Million Dollar Marriage Page 2

  “You ready?” I call.

  He slides out of the seat, never dropping Lizzy’s hand. She grins at me. “It’s James. He was born ready.” She looks at him. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

  He gives her a grin and nods. “Yeah. Ready.” He rubs his hands together. “Hey, you okay?”

  I nod. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  He turns to the audience and clears his throat. “Everyone. Here it is. The world premiere of my latest stunt, which will debut on my channel this weekend. Filmed down in Oahu.”

  Jimmy hasn’t changed a whole hell of a lot since he started dating Lizzy. He has, though, gotten the capital he needed to expand his YouTube channel to a lot more exotic locales. I can’t say I’m not a bit jealous. Before Lizzy, Jimmy and I were on the same track: raised on the toughest streets of Atlanta and destined to live the rest of our lives and die here. Now Jimmy spends every other week on an adventure, when I’ve never so much as been out of the state. But he and Lizzy? As different as they are, she’s so damn good for him it almost makes me think love exists.

  Almost.

  I press play on the Blu-ray player, and the black screen cuts to a shot of Jimmy, standing on the edge of a volcano, in a crash helmet.

  Everyone cheers for the man. He’s the neighborhood hero.

  A guy I’ve never seen before gets my attention. “You call this a whiskey? What do you do, water down shit?”

  I give him a hard look. “Go somewhere else.”

  “Yeah, I will, but I’m not paying for this shit.”

  It’s because of the phone call I’d gotten earlier that afternoon that my temper flares. I grab the shot glass I’m polishing and slam it on the bar. It shatters in my fist.

  Jimmy whirls to look at me, stunned. Lizzy too.

  Jimmy gets in the guy’s face. “You are gonna fucking pay for that, aren’t you?”

  “Hey,” I say, holding up a hand. I don’t need him to fight my battles. And the last thing I need is Jimmy breaking any more of my furniture, which he’s prone to do. “It’s fine.”

  Jimmy narrows his eyes. “No, it’s not. He complains about the drink, but he drained the whole damn thing.”

  The guy, reconsidering, opens his wallet, throws a ten down, and hurries out the door.

  “And don’t come back, asshole!” Jimmy shouts after him. Then he leans on the bar. “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter.

  “But your hand!” Lizzy points at it. It’s covered in blood.

  “No big deal.” I wrap a clean dishrag around it. They’re still studying me, waiting for me to say more. “Look. This is your night. Have fun. We’ll talk later.”

  “Later” ends up being at three in the morning. I announce last call at two, but the bar doesn’t fully clear out until an hour later. Jimmy helps me round up the last of the stragglers. By then, Lizzy’s curled up in his “office,” sleeping on the bench under one of his flannel shirts.

  “So why you been giving everyone that look?” he asks me as I pour two tequilas. “That I want to rip off your head and shit down your neck look?”

  I toss back the entire glass in one gulp. “I’m broke.”

  “All right. Well, you’ve run into hard times before, and—”

  “This ain’t like before. I’ve been getting more and more in the red for years. The bank’s done. They told me I got a whole shitload of mortgages I didn’t even know my grandfather took out on this place, and I need to pay up in full by the end of the year. Which ain’t gonna happen, ’cause I gotta pay Gran’s nursing home bills.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Jimmy chokes and looks around. “No offense, Luke, but this place ain’t worth half a mil.”

  “I know. My place upstairs is an even bigger shithole than down here.”

  “Hell. This place has been in your family for years.”

  I don’t want to think about that. My granddad was the “Tim” of Tim’s Bar. To have his legacy end with me blows hardcore.

  “That place your grandmother’s in is like the Ritz.”

  I nod. “And she’s gonna stay there. She has friends there. She plays mah-jongg with them and shit. She’s happy.”

  Jimmy looks over toward his office, where his girlfriend is sleeping soundly, and I know exactly what’s on his mind. “Well, Lizzy has a soft spot for this—”

  “No. Don’t tell her. I know Lizzy. I know she’ll give me the money in a heartbeat. I don’t want it from her. I don’t want to be in debt to anyone.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he nods anyway. “All right. Then what?”

  “Pray for a miracle?” I shrug. “Hell if I know.”

  He leans on the bar, thinking. “No. You don’t need a miracle. I’ve got your answer right here.” He goes over to his office and pulls a sheet of paper off the messy pile on the table. “These guys wanted to put an ad on my channel. They’re holding tryouts for a new reality TV show in this area tomorrow. The top prize is a million dollars.”

  I stare at the sheet. “Million Dollar Marriage? I don’t watch that reality shit. What is it?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It says contestants must be between the ages of twenty-five and forty-nine, in good physical shape, and up for adventure. That’s all. That’s you, man.”

  I laugh. “That’s you.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t need the money. And you’ve got a face for the camera, man. The ladies’ll lap you up.”

  “All right, all right,” I say, scratching my chin. “I’ll think about it.”

  I close up the bar, say good night to my friends, and go upstairs to my two-bedroom shithole. I used to live up here with my grandparents until he died and she suffered the first of many strokes that put her in the nursing home. Back when we were living together up here, Gran had made it homey, with curtains and candles and womanly touches. But I don’t do that shit. I’m barely home to take care of it.

  Even the bar downstairs is falling apart in my hands. At first I’d had this sense of pride. Owning my own place at twenty-three, taking care of business. It was a complete one-eighty from where I’d been just five short years before. I’d felt like a success for the first time in my life. A poster child for all those addicts out there who think it’s not possible to pull out of the hole.

  But it hasn’t been easy. And now? I feel like shit.

  Like I’m digging myself another hole. I’m ruining Gran’s place, little by little.

  I strip down to my boxers and sit on the edge of the mattress, looking at the scars on my inner arm. All those nights lying slumped in my own piss in the dark alleyways in downtown Atlanta, strung out on whatever juice I could find cheap—I thought I’d be dead by my twenties.

  Everything I’ve made for myself since then? It’s all hanging in the balance. I’m going to lose this place. And I’m going to lose Gran soon too. And then what’ll I have? I live every fucking day knowing those two things are at the top of the very short list of Things Preventing Me from Being a Junkie Again.

  Without them . . . really. What the fuck else do I have?

  I reach over onto the dresser and unfold the flyer Jimmy gave me. As I lie back on my mattress, I think about it more than I should. Reality TV? I never thought I’d consider it. But the more I think about it, the more I think it might be my only shot at saving my bar . . . and saving my ass in the process.

  THE AUDITION

  Nell

  I suppose if this is more of a cerebral challenge, I might do well. But if it involves any hand-eye coordination, I’m in trouble. I’m a bit uncoordinated.

  —Nell’s Confessional, Day 1

  Turns out, Courtney is right.

  I really had no idea what I was in for.

  It’s ten in the morning, and the Atlanta Convention Center is mobbed. You’d think they were playing the Super Bowl here. We found a parking spot about a mile away from the end of a line that snaked endles
sly toward the front doors of the center. When we got there and I could barely see the huge arena from where we stood, I started to pout.

  Now I’m just miserable.

  “You’re right, Nee. This was stupid,” I mumble to her as she leans on Joe for support. Joe is the perfect boyfriend who treats her like a queen. He finished undergrad the same time we both did, went out and got a good job, and now he’s making six figures. He takes Courtney out to expensive meals and does the adulting thing really well.

  Unlike some people I know.

  “What did I tell you about that?” Courtney says, nudging me back upright as I try to lean on her. My feet hurt. “We don’t need Negative Nelly. Negative Nelly can go take a hike.”

  I sigh and check my watch. We’ve been here only fifteen minutes, and we’ve moved about . . . three feet. Sigh. I stand on my tiptoes to see if I can spot the convention center any better. “Is all of Atlanta here?”

  “Hey. Zip it,” Courtney says, zipping her fingers over her lips.

  “Fine.” I wish I had someone to lean on. I squat, then sit, but the second I do, the line starts to move again. Story of my life. I push my glasses up on the bridge of my nose and scramble into place.

  “What are you reading?” Joe asks me.

  “A Compendium of Ancient Chinese Philosophy,” I say, not looking up because if I lose my spot one more time, I might go crazy.

  “Riveting,” he says.

  “It is.” The line moves again. This time I don’t get up. I crawl with it, my nose buried in the book.

  I try to read more, but the people in front of me are talking too loudly. The big topic of conversation is what the hell the premise of this Million Dollar Marriage show is actually going to be. The craziest rumors are flying around. The bouncy blonde girls in front of me with their surfer-dude boyfriends seem to think that they’re going to offer people a million dollars to get married to their respective partners on live television.

  Which sucks for me, because the only partner I have with me is my giant textbook.

  “You know what I think?” Courtney says to me, leaning on Joe’s shoulder. “They said adventure. I think they’re going to split teams up into men and women and send them through an obstacle course. And whoever wins has to get married on live television or else forfeit the money.”

  I stare at her. All the more reason for me to get the eff out of here. I am not athletic. I am beyond two left feet. I am all soft and squishy curves, and I’m happy that way. The only reason I’d run is if something were chasing me. And marry a complete stranger? No to the thousandth power.

  I look longingly in the direction of where Joe parked his Jeep.

  “They wouldn’t do that, would they? Force strangers to marry?” I ask, alarmed.

  She shrugs. Oh god. They would. “Haven’t you ever seen Married at First Sight?”

  Married at what? She does know who she’s talking to, doesn’t she? “So wait . . . you’d get married to a stranger, even though you’re dating Joe?”

  She nods. “For a million dollars, yeah. He’d do the same.”

  Joe wraps an arm around her and says, “Hell yes.”

  Who are these people? Romance is truly dead in this world.

  A bit later, a woman in a polo shirt with a name tag that says “MDM—Hi, I’m Eve!” comes by. She has a very official-looking headset on and is murmuring into it.

  “Excuse me,” I say to her. “Can you tell me if the contestants will be required to marry?”

  She just looks at me and laughs like I’m an idiot.

  Oh god.

  She’s handing out sheets of paper and pens. “Please fill out this survey and have it ready for when you approach the check-in table. Thank you!”

  Check-in table? I stretch out my neck, trying to see anything other than Siberian wasteland. Just as I do, Courtney laughs. “Oh my god, these questions are a riot.”

  I look down at my paper. Besides all the regular info, it has this:

  Please indicate on a scale of one to five (one being “fits me perfectly” to five being “does not fit me at all”) how well each of these statements fits you:

  I love to meet new people.

  I like being alone.

  I have a huge social circle . . .

  And on and on. I page through it and realize there are more than five hundred of these personality questions, on everything from sociability to athleticism to intelligence.

  Well, happy day. I love taking tests.

  I get right down to it, using my book as a desk, filling out ovals excitedly. For some reason, this has always relaxed me. I actually loved taking the SAT and the GRE. I smile the whole time, or at least until Nee nudges me.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you look like a serial killer when you take tests?”

  I smack her.

  The thing that takes me longest is listing all my degrees and awards, but I still finish before everyone else. As I do, I sense someone’s presence hovering over my shoulder. “Shit, you did that fast.”

  I turn and look up, up, way up at the dirtiest hunk of man I’ve ever seen. All his ripped muscles look like they’re fighting to escape from an inadequately small T-shirt. He has tattoos—I’d say way too many, but one is too many for me. He’s hairy, too, unshaven, with a mess of brown hair falling over his eyes. I detect a whiff of tobacco. He’s a . . . thug.

  And his eyes are on me. Beautiful, sparkly green eyes that don’t fit with the rest of him. Penetrating to my core.

  Ohhhkay. I stiffen and face my back to him, hoping that if I ignore him, he’ll go away. I pretend to be really interested in what Courtney’s doing.

  That’s when Joe says, “Holy shit. Aren’t you Jimmy Rowan?” to the men behind me.

  “Yep,” the dirty guy’s friend says.

  “Shit! That’s crazy. You going out for this thing?”

  Oh no.

  Behind me, Jimmy says, “Nah. Just here to support my friend.”

  “Really? They’d probably pick you in a second. They’d totally want a celebrity,” Joe gushes. Courtney’s ears prick up at the mention of the word celebrity. She stands up and stares closely at him as Joe says, “He’s a famous YouTube star.”

  Courtney’s jaw drops. I roll my eyes. What the hell is a YouTube star, and why do my goofy friends find it so appealing? The guys behind me are thugs.

  Joe starts to go through his backpack. “Can I have an autograph?”

  Oh god. I stand on my tiptoes and try to see if the line is moving, then cross my arms, completely not willing to turn around and engage. Courtney yanks on my sleeve, but I tear it away and give her a death look.

  “Nell,” she murmurs in my ear, dazed. “He’s famous. And did you see his friend?”

  She fans her face. Is she insinuating what I think she’s insinuating? “I don’t care,” I singsong.

  “You should care. Flex your flirting muscles for once in your life. Maybe then you’d get Gerald the Goofball out of your head.”

  “Um. One, I don’t have flirting muscles. Two, I don’t have Gerald in my head. And three, even if I did, that thug isn’t going to get him out of it. He’s like . . . an animal.”

  “A dirty, hot animal. Mmm.”

  “Nee! Put your tongue back in!”

  Joe gets the autograph and stares at it like it’s his most prized possession as he continues to talk the dirty guys’ ears off. I try to walk as close as I can to the people in front of me so that I can get as far away from the thugs as possible. I open my book and read.

  “That’s a mighty big book for a little girl like you.” The voice comes over my shoulder, breath tickling my ear.

  I nearly jump.

  He smells good. Why does he smell good? I grit my teeth and push my glasses up on my nose. “I’m not that little.”

  I’m really not. I’m almost five seven. Compared to him, though, I guess I am. He’s a beast.

  “You studying for some test or something?”

  I roll my eyes. “No
. Just reading for fun.”

  He laughs. “You find reading fun?”

  Ugh. Yes, I do find reading fun, as opposed to what he must find fun, like shooting up or biting the heads off chickens. I decide I won’t answer and maybe he’ll get the picture that I’m not interested in talking to him.

  I don’t know how I manage it, but I ignore him the rest of the time. Two hours later, we make it to the check-in desk, take numbers, and then we’re ushered into a part of the convention center with tables where we can sit. I try to sit as far away as possible from the yeti and his famous friend, but unfortunately, Joe drags us so that we’re sitting at the same table, all the while acting like the YouTube star’s groupie.

  A voice over the loudspeaker says, “Number 4,322.” I look at mine. 5,696.

  Blah.

  An older man in a baseball cap waves his number and runs toward the stage. A woman in an MDM polo nods at him, and he follows her out the door.

  A second later he appears again, looking kind of angry. I guess he didn’t get chosen. He says something to his girlfriend, and the two of them leave, giving the woman at the door the middle finger.

  Nice.

  She ignores them and calls the next number.

  At least they’re moving fast.

  “I’ll be pissed,” Courtney says with a sigh, “if I spend all day here just to be in with them for only five seconds!”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. I’m kind of embarrassed to be here to begin with. Did I really think this was going to be my ticket? I’m not unique. And I’m not adventurous. I’m sure as hell not going to get married to just any old guy for television ratings. And Courtney’s right. This totally isn’t my scene. The people here probably have a collective IQ of ten. When I leave here an hour from now, completely empty handed, I’m going to have to get real and get a normal job, like everyone else in the world.

  Which is probably why I haven’t left.

  I bury my nose in the textbook and try to ignore the conversations going on around me. People are still theorizing about what this Million Dollar Marriage show is, and the whole place is on the verge of explosion from curiosity.