F*CK Reality: Take One Read online

  “You’re right,” she tells me. “And if you were her, I wouldn’t want to know you.”

  The knock at the door saves us from further discussion. Addie opens it carefully, but doesn’t greet whoever is there. When I peer above Addie’s shoulder, I only make out what looks to be a blonde woman with big hair. She’s also pressing on the door to enter.

  I’m surprised when Addie steps back. This allows the woman enough room to squeeze through the door and into our small, cramped space.

  “You’re Willow Ellis,” I whisper. “You’re Willow...” I start to say again.

  “Ellis,” the woman says, smiling and offering her hand in formal introduction. “I am her.”

  “No way,” I hear Addie mutter as she steps back into her position, guarding the door to keep the others out.

  The knocking has become relentless, adding now a few curses from the women actually needing to use the facilities.

  Addie ignores the activity behind her and states, “You’re the woman from that television show.”

  Willow looks back and nods to Addie before turning her gaze to mine. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

  “She’s okay,” Addie answers, because I can’t.

  I’m starstruck.

  For the first time in my life I’m coming face to face with a celebrity. I have no words. I’m sure my gaping mouth and speechless temperament is frightening her, but no way can I help it.

  No way.

  “I’m okay,” I finally muster the courage to reply. “Jason and I have history, but I’ll be fine.”

  Willow nods, keeping her eyes on me. “That was his name? Jason?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hear you guys aren’t taking anymore applications for this season,” Addie casually points out. “But what about next year? I’d love to be on your show. How can I apply?”

  I imagine my one-track mind friend would do well in the public eye. She would certainly bask in the attention. We don’t have this in common. I’ve thrown a drink on a man I used to love only to find myself shamefully hiding in bathroom bar to avoid seeing him again for God’s sake.

  “You’re technically seeing someone, Addie,” I remind her, happy to have found my words. “Right?”

  Addie narrows her eyes, this time using the ‘shut the fuck up’ expression I’ve come to know.

  “Well,” Willow starts, but stops. Her eyes come to mine, and her expression turns to all business. “Technically, your friend is right. We’re not actively accepting any more auditions. We start with eight girls every season. We’ve already chosen them for this one.”

  “Yes,” I reply. “I know. I’ve seen the previews.”

  “A fan of the show?” she recognizes while smiling. “Great!”

  “I watch sometimes,” I tell her. “When I can,” I add, trying not to sound pathetic.

  My head still isn’t wrapped around Willow being here, standing in front of me, looking exactly like she does on television. She’s so pretty.

  “I want you there.” My mouth falls open as she shocks me by further saying, “On the show.”

  “Wait, what?” Addie jolts, walking away from her place at the door to stand next to me. “You want Brooke?”

  “Brooke,” Willow says, using the name I obviously forgot to give her. “Yes, I want Brooke. I want the spitfire I just watched throw a drink all over the man who at one time broke her heart. I want the girl who didn’t think twice about embarrassing the smug bastard who left his new girlfriend on a band stage to dance in front of a crowded room of rowdy onlookers that wasn’t policed with security.”

  Well, when she puts it like that...

  “Idiot,” Willow mumbles.

  “Bastard,” Addie adds.

  “He did break my heart,” I admit.

  However, seeing him again as I did, throwing a drink on him as I did, and finally saying my piece as I did, was therapeutic. I’m less hurt and more scorned. Everything Addie has been trying to tell me is true. Jason and I weren’t supposed to be together. If we were, he wouldn’t have done what he did.

  Addie smiles at what she must believe is my self-realization. Willow’s eyes narrow because she’s obviously still pissed on my behalf.

  “Bastard,” Willow repeats Addie’s conclusion. “Will you consider coming to Los Angeles?”

  Shaking my head, I move to speak, but Addie steps in front of me first and responds with, “Absolutely.”

  “Addie!”

  “She’ll go.” Addie turns to me, giving me a nasty look that Willow can’t see before turning back around. “She’ll go.”

  “Here’s my card.” Willow’s long, red fingernails stand out against the gold and black card she’s pushing toward me. “I’ll call you in the morning with more details. I can also answer whatever questions you come up with before then. There’s a catch, though, honey.”

  “What’s the catch?” Addie asks, not giving me the chance.

  It’s a good thing Addie’s thinking, too, because I’m a speechless zombie, holding the business card belonging to a woman who produces a reality television show. The same show I’ve watched, but never desired to be cast on.

  “Well, we’re set to tape next week. As in, next week. The only thing Matt and I have left to do is pick the groom. He’s summarizing his interviews Monday and Tuesday, and then the candidate will be announced bright and early Wednesday morning.”

  “Shit, that’s fast,” Addie comments, but turns to look at me. “But you’ll do it?”

  “I don’t know, Addie. I have to check...”

  What the hell am I saying?

  “No, I don’t think I can make it,” I curtly advise. “I have things to do.”

  “Willow?” Addie calls. The two exchange a look. “Can I get a minute in here alone with Brooke?”

  And there it is.

  That’s all it takes.

  Addie’s mind is made up. I’ll never convince her that this is a bad idea.

  The worst ever.

  Nothing good can come of it. But it doesn’t matter. Seeing Jason tonight put another nail in the coffin which was once my life.

  Dear Lord, I hate that man.

  Chapter Five

  Don’t ask me if I know what the fuck I’m doing.

  Brock

  -

  “Own it, Brock,” Drew demands. “You lost the bet. You know the rules.”

  I may have overreacted after losing the final hand of the poker game Saturday night. I threw my cards in, cursed the adolescent rules, then waited to see if my soon to be ex-friends were really going to go through torturing me with this ridiculous dare.

  A dare which would put me in the spotlight of a ludicrous television show I’ve always—adamantly—refused to watch.

  “You’re trying to help,” I explain what I know. “I get it, I do. But this is fucked.”

  “It’s not.” Drew shakes his head as he steps further into my apartment.

  It’s been two days of quiet peace with my friends. Two days where I contemplated this dare and if I should even consider it. Two days alone with my own reflective thoughts regarding my stepdad’s disappointment and my mom’s incessant worrying.

  My contemplations weren’t only about them, but Tate as well. So far, I’ve only played the role of a fuck up older brother, and I’ve done it with ease. I’ve never given my little sister reason to follow any of my leads by example.

  When Drew knocked on my door this morning, I debated on whether to answer or not. Once I heard Nick out there as well, I knew I didn’t stand a chance against the two of them together. Separately, maybe. Together, no way.

  Nick looks around, taking in the state of my apartment. I haven’t bothered to clean or straighten. Since I’m off this week, I thought I’d take some time to unwind and relax. Viewing my place through his eyes now has me second-guessing if all the deliveries in takeout and trips to the liquor store were such a great idea.

  Finally, after a few seconds of keeping his mouth shut, Nick ope
ns it with, “If Daddy Warbucks saw this place...”

  “He’d have reason to be as pissed as he is?” Drew questions, eyebrows raised. He’s readying for my reaction, but I don’t care enough to offer one.

  “We gotta go, Brock. And you’re not ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “We’re meeting Matt Sutton’s personal assistant in two hours. As in, you need to shower, dress, and put on a happy face.”

  “This is fucked,” I tell them, refusing to move. “I didn’t agree to this.”

  Drew sighs heavily, running his hands through his hair “You did agree. Brock, I know you think we’re assholes—”

  “Fucking assholes,” I correct.

  “Right.” Nick steps in between us and stands too close for my comfort.

  Nick places his hand on my shoulder and looks me square in the eyes. I’ve known him a long time, and I can’t remember when he’s been so serious, other than when his father passed.

  “We’re doing this,” he says quietly. “But we’re not doing it because we’re dicks. We’re doing this because we care.”

  Still standing behind Nick, Drew moves in closer as well. “We’ll be downstairs. If you’re not down there in thirty minutes, we’re leaving.”

  “Thank fuck,” I utter with relief.

  Nick shakes his head. “No, Brock. This sounds like an ultimatum—”

  “It is,” Drew interrupts. “But if you don’t get your shit together, we’ll blame ourselves and rethink our friendship.”

  Oh my god, my friends are starting to sound like women.

  “Seriously?”

  “No,” Drew replies. “But if you don’t do this for us, then what hope do we have for our future?”

  “Lead us, Brock,” Nick dramatically states, covering his hand over his heart. “Help us.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I mumble. I take the two of them in and think about how badly I need to expand my circle of friends. “Give me thirty.”

  “There he is! Who knows, you may not even get chosen,” Nick says as encouragement, but he doesn’t mean it. His smile lies.

  “See ya downstairs,” Drew calls back as the two idiots file out, closing the door behind them.

  “Do you have any future engagements which would hinder your ability to be on set for the nine to eleven weeks’ time?” the bald man asks as I sit across from him, waiting for him to stop prodding into my life as he is.

  So many queries...

  Question: Do you have a girlfriend?

  Answer: Nope. If I did, my father wouldn’t have forced me into this situation.

  Question: Have you ever been married?

  Answer: God, no. Same answer applies. Though, I don’t tell him any of that either.

  Question: Do you have any STDs that you’re aware of?

  Answer: Fuck no. No glove, no love.

  Question: Do you have any mental disorders we should know about prior to the show being taped?

  This is where I draw the line.

  “Are we almost done here?” I abruptly question. He raises his eyes from his clipboard to find my disinterest. “I don’t think I’m your guy.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Brock, but I believe you are,” he returns with a smile. “Matt’s all but decided you’re who he wants. He mentioned your name again this morning.”

  “He didn’t know me this morning,” I state as fact.

  The sudden inquisitive look on the man’s face gives me pause. I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that my dear friends had already set me up; formal applications weren’t needed in my case, apparently.

  Son of a bitch.

  I take a quick look around to the other candidates in this small lounge. Most are wearing suits. They’re all tan with perfectly styled hair. Some even appear to have had manicures and facials. I look down to my dark blue Henley, which isn’t even nice, and faded blue jeans, which have a few holes and tears, then smirk. I’m the only contestant in this room who doesn’t give a shit.

  Maybe that’s what makes the theme of this reality television so real.

  Sensing my inner discovery, Mr. What’s-His-Name is, smiles again.

  Standing up, he grabs his coffee cup and takes a quick drink. Before setting it down, he holds it to his chest and says, “If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll tell Matt we’ve finished your interview.”

  Checking my watch, not giving two shits about the time, I counter with, “Five minutes.”

  As I sit alone, picking at the end of my shirt, debating on whether to pull the string, a tall, well put together man about my height and age comes to stand at my side. He’s wearing a designer suit, coupled with expensive loafers. His face is closely shaven, and his smile is polished. He appears to be as I had imagined he would.

  “Brock LaDuece, I assume?” Putting his hand between us, he offers it to me for me to take. His large faced, silver plated watch is another indication he’s well-groomed.

  Rather than continue to look disinterested, I stand and accept it. “I’m Brock.”

  “Matt Sutton, producer and host of the show.”

  “I’m still just Brock,” I answer half-heartedly.

  “Sit, please,” he instructs, pointing back to my chair.

  He walks around the table to the seat the interviewer—damn I should have gotten his name—was sitting and takes it himself.

  As he flips through a manila folder, I catch the mug shot picture which had been taken when we arrived.

  “You’re a media mogul, I see,” he casually comments, not looking up.

  “My father is Martin Merritt, of Merritt Media.”

  “I see. So, as his son, this makes you his protégé?”

  “As his stepson,” I correct. “I’m his life’s disappointment.”

  My reply forces his wide smile. His perfect, straight white teeth shine under the table’s interrogation light above.

  “Tell me,” he insists, closing the file and resting his arms on top of it. “Why would you consider a position on a show such as this one?”

  “Honestly?” I inquire. I mean, if we’re being honest, I’ll tell him.

  “Absolutely.” Sitting back, he rests his elbow on the chair’s arm and crosses his ankle to his knee. “I’m curious. Generally, those we’ve interviewed are self-made millionaires. You’re not. Your inheritance is what makes you different than the others.”

  “My father strongly urged me to find a woman and settle down.”

  His face drops. He must think I’m kidding. Fuck, I wish I were.

  “He’s threatening to take away my rights to his company, along with my inheritance, if I don’t.”

  A look of understanding passes over his expression before he tilts his head to the side.

  “Did you read any of the contract Tom gave you when you arrived?”

  Tom. Thank you for that.

  “I haven’t,” I admit.

  Sitting up, he gives me a disappointed look. “In this contract, it states you must choose a woman from those we’ve selected. However, it doesn’t mean the woman you choose will marry you. The catch is that if she were to refuse, the audience would choose for you.”

  I did not know this.

  “This very same thing happened last year. The man chose, she denied. The audience chose for him.”

  “How’d that go?” I ask, oddly curious and internally berating myself for being so.

  Matt nods with enthusiasm. “Very well. They’re coming back at the end of this season to tape their follow-up episode.”

  I don’t say anything in response. I don’t know what to say.

  “You’re a good looking man, Brock. I have no doubt the women Willow has selected will meet your suitable expectations.”

  Shrugging, I admit, “My father won’t care who she is or what she looks like as long as she makes my mother happy.”

  Matt’s face once again turns to pity. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be happy to have all of this over.�
��

  Suddenly, he stands, extends his hand again, and waits for me to accept.

  Once I do, he knowingly grins and says, “Well, let’s start now.”

  Chapter Six

  God, I love my dad.

  Brooke

  -

  “Dude, seriously. That woman is hot,” Ashton, my nineteen-year-old brother, who I choose to believe will always remain a virgin states his observation as we all sit around my parents’ dining room table. “I know she’s gotta be old, but damn, she’s still good looking.”

  I’ve been choking on my words, not my dinner, since I started to explain what happened at Cub’s three nights ago. The only reprieve I’ve been granted is Ashton’s continuous study of the magazine announcing this year’s theme of the show.

  Marry a... Millionaire.

  I’ve tossed around the idea in my head so many times, and in so many ways, I can’t remember all Willow told me. I know I have to decide today, though, as in right now. My plane, if I choose to board it, leaves tomorrow morning at ten.

  “Ashton, put that down,” my dad barks. He doesn’t wait for Ashton to do as he’s told, rather, he adds, “You have bigger things to worry about than the woman on the cover of that magazine.”

  “Dad, have you seen her?” my brother questions, lifting the copy of Television Wild and forcing my dad to look away. In the meantime, my mother’s staring daggers at us all.

  “This whole situation is preposterous! Tell me you’re not seriously considering this crazy idea. Are you, Brooke?” she asks.

  Mom hasn’t taken this news well. Since I first explained Willow’s offer, her lower eyelid has continued to twitch at a furious pace. For a few minutes, I thought she was going to pass out, but luckily the color in her face came back once she started steadily breathing again.

  “I wasn’t going to—”

  “Oh, thank God,” she exhales, interrupting me as she does. “You don’t know that man they’ve chosen. And you don’t know those women, either.”

  “Nora, stop it.” To my surprise, it’s my dad who intervenes again. He’s been mostly quiet, not saying much since this conversation started. “Whether Brooke decides to go or doesn’t isn’t your decision to make.”