Reality TV Bites

by Shane Bolks

  This is the first really big project I’ve planned and coordinated, so I’m actually on time for the meeting for once. I’m so on time that when I walk in, Nicolo’s the only one there, sitting in the same chair where I first saw him. “Hey, why are you in here?” I ask.

  “I thought it might be interesting to see you at work.”

  I frown, noting he’s chosen an area out of camera range. “Are they filming this?”

  He nods.

  “Did Miranda okay that? I’m not so sure Wernberg wants our meetings about them made public.” I’m not so sure I do.

  “We have complete access. Miranda signed the contract.” At my worried look, he motions me toward him. “Stop your worry. It will be used for filler only. Now then, come here and let me see what you are wearing.”

  I smile and saunter closer. When I stop in front of Nicolo, he reaches up and runs a hand over my midriff, pale beneath the sheer black material. His hand climbs slowly upward, under the ruffles covering my breasts. A flash of heat courses through me, but I keep my expression sexy and casual.

  When Nicolo looks into my face, I reach forward and slide my hand in the V of his white shirt, flicking another button, so the shirt is open to midchest.

  “Oh, dear. It’s a tête-à-tête,” Josh says from behind us. I step back and give Josh a dark look. “Sweetie, save that look for Miranda. Here come the cameras.”

  Nicolo smiles and mouths “Later.”

  As Miranda, trailed by the cameras, walks in, I take a seat next to Josh. The meeting goes pretty well at first. Everyone likes my color choices and Josh’s lighting design. The furniture mock-up Josh worked on all morning looks spectacular—one of his best.

  “Okay,” I say. “Everything appears to be on schedule.” I flip through a couple pages of my notes. I try to ignore the cameras, Nicolo, too, but I’ve felt his eyes on me throughout. I wonder how much later “later” is.

  “We haven’t discussed the budget,” Miranda points out, preening for the cameras.

  I glance at Dylan. He and I haven’t had time to go over what he’s prepared, and I’m not going to hear it first on camera. “Miranda, why don’t we save that for later?” I glance at the cameras so she won’t mistake my meaning. But she’s not watching me; she’s smiling at one of the cameras, her head held high to keep her neck from looking wrinkled.

  “Now is fine, Allison.”

  I look at Josh, and he says, “Can we take a moment to talk about Aguirre and Bailey. I spoke with them this—”

  “Whatever you think is fine for them, Josh. Now, tell me about the budget we’re presenting to Wernberg, Dylan.”

  Dylan passes copies to everyone and stands to run through the numbers he’s worked up. Five minutes in, I stop him. This is a mess—Dylan’s forgotten to calculate fees for inspection, he didn’t include the cost for installation of the floor covering, and the consultation fee he’s listed is based on last year’s rates. If Wernberg saw this, they’d fire us before we even had a chance to present our scheme.

  “Dylan, that’s great.”

  He glances up at my interruption.

  “Why don’t you and I go over a few things in my office, and we’ll finalize everything tomorrow.”

  Lila, a junior designer we hired about three months ago, who is still trying to impress everyone, says, “Where’s the info on the SBCCI codes? Where are the Load Factor Tables?” She flips through the sheaf of papers. “We’d better get on that or we’ll be late and end up having to cut corners like we did at Harpo Studios.”

  I inhale sharply, and the room goes silent. Harpo is owned by Oprah Winfrey, and Interiors by M just redecorated her studio. It was a major coup, a major pain in the ass, and very nearly drove Josh and me into rehab. “Lila,” I say in the tense silence, “we didn’t cut corners at Harpo. We were late getting the paperwork in, but I wouldn’t say we cut corners.”

  Lila looks up at me, then seems to notice the cameras. She pales visibly. “Oh, right. I was just kidding.”

  “If all the kidding is over,” Miranda says with ice in her voice, “let’s get back to work.” She rises and strolls out of the conference room. Thankfully, the cameras follow.

  Dylan looks over at me. “I’m sorry, Allison. I told you I’d never done one of these before.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay, but I don’t want to go over things with all the cameras around. Can you stay late tonight and we’ll work on it?”

  He nods. “Sure.”

  “I’ll stay, too,” Josh volunteers. “Carlos is still being huffy, so I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  We get the budget and the inspection papers worked out, but not until after ten. Tomorrow Josh and I plan to spend most of the day getting everything ready for the taping Wednesday, so I’ve put Dylan and Lila in charge of the Wernberg details.

  I know I should feel excited that the first Kamikaze Make-over! is only two days away, but at this point, I couldn’t care less. I’m exhausted from trying to balance the cameras, the interviews, the prep work for the show, and my other clients.

  Who knew being a reality TV star was so tough?

  Earlier this evening, when I finally admitted I was impossibly behind, I gave in and called Mia, home on maternity leave, and begged her to take two clients, then I asked a junior designer I’ve worked with before to take another. I kept people like Mrs. Bilker-Morgan, but playing musical clients isn’t a good strategy. The more you play, the greater the chance that when the music stops, you’ll be the one left without a chair.

  Miranda says that the attention garnered by the TV show will make up for any slight a client feels, and that I’ll be in even higher demand after the show airs, but I’ve kept more clients than I can really handle as a precautionary measure, and I’m starting to fall behind on my self-imposed deadlines.

  Josh and I are the last ones to leave the office that evening, and we walk out together. “You should just sleep with His Highnesty and get him out of your system,” Josh says. “All that sexual tension between you is making me edgy.”

  “I’m working too hard to even think about sex right now, Josh.”

  The elevator in the hall outside Interiors by M opens, and Josh hits the button for the parking garage. “Sweetie, you know what you’re really doing, don’t you?”

  “Filling the chasm of my nonexistent sex life with work?”

  “Oh, please. It hasn’t been that long.”

  The elevator plunges downward with a whirr.

  “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say when you’ve got Carlos from Cuba.”

  Josh sighs. “I told you, we’re having a tiff. Besides, I haven’t decided about Carlos yet. He’s bi, and I don’t know if I want to date a guy who likes girls.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I want to date a guy who has obnoxious friends.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  The elevator door opens, and we step into the parking garage. It smells like heat, oil, and exhaust.

  “You just want to make the princeling work for it.”

  “I don’t give a fudge what he does.” I’m working on not cursing so I don’t mess up in front of the cameras, and fudge is my new favorite word. “I’m going to watch my reality shows on TiVo, then sleep. If I’m lucky I won’t dream about LSC Codes, occupancy classifications, and reverse stenciling.” My heels click on the concrete, the sound echoing through the barren garage.

  Josh waits, knowing I can’t leave it at that. He’s right.

  “In a few weeks this fudging kamikaze show will be over,” I say, “and if Nicolo’s still interested, I’ll think about it.”

  “Please. He’s your fantasy man. You’ve dreamed about this guy.”

  “Yeah, and I have to wonder if he’s real.”

  “Is anyone?” Josh says. Then, “What have we here?”

  Josh slows, and I follow his gaze. Nicolo is standing beside my BMW, looking cool in casualwear: black slacks, black silk shirt, leather jacket thrown over his shoulder.

 
; “I’m calling later, and I want details,” Josh says, then turns abruptly and heads across the garage to his turquoise Jeep.

  For a long moment I don’t move, trying to figure how I’m going to handle this. Then Nicolo spreads his arms, gives me a disarming smile, and the next thing I know I’m walking toward him. I stop close enough to smell his cologne. It must be made with pheromones because I can’t think of anything but pushing him up against the car and devouring that sexy mouth. “I’m too tired to go out,” I say, surprised that my words trickle through the constriction in my throat.

  “Then we should stay in,” Nicolo says softly, his voice and tenor matching my mood, almost as though he can read my mind. “I will entertain you.” He leans closer. “With my mouth, my hands, my body…”

  Okay, this is really corny. I swear, if a friend told me a guy said this to her, I would laugh my ass off. But we’re inches apart, his voice is low and seductive, his body’s hot, and I deserve a little fun after the day I’ve had.

  So instead of laughing at his cheesiness, instead of repeating my professional relationship mantra, I put my hand on the back of his neck, pull him to me, and kiss him hard. I don’t know how long we stand behind my car, our tongues entwined, our bodies wrapped around each other, but when his hand slides under my top and touches skin, I pull away.

  He frowns and sighs with frustration. I know exactly how he feels. The last thing I want to do is stop. I want him, and the role of good girl is a size too small.

  But just because I’ve capitulated internally doesn’t mean I’ll let him see how I really feel.

  “Allison, I will take you home, yes?”

  I shake my head, not my body’s first choice for a response, and my libido retaliates by certifying my brain clinically insane. But my suffering feels deserved. It wouldn’t be right if Nicolo were the only one sexually frustrated.

  “My car’s right here.” A voice that must be mine, but as it’s not screaming, “Take me now,” I’m not quite ready to claim ownership, then says, “We have a long day tomorrow.”

  “My driver will come back for your car, and the taping I will move to Thursday.”

  “No.” Goddamnit! Yes. I meant yes!

  His hands fist at his side and he glances away. He really doesn’t like being told no. And that reassures my mind—if not my body—that I’m taking the right tack with him. There are a lot of good reasons not to get involved. He needs to give me a really solid one to change my mind this soon.

  When he looks back, his face is impassive. “Then perhaps you would be interested in accompanying me to an event Friday evening.”

  “I don’t think so—”

  He puts a finger lightly over my lips. My body slumps with relief. Thank God something has finally made me shut up.

  “A new designer, Ciara St. Loren, shows her fall collection at a private venue Friday evening. You have heard of her, yes?”

  “Perhaps,” I say evenly, but my heart has started pounding harder than it was a moment ago when he…well, it’s pounding hard.

  Ciara St. Loren was the new designer in Milan last year. The fashion gods called her spring collection both spectacular and innovative. This fashion disciple called it ridiculously expensive. Even I hesitated to spend that much on clothes, so Mitsy bought me one of Ciara’s outfits for my birthday. It must have cost my parents over a thousand dollars, but it looks so good on me, it’s worth the price.

  “My invitation allows me to bring a guest. Would you consider accompanying me?”

  I should say no. All the reasons against getting involved rear their ugly heads, and the more time we spend together, the more involved we become.

  I’m also thinking it might not be a good move to be seen together again so soon or so publicly. As it stands, only about five people really care what I do, but be seen repeatedly with a prince and pretty soon reporters are digging through my trash, there are topless photos of me in the tabloids, and my mom is buying a wedding dress to match the royal jewels.

  Nicolo and I should just go back to my apartment, have wild sex until we’ve gotten each other out of our systems, and then go our own ways—his to rule a country and mine to decorate people’s bathrooms. But as reasons to go, Ciara St. Loren is pretty damn persuasive.

  “Friday?” I say. “I think I can reschedule a few things and join you.”

  “Good.” He smiles, and I can tell he’s genuinely pleased.

  Not as pleased as I am, but not too many guys could stand up against Ciara St. Loren. I frown. No doubt he figured I’d jump at the chance to see her new line, and when I accepted, he got exactly what he wanted.

  “I will see you Friday. But about tonight”—he leans in and kisses me again—“I have business tomorrow and will be away until Friday afternoon.”

  I glance up at him. “You won’t be at the taping Wednesday?”

  “Regretfully, no. But I am here tonight.” He kisses my jaw, then my neck, and his hands slide under my shirt to hover, warm and solid, at the small of my back. “Let me take you home.”

  His hands slide around to my belly, and I almost gasp at the sensation. I’m aching for his fingers to stray higher. My bra clasps in the front, and it would be an easy matter for him to snap it open…

  I pull away. “Good night, Nicolo.”

  He scowls, looking like a little boy who’s had his chocolate chip cookie taken away. He reaches out and catches my hand before this Chips Ahoy! makes her escape.

  “What do you want?” he says as though this is some kind of negotiation. “You want me, Allison, and I want you. I do not like to wait.”

  “Too bad.” I can’t hold back a laugh. I mean, did this guy ever grow out of the terrible twos? “Look, Cookie Monster, I’m not some petty official you can pressure, or one of your staff, forced to scamper whenever you say ‘boo.’ I’m going home. Alone.”

  His eyes darken with what looks like anger, but an experienced eye like mine sees arousal. The thrill of the chase and all that. Men. They’re all the same.

  Finally, Nicolo manages a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and releases my hand. “I do not understand you American women.”

  Wednesday morning I’m lying on my couch, listening to the Today show and sporting cool, wet green tea bags on my eyes. I didn’t get in from work until after midnight, and now my eyes are all puffy. Great. I’m going to be on national TV, and I look like I’ve got balloon implants above my cheeks.

  My cell rings, and I answer without moving. “No, Josh, you don’t look fat in whatever outfit you have on now.”

  “This is Rory.”

  “Oh. You don’t look fat, either.”

  “Thanks. I was calling to wish you good luck on the show today. And I want to take you out for a gossip session and a drink. If you’re too tired tonight, how about Friday?”

  “Can’t Friday. I have a da—professional outing.”

  “The prince?”

  “No comment.”

  “Ooh, you’re good. If I were a reporter, I’d back off.”

  “That’s why you’re not a reporter.” I lift one tea bag and peer at the clock. “Rory, I have to go.”

  “Okay, how about Saturday?”

  “Yeah, that would work—wait, no.” I sit and flip a page on my planner, lying open on the coffee table beside me. “I promised Grayson I’d volunteer at this basketball camp for inner-city kids with him Saturday. He doesn’t have his license back, so he needs a ride, and I haven’t seen him in weeks. I’m not sure when we’ll be done, but I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re volunteering? You?”

  I frown. “Of course. I’m all for philanthropy.”

  “Gray guilted you into it?”

  I sigh. “Yep.”

  “Thought so. Well, break a leg today.”

  “Thanks, Rory.”

  Okay, I thought when someone told you to break a leg that was supposed to be good luck. I’m going to have to do a little etymological research here because from the mo
ment I get to work, nothing is right.

  Well, it might be right, but it’s not the way I want it—and that’s really the only thing that matters. No wonder Nicolo isn’t here for the taping. If he were, I’d tear him to shreds. We all would.

  First problem: The van with the film crew, Josh, Miranda, and me stops in Englewood. For those of you not familiar with the Chicago landscape, this is a great, big, ugly crater, i.e., a very, very bad area.

  “Wait a minute,” I say to the guy who’s driving. He usually holds the furry mic. “Why are we stopping? I think I saw a body on the corner back there.”

  “Everybody out,” he says, opening his door, but Josh, Miranda, and I don’t move. The van with Watanabe and the Ron Howard producer pulls up across the street. I glance at the house in front of us. It looks like something out of the war zone in Iraq. I don’t know how it’s even still standing. It’s a one-story shotgun house with a small porch and was probably white at one time or another, but now it’s dingy gray. Well, the part of it not covered with graffiti is dingy gray.

  I glance at the house next door and realize why the house is covered with graffiti. About six guys in baggy jeans that desperately need belts are kicking back on the porch of the little blue house. They’re watching us with interest and drinking bottles of beer, even though it’s barely ten in the morning. They’re all wearing blue and white hats or bandannas, and when one of them catches me looking, he flashes me a hand sign.

  Josh says, “Is that a school for the deaf? I don’t know sign language.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, Josh, it’s a gang. We’re in gangland.”

  “Duck and cover!” Josh screams and dives to the floor.

  I glare at Miranda, then notice that the cameras are filming our reaction. “Turn off the fucking camera.”

  The cameraman frowns at me. Thank God for the Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real. The writers pointed out that network reality shows can’t use footage with profanity.