Who Needs Reality? (Team Northwest Sweet Romance Book 1)

by Lia London

  “As your sidekick. As your shopping partner. As your … ride up to see Antonio.”

  “What?!” Jill stumbled back a step, stunned by what he was saying. “What’s Antonio got to do with this?” Her cheeks burned with anger. “And you’re one to talk, ditching me to go make out with Amaya under the fireworks.”

  “What? I—”

  “Don’t deny it.” She turned away, balling her fists, and holding back a scream. “You’ve got your little black beauty, so—”

  “There is nothing going on between me and Amaya, Jill!” Milo roared. “I never would have met her if I hadn’t been tagging along after you at the auditions.” He advanced a few steps, his broad shoulders suddenly menacing. “You left me with her to go off mountain climbing with California boy. You practically threw us together—”

  Jill spun and shrieked, “So you are together!”

  “What difference would it make to you, Jill?” he bellowed. He turned and punched kitchen wall. The hole he left might as well have been in her heart.

  Jill gasped, covering her mouth. “Milo!” Wringing his hand, he checked his knuckles. Jill could see he’d torn the skin. “Are you okay?”

  He held up a hand to silence her without making eye contact. With an angry flick of his wrist, he tried to turn on the kitchen faucet to rinse his wound, but the utilities had not been turned on yet. He slammed the handle back into place and clenched his hurt fist in his hand. “What difference would it make to you?” His words were so quiet, she wasn’t sure if they were meant for her ears.

  “Milo, I’m sorry.” Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, and she took a hesitant step forward. She had never seen Milo enraged like this, and it broke her heart. “Please …”

  “No, Jill.” His voice sounded hollow, empty of his usual tenderness. He stared down into the sink, his back to her. “Don’t ask me for anything right now. I can’t. I just can’t. I’ve got nothing left.”

  Jill slumped to her knees. “You’ve given so much.”

  Milo shifted and looked over his shoulder. His eyes penetrated the tears, but gave no hope. He drew a deep breath and removed his keys from his pocket. “But it was never enough to win the prize I wanted most.” He walked to the front door and opened it. Without looking back, he said, “Lock up when you leave. I’ll find my own way home.”

  “Milo, wait!”

  “You go chase adventure, Jill. When you’re ready for reality … for real people with real needs and real relationships …” He shook his head, as if dismissing the idea. “Good-bye, Jill.”

  The door clicked shut quietly behind him. Jill knelt in the small room. The fading sunlight had abandoned the corners, closing the space around her with darkness and cold. Unable to fathom what had just happened, Jill crawled to the door and leaned up against it. Silently, she begged Milo to come back.

  But he was gone.

  Weeks passed, and Milo made the move to Corvallis. With detached efficiency, he set up his household, got the water and electricity running, and registered for fall classes. Nothing amused or upset him. He just felt numb.

  Amaya called and Parker texted, both reminding him of the premiere night, and he sat in his lounger and dutifully watched all of the terrible auditioners groveling before Slick and Kamilah … including himself. He agreed with Parker’s picks, though, at least as far as the women were concerned. Jill, Amaya, and Chieko all had unique attributes that made them shine above the rest of the competition.

  He shoveled leftover chicken fried rice into his mouth and tried to feel some kind of emotion about watching Jill on the television. In her little black dress, she had dominated the sweet-and-sexy type, and he knew she would go far if she decided to try after all. If she survived her self-sabotaged scene with Brock.

  The next episodes each featured a region. He watched Team South while he played racquetball with a new neighbor, Team Midwest over pizza with his brother, and skipped the next show entirely in favor of cracking open the books. A knot in his stomach tightened as the time drew nearer for him to fly down to L.A. for the Team Northwest airing.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he swiped to answer before checking the caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Milo?”

  His breath stopped for a few seconds, and he braced himself. “Jill.”

  “Hey, I hate to bug you, but I wanted to make sure you got the flight information.”

  Milo lowered the leg rests and turned off the TV. “Is it coming in the mail?”

  “Parker emailed it all out today. Did you see it?”

  “Wi-Fi isn’t connected yet.” He’d used his data up for the month already. “I’ll check it at the library tomorrow.”

  “Um, I think you need to hear this.”

  Milo huffed out a sigh. “What, Jill? Can’t it wait?”

  “Milo, just let me read you Parker’s email.”

  “Fine.” He sat back and closed his eyes. Jill’s voice had kindled a flicker of emotion, but he couldn’t identify which one yet.

  “Ready? She says, ‘Dear Team Northwest,

  First off, I want you to know that it’s been a privilege to work with you for WWBSS. You are a particularly unique group with diverse talents and much to offer the world of entertainment. I’ve had fun.’”

  “This doesn’t sound good,” said Milo. “She’s never this nice in emails.”

  “Let me keep reading, please.

  ‘I have news which affects the team significantly. It involves Crawford Andrews. The board of directors has called into question his competitive advantage as it has now been reported to the media that he and Kamilah Krussman were having an affair.’”

  “That’s disgusting,” said Milo. “How desperate was she?”

  “How desperate was he?” countered Jill.

  “Do I really want to hear more?” Milo rubbed his eyes.

  “Stay with me a minute longer.” Jill meant the email, but Milo’s conscience pricked at him. Jill continued reading. “‘The integrity of the competition was compromised with regards to Kamilah judging Crawford’s performances, and rather than remove a known celebrity judge, they have opted to disqualify Crawford. Our segment will therefore feature only five performers, and this obviously increases the odds for both Antonio and Milo to win the region. To fill the time that would have been devoted to Crawford, more footage of the remaining contestants will be included. To compensate for the increased airtime exposure each will receive, the board demands that we mix in the less flattering moments with the good takes. How this will play out in the final wash is still up in the air, and I sincerely apologize that you all will be placed in this situation.’”

  Milo tried to assess the consequences. “Is this going to be good or bad for us?”

  “Bad, I hope. They’ll have to include our obvious sabotages to their love scene schemes, won’t they?”

  “Yeah, but …” Milo sagged. “I can’t win. I’ve got a scholarship! Can’t I quit?”

  “No. We signed a contract. Your only way out is to have an affair with Kamilah.”

  “I’d rather be a soap star.”

  “No. No, we have to trust we did enough to make ourselves look terrible.” Her laugh was tentative. “I mean … carpal tunnel from gaming? You had to have lost for that, right?”

  Milo shook his head. “Is there more?”

  “Yeah. She says, ‘Lastly, you were not aware of this, but all four regional team directors were in the running to oversee the remainder of the season once the teams combined. Whether it’s due to the Crawford / Kamilah issue, or something else, I have not been selected to continue. You’ll be working with Charles W. Wynn-Schumann III. (You’ll need to remember that whole thing when you address him.) To put it mildly, he and I don’t share any similar directorial methods or visions. He directed Team South.

  I will be with you all in L.A. for Team Northwest’s live judging event, so we can say our good-byes then. Attached are the flight itineraries and hotel arrangements for e
ach of you. I look forward to seeing you all one last time, minus Crawford, of course. Don’t miss your flight,’ signed ‘Daisy Parker.’” Jill snickered. “Her name is Daisy?! I never would have guessed that in a thousand years.”

  Milo smiled for the first time in weeks. “She’s a rugged little flower, isn’t she?”

  ***

  Team Northwest had almost made it through the security checks without incident when a potato of a man scanning luggage saw Milo’s name on the boarding pass. “Ain’t you that guy that did Shakespeare for the Soap Star show? My daughter went nuts over that ’cause they’d just started reading Romeo and Juliet for school.”

  Milo blanched. “If we get swarmed right now, we might not make our gate in time.”

  The rest of the team huddled on the other side of the X-ray machines ready to spring into action as soon as they could figure out what to do.

  The potato persisted. “Yeah, that’s you. And I seen the ads, too. You play a doctor or something.”

  People in line and at a nearby candy kiosk shifted closer. A couple of them reached for pockets or purses, probably grabbing for phones.

  Milo stuttered. “I’m … uh …”

  “Hey, it’s him!” said the Potato.

  A tiny, wiry woman working the weapons detector next to him frowned. “You know you ain’t supposed to draw attention to famous people. It clogs up the line.” All the same, she smiled extra wide at Milo as he passed under her arch and retrieved his shoes and belt. “Good luck. Go win one for the Northwest.”

  “Thanks.”

  While Milo scrambled to stuff his feet into his shoes without untying them, a ripple of increased awareness spread through the crowd. A camera flash went off, then three more.

  “Go, Mi-lo!”

  “Good luck!”

  He ducked his head low and frowned. Why didn’t anyone ever recognize Antonio, Chieko, or Amaya? He made it to the group. “Let’s go!”

  “Don’t these people have some Trailblazers to chase after?” Amaya led the pack with speed, weaving through the crowd until they made their gate.

  Catching his breath, Milo nodded at Chieko. “Nice suite. You could pass for an executive or—”

  “Excuse me, miss?” An elderly man wearing shorts, socks and Birkenstock sandals approached Chieko. “Is this the 12:35 to L.A.? I wondered when they’d start boarding the Silver Rewards passengers.”

  “Oh, she’s not a stewardess,” said Milo.

  With a flick of her hand, Chieko silenced him. Turning to the gentleman with a bright smile, she said, “Let’s see your boarding pass, sir. Why yes, this is the correct gate.” She glanced at the monitors. “The first round of passengers should be boarding in less than ten minutes, so you may want to line up right over there by the gentleman in the blue uniform.” Her voice chimed honey smooth, like she’d done it a thousand times. “Would you like help with your carry-on?”

  “Oh, yes, please. Can we make sure it’ll fit?”

  “Of course, sir.” Chieko deftly helped him into line, stopping to check the bag’s size at a little cage size-gauge.

  Milo watched with admiration and then turned to see Jill’s eyes fixed on him. He flashed her an uncomfortable smile and wondered how she had gotten to the airport. Probably Antonio.

  Adjusting her grip on her carry-on bag, Jill sniffed and stepped closer to him. “I wish the whole thing could have turned out differently.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, you know …” She waved her hands in vague circles. “Some kind of happily ever after for everyone. Stardom, dazzling lights, all of us moving on together.”

  Milo shook his head. “My happily ever after happens after this show, when I get back to my normal life.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. Jill would not be in his reality. She would be thirty miles away, or maybe hundreds.

  Scene 15: The Vote

  Milo’s stomach lurched with a new sensation: Opening Night Jitters. Even though they weren’t required to do anything but stand in a line looking nervous while they waited to find which two advanced to nationals, that performance felt out of reach if he was expected to do it without spewing. The whole nightmare needed to end as soon as possible.

  A stagehand from the studio led them wordlessly through a maze of hallways to a gorgeous green room with lighted mirrors in banks of four. As they entered, a different technician grabbed each team member and steered them towards a station.

  “Sit, Mr. Halsey.” This guy was nothing like Janot, though his voice was higher. He stood well over six feet tall, but probably did not weigh more than Jill, and his platinum hair held a spiky celebration on top of his deep brown forehead. Milo couldn’t place the accent, but it made everything he said sound cooler. “Don’t move a muscle while Leonel looks at you.”

  Milo squinted into the bright lights around the mirror while the gaunt man perched like the Cheshire cat in the reflection just behind him. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Leonel knows what to do!”

  Leonel began a monolog detailing the procedures it would take to make Milo presentable for America. Shaving, plucking, teasing, foaming, plus make-up, and a parade of high-end dress shirts to try on. At last he stood, regarding Milo with his chin in his hand. “Something’s missing.” He clapped once. “Leonel knows! This boy needs stubble!” He proceeded to dab at Milo’s chin with what felt like a cube of copper mesh dipped in grease. Leonel spun the chair back around to show Milo his reflection. “Leonel has done it again. Mr. Halsey looks incredibulous!”

  “Stubble?” Milo moved to rub his jaw.

  “Ah ah ah! No touch! You will ruin Leonel’s masterpiece!”

  Milo struggled to move his facial muscles under the thick cosmetics. “Why bother shaving me so you can put on fake stubble?”

  “No, no, no. Real stubble is icky. It’s patchy, uneven. Besides, it scratches up the leading lady’s make-up when you kiss-kiss. Trust Leonel. He knows. This is magiculous!”

  Milo refrained from crossing his eyes and buttoned up the shirt Leonel handed him. “Leonel knows best.”

  “You’d better believe it, little man.” Leonel whacked Milo lightly on the shoulder with his styling brush, then spun on his heel and disappeared around the cubicle walls to the next bank of mirrors. “Oooh! Muy muy muy macho! Yes, Tricia’s off to a good start, but let Leonel do the finishing touches. Ooooh, Mr. Seneca’s hair is so thick!”

  ***

  A camera operator lined up the team on tall stools, girl-boy-girl-boy-girl, and trained a camera on them to catch their real-time reactions as they watched a huge monitor from behind the curtain. Although Milo had seen the screen-within-a-screen on the other episodes, it somehow hadn’t clicked in his brain that he would have to endure that, too. He vaguely remembered that members of the other teams did a lot of evil-eye exchanges when a competitor did well, or gloating sneers when a competitor bombed. Milo had received no specific instructions to act that way, so he had to assume that the contestants from other parts of the country were melodramatic jerks.

  Whatever. He didn’t want the part, so he’d be willing to give quiet fist pumps any time one of the team members looked good and cringe when not. It helped that Crawford wasn’t present, and they hadn’t seated him next to Jill, so it wouldn’t be too awkward.

  Once they got past the clips from the regional ads and the commercial break, Jay introduced each contestant in alphabetical order by last name, which meant Milo was up first. The Olympic moment showed him in a positive, smart-young-urban-professional mode. It came off better than he had hoped, which was bad, given that he’d hoped he’d come across as a geek. Next came his scene as the doctor. When it got to the line about gaming and offering one last round of play, Milo heard both Amaya and Antonio suck in air.

  “No. You didn’t.” Next to him, Amaya chewed her glossy red lip. Without turning away from the screen, she shook her head slightly and whispered, “Boy, what were you thinking?”

  Milo didn’t answer because they showed his scene wi
th her and Chieko next … and there he was, flat on his back.

  “Hey, I do my own stunts!” Victory. I came across as a total doofus. His bad showing greatly improved his mood.

  “Hopefully the X-ray guy at the airport lets you back into Portland,” said Amaya with a skeptical shake of her head.

  The next segment featured Amaya. Milo watched while admiration and guilt battled in his gut. They hadn’t had time to talk alone since the Fourth of July. Of course, the lengthy phone silence should have been a clue to her that he had chosen Jill, but with nothing actually happening in the Ripley-Halsey bliss department, he wasn’t sure what to say. Hi, opted for the girl who thinks of me as her sidekick, and right now we’re barely on speaking terms. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m an idiot.

  Milo shifted on his stool and focused on the monitor with extra effort. Parker had opened the featurette with the dance. Onscreen from the proper viewing vantage, it took his breath away even more than before. For twenty seconds, Amaya’s silhouette showed grace and power that had the whole group slack-jawed. The shot cut to a still of a gap-toothed ballerina photo with Amaya’s voice over. “When I was a little kid, I always wanted to be a dancer. I’d dance everywhere I went—the grocery store, the park, even down the aisles at church.” Back to more of the dance, then to her sitting on the edge of the stage talking about growing up in north Portland without much hope of making it big in the performing arts because resources and opportunities were scarce. Then came her monolog and a scene with her and Brock swooning over each other until she accused him of cheating on her and splashed champagne in his face.

  “Brilliant!” Milo peeked at Amaya sideways.

  She was covering her mouth and nose with her palms pressed against each other, tears trickling down her face.

  “You okay, Amaya?”

  “Better than okay.”

  Milo beamed. “I told you Parker would do you right.”