Colin Fairgood wants you and your man to come up to his suite for celebration drinks.”

  I sigh, not really wanting to go, but I did promise Woods I’d introduce him to Colin. And it is my last show…

  “Okay,” I say, rallying. “First we need to go up to the hotel and then you need to take me home and put me underneath you. Is that okay?”

  He frowns. “There’s a whole theater and a hotel in this mall?”

  I can only grin at his befuddlement and say for the second time that day, “Welcome to L.A.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I think people must assume I’m presenting because no one even attempts to stop us as we walk to the set of elevators that will take us directly up to the penthouse suites on the top floor. Or maybe it’s because a couple of guys from Devil Riders, VMH’s popular unscripted show about a southern motorcycle gang, are right behind us. As per usual, they haven’t bothered to get dressed up, or even attend the awards show, and they cut quite an intimidating picture in their leathers and denim as they crowd into the elevator with us.

  At least they do until one of them says, “Hey, Nitra! Congrats on your old man’s win.”

  “Thanks,” I answer as we get off the elevator. “We’re going to celebrate with them now.”

  “We ain’t got nothing to celebrate ourselves,” Jake Nicholl, the show’s handsome young star says, grinning at me. “But I’m sure we’ll figure something out after a couple of drinks.”

  I chuckle. “I’m sure you will.”

  The show’s cast is known for their hard partying ways. I imagine there will be stories to tell when they’re done at VMH’s after-party, which is already thumping with Colin and Dad’s song when we get upstairs.

  “You coming?” Jake asks, eyeing my dress appreciatively as we file out of the elevator.

  Even if Colin didn’t have his own suite, I would have turned down the invitation. I can tell by the way Woods loops an arm around my shoulder and eyes Jake hard that he’s not one of those L.A. guys who gets any sort of kick out of famous guys ogling his woman.

  I clasp Woods’ hand, reassuring him without words as I say out loud, “My husband and I have another party to go to, but have fun!”

  “I most definitely will,” Jake assures me with a wicked grin, and I have a feeling he’ll be on to the next girl within the next five minutes. “Congrats, brother,” he says, nodding at Woods.

  Woods doesn�
��t answer him, just asks, “Which one we going to?” when the bikers are out of earshot.

  As if in response to his question, a huge bodyguard standing in front of a door on the other side of the carpeted courtyard calls out to us, “Miss Mello, right this way. Fairgood’s expecting you.”

  We walk over, only to be taken by surprise when, instead of stepping aside to let us through the penthouse suite’s doors, the bodyguard pats Woods down without any warning.

  “Hey, sir,” I protest on Woods behalf. “Colin invited us up here.”

  If I’m expecting any remorse from the guard, I don’t get it. He just stone-faces Woods and says, “Alright, you can go on in. But you start something with my boy and I’m going to end it. Understand, son?”

  My eyes widen. Did he seriously just threaten my husband?

  But Woods just crooks his head to the side as if he’s nothing but amused by the guard’s words.

  “I’m not your son, sir. But yeah, sure, I understand,” he says in a way that makes me feel like he’s merely humoring the much larger man.

  The guard grunts, but finally steps aside so we can walk through the door.

  Weird, I think as we go in. Colin’s is the only door with a guard. Even the network party seems to think the security downstairs is enough to handle any would-be party crashers.

  Still, I school my face into my best Nitra Mello when I see Colin waiting for us in the suite’s sitting area. “You won, bitch! You won!!!” I call out like we’re old friends, as opposed to people who have met exactly once for, like, two seconds at a Grammy party over seven years ago.

  But I know Colin. He makes Blake Shelton look like he’s never seen a camera before, and I imagine he’ll embrace me warmly and say something about how I’m all grown up now.

  Yet I stop short inside the aggressively modern suite with its “fuck you poor people” views of Hollywood. The large suite is as beautiful as you’d expect…but save for one person, it’s completely empty.