Million Dollar Marriage Page 3

  When I look up across the table, the yeti’s eyes are on me. Penetrating, dark, possessive.

  Okay, I see what Courtney means. He is attractive, in a bad-boy way. If I liked those things, I’d probably be interested. But I don’t. I like clean. Intelligent. Cultured.

  So why do I feel heat between my legs?

  I swallow and lower my eyes to my book, but I wind up reading the same sentence about a hundred times.

  I look up again. He’s still staring at me, his gaze as heavy as a brick, trapping me. I’ve never been stared at like this before.

  “What?” I snap.

  He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “I just like looking at you.”

  Great.

  I grab my book off the table and turn away from him, propping it up on my knees. So you can just like looking at the back of my head.

  I do manage to finish the chapter on Mencius, still feeling prickles on my neck from where I think his eyes may be boring into me. God, he has crazy, hot eyes, unblinking, like he’s marked his prey and is readying to pounce. But eventually I hear him talking to his friend the “star,” so I relax a little.

  The loudspeaker goes off again, and Courtney jumps up and waves her page. “It’s time! It’s time! Wish me luck!”

  She bounds excitedly over to the door as I trade glances with Joe. “She’s been talking about this nonstop. What do you think her chances are?”

  “Good,” I say. She’s beautiful, bubbly, and people love to be around her. Even though there’s a lot of competition, she’s just the type of person you’d find on a reality show. The cameras would love her. “Really good.”

  But a second later the door opens, and she comes in, head down. There are tears in her eyes. “They didn’t want me,” she moans as Joe pulls her into his arms.

  Then they call his number, and he kisses her head and says, “Well, they sure as hell aren’t going to want me, then.”

  But he goes anyway. When she slumps down next to me, she says, “That was brutal. They didn’t even ask me a single question. They just looked at me and said I wasn’t what they’re looking for. The end.”

  “Really? What are they looking for?”

  “Who the hell knows?” she mumbles as the door at the far end of the room opens and Joe comes in, his arms raised in victory. Courtney’s eyes widen. “You got through?”

  “Hell no. They took one look at me and told me not to let the door hit me in the ass.”

  Courtney sighs. “Well, at least it’s not just me.”

  Joe piles up both of their numbers and rips them in half. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Help us, Obi-Wan. You’re our only hope.”

  The words are still hanging in the air when my number is announced.

  All right. Well. I don’t feel so bad, now, if they’re just going to look at me and tell me to get lost. I shove my book under my arm and wave my number at the woman. “Hello.”

  She looks at her clipboard. “Hi. Name?”

  “Penelope Carpenter. People call me Nell.”

  “Penelope Carpenter. Right this way.” She leads me down a dark, narrow hallway toward a set of double doors flanked by two security guards, one male, one female. “No questions. Please do not speak unless spoken to. If you are asked to leave, you must leave immediately. As part of your application, you signed a waiver that states you will not discuss the audition process with anyone,” she reads in a dull monotone. “Is that understood?”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking, Can I just get my no so I can go home?

  “This way, miss,” the male guard says, leading me through a metal detector like they have in airports. I have to surrender my purse and book as I walk through it. They hand them back to me, and the woman nods at me to go inside. Who the heck am I meeting with, the pope?

  I take a deep breath and go inside.

  It’s a large wood-paneled room, with a giant table in the center. There are three people seated at the far end of it, a woman and two men, and they look restless. The men are probably just a little older than me, but the woman looks about fifty. There are Coke cans and an open pizza box in front of them, all but one slice devoured. The man with the mustache is chewing on his pen, looking at me like I killed his family.

  “Hi,” I say, giving a half wave.

  “Next,” he says gruffly.

  Thank the lord.

  I spin on my heel.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” the woman says. “What is that book you’re reading?”

  I show them the title.

  The mustached guy who hates me lets out a little “Ah.” I don’t figure him for a philosopher, but . . . “Do you wear those glasses all the time?”

  I push them up on my nose, on instinct. I’ve worn glasses since I was three and am one step away from being legally blind. Contacts have always been a hassle, and glasses, to me, have always been my little insulation from the outside world. “Yes . . .”

  I expect that’s my cue to leave. After all, I’ve already been in here a hundred times longer than Joe and Courtney combined. The woman says, “You look young. How old are you?”

  “I just turned twenty-five.”

  She looks down at a paper. I realize it must be the survey I filled out and handed in at check-in. “It says here you’re a doctor.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I graduate with my doctorate in comparative literature tonight.”

  “You have quite a long educational history here,” the other, completely bald man with the hipster glasses says. “I’m interested to know why you’re here. Watch a lot of reality television, do you?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t watch television at all. It’s not sufficiently stimulating to me. I’m here because my friend was coming, and I need the money to pay off my student loans.”

  “So . . . sufficiently stimulating, to you, would be . . .”

  “I play the harp in my spare time, so I love music that moves me. Mozart. Mussorgsky. Mahler. I’m very interested in theater and art—and obviously good literature . . .” I stop when I realize they’re way more interested in my life than anyone ever has been. They’re suddenly hanging on my every word.

  Why, again?

  “And your pet peeves?”

  This is definitely not happening. “Ah. Well, normal things. Ignorance. Laziness. People who overindulge. People who don’t read or think sports are a religion or eat fast food all the time. All those things, I think, are the downfalls of modern society.”

  “Hmm. Do you consider yourself athletic?”

  I looked down at myself. “What do you think? I’ve never even watched a sport before. Like I said, it’s not sufficiently stimulating to my mind. I think the human body is a work of art for the mind alone.”

  The woman looks down at her sheet. “Interesting, Penelope. And are you seeing anyone right now?”

  For a second, I think of Gerald. “Nell. And no.”

  Hipster guy motions me forward. “Can you come closer? Take your hair down from that ponytail and spin around?”

  I don’t want to, but I do. I walk toward the table, pull my dishwater-blonde hair out of the tie, and do a little catwalk turn, nearly falling over on my ass. I grasp the edge of the table before I topple down.

  When I look up, they’re all smiling at each other and nodding.

  The woman reaches under her clipboard and pulls out a black folder. She motions me forward and says brightly, “Congratulations. You’ve made it to our first round. I’m Eloise Barker, the executive producer. This folder contains everything you need to know.”

  I stare at her. This isn’t happening. “First round?”

  She nods and shakes my hand. “Yes, you are one of fifty contestants plus five alternates who will be selected for the filming of the first season of Million Dollar Marriage, which will begin filming this September! There are several rounds, but you’ve taken a very big step toward one million dollars.”

  No, this really isn’t happening. I’m dreaming. “But—what? Aren’t you even go
ing to tell me what the show is about? Like, the marriage part?”

  The mustached man shakes my hand. Now he seems to love me. “I’m Vic Warner, the showrunner.” He points to the bald hipster. “And that’s Will Wang, famous television personality and our host.”

  I stare at him. Famous? Never seen him before in my life. “Uh . . . about the show?”

  Eloise shakes her head. “Everything you need to know is right in the folder. Please call us should you have any questions. I’m afraid not everything is answered in there because we want to keep a certain air of mystery, but it’ll all be divulged in due time.”

  I shake my head. Air of mystery? Oh, that is so not me. “Actually, I—”

  She opens the first page and points to something that says “Prize Schedule.” I squint to read it. “As you’ll see, though we can’t tell you what you’ll be doing, contestants who do show up for the first day of taping will receive twenty thousand dollars. That’s yours to keep, whether or not you decide to continue on.”

  Twenty thousand dollars.

  For just showing up.

  My throat closes, but before it completely seals, I manage to squeak out an “Okay.”

  Then I’m ushered out the door to a totally different place from where I’d been before. I spend a good half hour wandering about before I find Courtney and Joe sitting in the front of the convention center.

  She runs to me as soon as she sees me. “Well? Where were you?”

  I hold up the folder with the MDM logo on it, still dazed. “I’m in.”

  Luke

  My strategy is this: make everyone love me. It ain’t hard.

  —Luke’s Confessional, Day 1

  Cutie doesn’t like me.

  It’s become my new favorite pastime, staring at her, watching the blush crawl across her cheeks, which are snow white except for a few freckles over the bridge of her nose, magnified by those glasses.

  Not like I have anything better to do. Jimmy’s in deep conversation with one of his fans, and so there’s hours and hours of nothing. And . . . her. She’s cute. Looks younger than twenty-five, that’s for sure.

  And she brought a fucking textbook to the auditions. What kind of girl brings a textbook to these things?

  She’s one of those smart girls. Well bred. Maybe not a virgin, but I bet she doesn’t fuck. She doesn’t even make love. She probably does it making sure there’s as little bodily contact as possible. I saw when she was filling out her survey that she doesn’t like to drink, party, smoke . . . hell, she could be a virgin. She’s just so clean.

  They’ve been whipping through auditions, one after another. They finally get done with Cutie’s two friends, and then it’s her turn.

  I watch her as she walks away. She’s wearing mom jeans, like she wants to cover up the fact that she has a nice ass.

  A really nice one.

  After she leaves, I watch the clock on the wall as I sit next to Jimmy, who’s texting with his little brother.

  Cutie doesn’t come back. Interesting.

  It’s about twenty minutes before they call my number.

  The woman looks at her clipboard and says, “Luke Cross?”

  “Yeah.”

  I follow her through security as she gives me a long rundown of the rules. I don’t listen. “Good luck,” she says to me.

  “Right, baby.”

  I go inside. This is easily the shit-stupidest thing I’ve ever done. How did I let Jimmy talk me into this? Maybe I should give up Tim’s Bar. Gran always says I work too hard. She’d understand.

  No, fuck that. If I lose that, it’s just a blink away from getting my breakfasts from trash cans and sleeping in alleys again.

  There is a woman and two men at the end of a table. They study me closely as I enter. “How you guys doing?”

  The woman just says, “Him. Definitely. Him.”

  I’m confused. “What do you want me for, baby?”

  She gives me a wink and leans over and starts to whisper with a guy with a mustache. Mustached guy nods and says, “You look like a man who can hold your own in a fight, Mr. . . .”

  “No Mr.,” I say. “Just Luke. Luke Cross. I do okay.”

  “Twenty-eight, six three, and two hundred pounds, huh? Grew up downtown Atlanta. So, you a Falcons fan?” the bald guy says, reading what I wrote on the survey.

  “Damn straight.”

  “Says here you like to have fun. What’s that to you?”

  I shrug. “Have a few beers. Watch the game. You know. Kick back.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Nah. I don’t do that shit anymore.”

  “But you were in rehab? For addiction?”

  “Yeah. When I was eighteen. Got myself clean and never looked back.”

  “You obviously work out,” the woman says, her eyes lingering appreciatively on my biceps.

  I flex them for her, give her the full show. Why the hell not? I reach for my shirt. “Want to see my six-pack?”

  The woman nods, but Mustache shakes his head. “It says on your application that you were incarcerated for a period of time?”

  “Yeah. Ancient history. About a decade ago. Breaking and entering. I did a lot of stupid shit when I was young. For drug money.”

  “And as far as schooling?”

  “Dropped out of high school when I was sixteen. My parents kicked me off our farm outside of Atlanta, and I haven’t seen them since. Spent two years on the streets until my grandfather caught up with me and took me in. Got me to rehab, got me off the streets, and taught me how to tend bar. He’s kind of my hero.”

  The woman swabs at her eyes. What, is she crying? “That’s sweet.”

  “Hmmm,” the man says. “And what do you do for work?”

  “I bartend at my place. I own a bar. Was my grandfather’s until he died five years ago.”

  “And with the money, you’ll . . .”

  “Pay off all the mortgages I have on it. Then blow the rest on beer and an entourage.”

  The cougar’s looking at me like she wants to take a bite of me. Tapping her pen to her bottom lip. I think she likes me. We have a connection.

  I grin at her. “Kidding. About the last part, at least.”

  “I want him,” she says suddenly, like she can’t hold it in anymore.

  “But he’s—” The mustached pecker puts his hand in front of his mouth so I can’t lip-read the rest. Probably something about me being a wild card who’s destined to give them trouble. Damn right about that.

  “I don’t care! He’s perfect. Look at that face. Those eyes. He’s the perfect hunk. Our target demographic will go wild for that face.”

  The target demographic. Women.

  Mustache throws up his hands. “Fine.”

  “So we all in agreement?” the woman asks.

  The two men nod reluctantly. Assholes.

  “Wow, two in a row!” She grins wolfishly at me. “Okay, handsome. Get on over here and get your welcome packet. Welcome to round one. All the information you need is in this folder.”

  I pump my fist. “Fuck yeah.”

  “You’ll have to tone down your language for television.”

  I pump my fist again. “Then, hell yeah. Better?”

  “Good enough.” She introduces herself as Eloise something, her hand lingering in mine, and tells me she’s the executive producer of the show. I wink at her. If this shit is rigged, I have a pretty solid in with the executive producer in my pocket.

  Then she introduces the two men, but I forget their names. “Please call us with any questions. I look forward to seeing you next season for the start of a great adventure.”

  I shake their hands. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. Looking forward to . . .” I realize I have no fucking clue what I’m in for. But I don’t care. I’m up for anything. I’ve made it through the hard part. That money is already mine. “Whatever the fuck you’re going to make us do.”

  She smiles at me. “You’ll see. I’m sure you’ll do well, Luke.”

&
nbsp; I know I will. Everyone else who got a black folder might as well line up and kiss my ass. Because that cool million is all mine.

  I’m led outside, and I find Jimmy out there waiting for me. He scans the folder under my arm. “Well, shit. What did I tell you? You’re gonna be a star.”

  “Fuck yeah,” I tell him, since I’m not on television yet. “Let’s go celebrate. I can taste that million already. I’m buying.”

  PANIC

  Nell

  What is my ideal mate? I don’t know. Yes, I do want to get married, ideally before I’m thirty. I like classical music and art and the finer things in life, so I guess that’s what I’d love. Someone cultured, classy, refined. A doctor, maybe . . .

  —Nell’s Confessional, Day 1

  Four months after the audition, early in the morning, I’m sitting in the front seat of Courtney’s car, pointing all the air vents right at my face because I think I might throw up.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m . . .”

  She snaps her fingers at me. “Nell? You’re doing this.”

  I nod. As I do, my teeth chatter.

  She pulls on her seatbelt and gives me a look from the driver’s side. “Come on, girl. You’re a doctor now. Dr. Badass. You can do anything. And this is your moment. You were chosen from over ten thousand applicants. You’re going to do something great.”

  I try to let the pep talk sink in and hope the nausea will go away. “Yes. Right.”

  The past month has been, in a word, insane. I read the paperwork over again and again. Most of it was legal junk, papers that needed to be signed. I had to have a physical and get a waiver from my physician. I also had to take a drug test, fill out a personality test of about two thousand more questions, and get a psychiatric evaluation. Two weeks ago, a photographer and stylist came to my house and took portraits of me that gave me flashbacks to my elementary school photos.

  And now it’s the first day of filming. It’s a closed set, being filmed at the rec center at Georgia Tech. Since I don’t have a car, Courtney volunteered to drive me, but she’s bummed because she can’t come watch. No, this first episode, where the fifty contestants are introduced and find out what the show is really about, is very hush-hush. When filming is done today, we’ll be whisked off to an undisclosed location where the race will resume. It’s all very secretive.