Reality TV Bites

by Shane Bolks

  “Cool.”

  “It looks cool, but there’s something weird going on. You know how these shows are. There’s got to be something we don’t know. And these Japanese guys. I think we need to get a new translator.” I see a tall guy with unmistakable confidence stroll in, and my heart starts beating hard. Oh, my God. It’s Nicolo. I didn’t actually think he’d show. But then the guy turns.

  It’s Dave. How could I possibly confuse Dave with Nicolo? Dave’s hair is kind of an ash blond, thick and spiky, sort of like Brad Pitt’s, while Nicolo is all dark and European. I suppose they’re built about the same, but Dave walks around like a Tyrannosaurus rex and Nicolo moves like Fred Astaire.

  “Why do you need a new translator?” Hunter asks.

  Still watching Dave, praying he doesn’t spot us, even though I know avoiding him all night is impossible, I say, “Because his answers are too short.” I glance at Hunter. “Mr. Kinjo and the director, Watanabe, talk and talk and talk, and then the translator will say, ‘Mr. Kinjo say hello.’ What is that? How long does it take to say hello in Japanese?”

  “Not long,” Hunter answers. “Hey, Dave! Over here.” He waves at Dave and I grind my teeth when Dave turns and flashes the three of us a smile. Why does he have to look so good? I really, really hate him.

  He lopes over, his legs too long to emulate the refined aristocratic gait Nicolo’s mastered. Where is Nicolo? Am I getting rejected again? If he doesn’t show, prince or not, he’s getting a royal send-off.

  “So, what’s the score?” Dave asks, after he and Hunter shake hands, slap shoulders, and make grunting noises.

  “Bulls down by three last time I checked,” Hunter answers.

  “Yeah? Rory keeping you too busy to watch the game?” Dave jokes, then pulls Rory to her feet and into a bear hug. “Hey, space cadet. You look different.”

  Rory fingers her newly shorn locks. “I had my hair cut.”

  “Oh, yeah. It looks…shorter.”

  “Now that’s a compliment for you, Rory,” I say, rising to stand with everyone else. It would be better if I ignored Dave, but not nearly as satisfying as making snarky comments. “A girl pays two hundred dollars for a cut and highlights and all a guy can say is, ‘It looks shorter.’”

  Dave rubs his chin and studies me with those golden eyes. Have I mentioned Dave’s eyes? They’re like something you’d see on a lion—deep, enigmatic, and compelling. It’s so not fair.

  “Hey, Red. Good to see you’re glad to see me, as usual.”

  Argh! Why can’t I ever be cool and aloof with Dave? Why does he always cut straight through my bullshit?

  “Guys.” Hunter’s tone is full of warning. “Don’t start.”

  Dave shrugs. “It’s okay. I think I know what the problem is.”

  “You were born?” I counter with a smile, but inside my heart stutters. I cannot let him have the chance to tell everyone he rejected me.

  “No.” Dave chucks my cheek lightly with his hand. “You’re just jealous because I gave Rory a compliment and not you.”

  There’s a shout from the patio, and Rory says, “Hey, let’s go watch the game.”

  Dave and I ignore her.

  “Me jealous? What reality are you living in?” But it sounds as defensive as I feel.

  And Dave just smiles indulgently, then says, “Don’t worry, Red, I’ve got a compliment for you, too.”

  I cock my head. “Oh, good. This I have to hear.”

  He winks at me, and I want to scratch his eyes out. “You look good in shorts and a T-shirt,” he says, giving me the once-over as if I were a used car he’s thinking of buying. “No blue Gatorade this time and less prissy than usual.”

  My jaw drops. “Prissy? Prissy!”

  “Allison…” Rory begins, but before I can tell her to stay out of it, before I can smack Dave, before I can do anything, Dave grabs me up and hugs me, pressing my face into his chest so that no one can hear me.

  See why I hate him? See? God, but he smells good. Argh! “I hate you,” I mumble, and then I feel his lips brush my ear.

  “No, you don’t. You’re just scared.”

  I stop struggling. Now how does he know that?

  “You must be Rory.” A male voice with a familiar European accent penetrates the cage of Dave’s arms, the sound muted by the rapid beating of his heart. Hmm. Maybe he’s not so unflappable after all.

  “Allison?”

  Dave releases me, and I whirl around and look straight into the stunning blue eyes of Prince Nicolo Thierry Ferdinand something-something Bourbon-Parma. “Nicolo. You made it.”

  He takes my arm, draws me expertly away from Dave, and kisses my hand. Suddenly I feel like I’m once again in control, no longer transparent with my feelings and emotions on display. “I could not stay away,” Nicolo says.

  My cheeks warm. “I’m glad. Nicolo, these are my friends. I think you spoke to Rory on the phone.” I gesture to Rory, who’s standing beside Hunter, staring at the prince like he’s—well, like he’s a prince.

  “Hi,” she says.

  Nicolo takes her hand and kisses it. “Enchanted.”

  Hunter sticks his own hand out, right under Nicolo’s nose. “Hunter Chase. I’m Rory’s boyfriend.”

  Nicolo shakes his hand, their grips hard enough to turn their hands white. “Lucky man.”

  Men. Everything is a competition. Nicolo looks at Dave, then me. “So, those are my friends,” I say, ignoring Dave. But the jerk refuses to be ignored. He shakes hands with Nicolo and says, “Hi, I’m Dave.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  I watch Dave and Nicolo shake, trying to discern how hard they’re squeezing. But it looks like a normal handshake, and I don’t know how to feel about that. Hunter was jealous simply because Nicolo told Rory he was enchanted. But Dave, who’s taken me out and kissed me (and rejected me), doesn’t appear jealous in the least. And Nicolo, who’s here because it was the only opportunity I gave him to see me outside of work, isn’t exactly green with envy after he walks in and sees me in Dave’s arms. Okay, have I completely lost my touch?

  “Want a beer, Nicolo?” Dave asks.

  “Sure. A Hasen Bräu would be good.”

  “What the hell’s that?” Dave asks.

  Nicolo frowns. “Then a Kölsch.”

  “I think your foreign beer choices are limited to Heineken or Corona,” Hunter offers.

  Nicolo glances at me, as if I can shed some light on the beer question, and I hold up my glass. “The gin and tonic isn’t too bad. If you don’t like gin.”

  “Ah, nothing then.”

  “Sure?” I ask. “Dave’s buying.”

  Nicolo laughs, a deep sound that gives me goose bumps. “Money is not the issue. Unfortunately I cannot stay long.”

  “Why not? Nicolo”—I pull him into a corner with the neglected dartboards—“you’re not going to leave me here with these—sports fans, are you?”

  “I am left with no other choice. Work.” He brings his hand up, and at first I think he’s going to touch my cheek. Instead, he caresses a lock of my hair, lifting it to the light when he reaches the ends. “Like golden fire,” he murmurs. “I am sorry to go, especially as I will miss you more than you will me.” He leans close and brushes his lips over mine. I forget to breathe for a moment as Nicolo’s hand meanders down my back, finally settling on my waist.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say when he pulls back. “Nicolo, I know who you are.” I glance at the floor, wondering if he’ll be unhappy that I’ve found out his true identity. Maybe it was part of the reality show, and now I’ve gone and ruined it. When I glance up, Nicolo’s got one brow raised.

  “Who I am?”

  “You’re a”—I glance around and lower my voice—“a prince.”

  He grins and leans close. “It is not a secret.”

  Yeah, right. That’s what the writers of the Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real said he’d say. “Then why didn’t you say so before? Why’d you have Yamam
oto introduce you as Mr. Parma?”

  He tucks a tangle of hair behind my ear. “Because that is who I am. ‘Prince’ is merely a courtesy title. My family is not poor, but we live and work like everyone else.”

  “Oh.” When he says it that way, it’s not quite as exciting. “So, are you leaving on royal business?”

  “No. Regular business. I think there has not been royal business for over a hundred years. But if it were royal business, be assured I would take you with me. We princes are good at rescuing damsels in distress.”

  There’s a groan from the patio and a chorus of “goddamnits” and “oh, hells.”

  “Hopefully, my distress won’t last much longer. I think I talked Rory into leaving early with me to watch The Iron Chef since she’s got seven thousand channels.”

  “What a good student. Homework on a Thursday.”

  “Do I get an A?”

  “Is an A good?”

  “Very good.

  “Then I give you three.” And he leans down to kiss me again. Very nice. I kiss him back, surprised that kissing a prince isn’t as different as I thought it would be. Strike one for the fantasy.

  We stand there talking for another ten minutes or more, hands clasped and Nicolo’s thumb rubbing my palm in slow circles. Before he leaves, he kisses me once more and says, “I know you said you were busy, but I have been invited to a cocktail party tomorrow evening and have no date. If you find that your schedule changes…” He waves a hand.

  This guy is good. He’s figured out that a head-on assault isn’t going to work with me. Now he’s trying indifference.

  “Of course, inviting you out on such short notice is absolutely inexcusable—”

  “Not to mention, we’re working together. I generally avoid dating men I work with,” I add.

  “—but I thought you might be interested in meeting my cousin Prince Sixte Louis Charles Vincenz Christian.”

  Another prince? Oh, dear. “He’s here from Denmark, too?”

  “No, no. He lives in Florida. Palm Beach.”

  “Oh.” There’s royalty living in Palm Beach, and I never even knew it. How…unromantic. I should say no, but Nicolo is more than good. Not only has he apologized about the short notice, he throws more royalty into the deal. “Well, how could I miss the chance to meet—?”

  “Sixte.”

  “Right. But it’s not a date. It’s a professional outing.”

  He inclines his head. Smiling, I give him my address and cell number, and he promises his driver will arrive by nine. Then he kisses my hand, all the way to the fingertips, and says something that sounds like silk feels.

  “Was that Italian?”

  “Sì.”

  “What did it mean?”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  And then he’s gone.

  “He didn’t even drink his beer.” Dave walks up and leans on the wall beside me, invading my corner with his broad shoulders and annoying height. I’m five-eight, so he must be at least six feet.

  “I guess you’ll have to drink it,” I say, scanning the patio for Rory.

  “I don’t want a Heineken. You drink it.” He hands the beer mug to me, but I wave it away.

  “Can’t. I’m leaving. Where’s Rory?”

  He points to a picnic table, and I spot Rory and Hunter sitting together. They’re completely oblivious to everything around them, locked deep in conversation. Sometimes I wonder what the two of them have to talk about. I mean, she’s a Star Wars sci-fi junkie and he’s an ex-jock marketing exec. And somehow they’re still perfect for each other.

  “What are they talking about?”

  Dave shrugs. “You know them. It could be anything from intergalactic warfare to organic pet food.”

  “Pet food?”

  “Hunter wants to get a dog, but Rory doesn’t want him to feed it dead animals.”

  I smile. “Yeah, she gave me the same lecture when I got Booboo Kitty.”

  Dave shakes his head and drinks the Heineken anyway. “I still can’t believe you named your cat…what you did.”

  “Why? I’d end up calling her that anyway. Besides, she looks like a Booboo Kitty.”

  “She looks like a mutant feather pillow,” he says not quite softly enough.

  “Good thing she’ll never have to see you again. I wish I was so lucky,” I mutter.

  I head over to Rory and Hunter. I have to skirt around thirty or so slack-jawed guys, awed by the Laker Girls’ halftime show. Sometimes I miss learning those routines with the other girls. It can be such a rush when you get it right.

  “Rory, it’s nine-fifteen. Are you ready?”

  “Aw, you have to go already? It’s only halftime,” Hunter says.

  “The Iron Chef won’t wait,” Rory says and stands. “Besides, now you can watch the Laker Girls instead of pretending to listen to the genealogical breakdown of Luke Skywalker’s family tree.”

  Hunter puts a hand on his chest as if wounded. “But I am interested in Luke Skywalker’s family tree. All those crazy Skywalkers.”

  “Bye, Hunter,” I say and pull on Rory’s arm until she detaches her lips from his.

  “Did you drive?” I ask as we leave the bar and breathe sports-free air for the first time in several hours.

  “No, Hunter did.”

  “Okay, we’ll take my car.”

  Rory skids to a stop. “Allison, if we take your car you have to promise not to drive like you’re trying to beat the Millennium Falcon at the Kessel Run.”

  “Oh-kaay.” We round the corner, and I deactivate the alarm on my BMW Z4 parked on the street. Of course Hunter and Dave would choose a place without valet.

  “Allison, that means don’t speed.”

  “Rory, I never speed.” I climb into the car, and Rory reluctantly follows. “It just feels faster when I have the top down. You know, physics and all that.” I start the engine, press the button to lower the top, and we’re off.

  “Allison!” Rory screams over the wind and my Benny Goodman CD. “I took physics, and I’m not buying it. Creator! Watch out for the pedestrians!”

  Ten minutes later, pretty good time to get all the way to Old Town where Rory lives, I say, “Rory, we’re here. You can open your eyes.”

  “I am never driving with you again.”

  “You always say that.” I pull into the empty parking spot next to her car, and follow her into the apartment building singing “Flat Foot Floogee.” By the time we get to her apartment, Rory’s singing, too. She never stays angry for long.

  We burst into her apartment, and I flop on the couch while Rory heads for the kitchen. She reemerges with a bottle of wine and a pint of Double Fudge Brownie. Now we’re talking. Why would anyone want to sit at hard wooden picnic tables, drink warm beer, and watch sweaty grown men run around chasing a ball? This is much better.

  Rory hands me a spoon and flips the TV on, surfing until she finds the right channel. The Iron Chef starts in five minutes, so our timing is perfect.

  Rory’s still humming the song, then she says, “What’s a floogee? For that matter, what’s a floy, floy or a flou, flou?”

  “What’s wrong? You don’t collar this jive?” I say, digging into the pint. “That’s just frisking the whiskers.”

  Rory stares at me. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

  “Grandma Holloway. She’d put on her best drape, truck on down to the gin mills in the Land o’ Darkness, and alligator with the hepcats at the Cotton Club. You’ve heard of Cab Calloway, right? She collared him, Duke Ellington, Cole Porter—all the gates and their killer-dillers.”

  “It’s almost like speaking Klingon.”

  “If you say so. Shh. The show’s starting.”

  We watch The Iron Chef, me staring in total incredulity and Rory laughing her ass off.

  “This is the stupidest show I’ve ever seen,” I say during a commercial break. “Who is that guy in all the ruffles and gloves? And why is he biting that pepper like he’s some kind of animal?�
��

  “I don’t know,” Rory says around a mouthful of ice cream, “but it’s funny. I like the woman. She’s always excited about the desserts.”

  “She’s insane.” I scoop out the last of the ice cream. “How could anyone get excited about a dessert with mushrooms? That’s not dessert. Oh, my God. If this is what Kamikaze Makeover!’s like, I’m doomed.”

  There’s a loud pounding, and Rory and I jump. “Who is that?”

  Rory rolls her eyes. “Probably Hunter. We didn’t see each other much this week.” She hands me her ice cream spoon and heads for the door, now vibrating. “Cut it out! I’m coming, you Mynok!”

  “Why don’t you just move in together already and get it over with?” I say, settling back on the couch. Hunter is going to have to wait until I see whether the Iron Chef or the challenger wins tonight. Poor guys. They both seem really nice.

  “We brought bourbon!” a not-so-nice voice bellows. “French, since we know you like them.”

  I close my eyes and put my arm over my face. Dave. What the hell is he doing here?

  “Are you drunk?” Rory asks Hunter when he stumbles in.

  “Not really,” he slurs. “Not as drunk as Dan.”

  “Who’s Dan?” Rory says, helping the wobbly Hunter to the chair across from where I’m sitting on the couch.

  “Him. Dan.”

  “Dave?” Rory says.

  “That’s what I said.”

  Dave plops down next to me. Right next to me. Rory’s couch is huge, and Dave has to sit practically on top of me. He holds out a half-empty bottle of bourbon. “I’m not drunk.” And he’s probably not. He doesn’t look or sound drunk. Hunter’s such a lightweight. Even in high school he was a goner if he drank anything stronger than beer.

  “Want some? It’s like twenty bucks a bottle. French, so I think even Prince Bourbon-Parma would approve.”

  I grit my teeth. “His name is Nicolo, and he’s not French. He’s from Roskilde.”

  Dave uncaps the bourbon and drinks it straight. Yuck. “Where the hell is Roskilde?”

  “Fuck if I know,” Hunter says, and holds out his hand. Dave, idiot that he is, hands Hunter the bottle. Rory snatches it up.

  “I’m going to get you water and an aspirin or you’re going to have a hangover tomorrow.”