Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) (4 page)

BRADLEY

Thursday, April 1st

I’ve been living at Model House for one month, but it feels like one year.  It’s April first today, and if feels like it’s all been one big joke so far.  Aside from missing Naomi desperately, I’m stuck here with all these idiots, preening for the camera.  Don’t get me wrong.  This place is spectacular.  We have three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of Manhattan, a rooftop bar, fitness center with spa.  It’s just, like, SO much drama.  You wouldn’t think guys could be bitchy, but if you watch one episode, you’ll definitely change your mind.  I wonder if Naomi’s watching.  I’ve been concentrating on being super boring so I don’t get much screen time.  Yesterday, one of the producers called me into this little room that’s off-screen.  She told me I needed to up my game.  Maybe make a pass at one of the other dudes. 

“That’s not happening,” I assured her.  She looked pretty pissed.  Last week she suggested I demand to switch roommates.  “Why would I do that?”  I asked.  We’re all in a duplex, but we’re divided into pairs to share each of the four bedrooms.  My roommate, as far as I’m concerned, is the only guy here worth talking to.  His name is Presley and he’s thirty-one also, fifth kid on the way.  I guess his runway work dried up so he’s doing this for the quick cash.  Naomi was already pissed at me for leaving and we don’t even have kids yet.  I wonder what she would have said with four in the loft and one on the way.  I think there would probably have been blood.

So, no, I’m not going to hit on a dude, and I’m definitely not switching roommates.  I’m going to keep my head down for the next two months and collect my paycheck without making a jackass of myself.

Friday, April 2nd

There’s something going on in the duplex but I can’t figure out what it is.  All day, there’s been people going in and out with food and mucho booze.  The kitchen looks like it’s been stocked by hard-partying doomsday preppers.  The other guys keep whispering and staring at me.  I know Presley would tell me if he knew.  Around seven, a deejay comes in and starts setting up.  Then it happens, the doorbell rings and in walk a huge crew of people, boys and girls, dressed to the teeth.  A camera crew follows and the party gets started.  Alright, whatever.  I grab a Stella Artois and walk around, checking out the crowd.  A lot of them are models I recognize.  There’s a photographer I know pretty well so I head for her.  We hug, air kiss.

“Hey Margot, great to see you.”

“You too, Brad, I heard you’re taking the plunge too.” 

Margot had married her partner, Abigail, the year before.

“Really, where’d you hear that?” 

“Um…it was on the invite?”

Was Naomi sending out
wedding invitations
while I was gone?

“What invite?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes.  “For this.”  She sweeps her hand around the room.  I guess I still look confused, so she says, “Your bachelor party, dummy.”  She shoves my shoulder like a big sister.

“My WHAT?”

“Oh my god.  They didn’t tell you.”  She’s half laughing.  “That’s so crazy.  Well, I guess that’s reality TV for you.”  She makes air quotes around ‘reality’.

The music stops and one of the producers takes the mic, makes a big speech about me getting married after the show is over and isn’t it lucky our show is about a bunch of men otherwise I might get into some trouble with ‘The Mrs.’  All so stupid.  He makes a toast, everyone says cheers, and the party goes on.  A few people clap me on the back.  I’m careful to avoid talking to any woman who I’m not certain is gay.  That’s the last thing I need Naomi to see at home, all alone.

It’s almost one and a few people have left.  I’ve been interviewed on camera about my fiancé and our plans.  I lay it on thick, hoping it will make Naomi feel better.  I go to the bathroom, and when I come out, there’s a giant cake in the middle of the floor and everyone’s taking pictures.  I get dragged over to a chair in the middle of the room and the deejay plays “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me” by the Pussycat Dolls.  The top of the cake pops up and out comes one of the hottest girls I have ever seen in my life. 
Shit
.

She dances over to me, around me, shimmies her tits in my face.  I don’t know where to look.  She seems to be everywhere.  I try to get up, but she pushes me down, straddles me.  She’s grinding like crazy but I’m not at all aroused, I’m terrified.  Naomi’s going to see this.  Naomi’s going to hate this.  Before I can think, I stand up and the girl falls on her ass.  Everyone gets hysterical laughing, but she’s got this look on her face, like a rabid raccoon.  Next thing I know, she on me, pulling my hair, scratching my face.  She’s got her legs wrapped around my hips and boy are they strong.  I stumble backwards and we both end up on the couch.  Somehow her bustier has busted and now lays on the floor next to us.  I roll out from under her and make a run for the bedroom door.  So much for not looking like a jackass.  I lock the door behind me and notice Presley is already asleep.  I wish I were too.  The party volume picks back up so I guess they’re over the scene I just caused.  Now I just have to hope Naomi doesn’t get the wrong idea if she sees it.

NAOMI

Wednesday, March 31st

After the penthouse confrontation, Bradley retrieves his clothes from storage, moves back into my loft, screws me senseless for six straight days and nights, enjoys my celebratory meals, and then starts packing for his TV gig. 

We discuss our future plans, both of us wanting a simple wedding ceremony, our giddy ideas help let in the light, but our moods sometimes slip into heavy thoughts.  The fact that Bradley is leaving for a duration of three months hangs over us like a dark cloud.  I wonder how other women send their husbands and fiancés off to war.  Where did they find the strength, because I’m not handling our upcoming separation well at all.  When I look into Bradley’s eyes I see everything I’ve ever wanted.  Love.  Devotion.  Faith.  Future.  He is my life, the foundation I can build the rest of my life on, the father of our children.  I was never surer of anything.  I know Bradley loves me.  

We are solid.

I try to stay strong, but I do my share of sobbing when that door closes.  He gives me a schedule of channels and dates when the live feed of the show, Model House, will play. 

Viktor stays in his model apartment until my week with Bradley ends, and then he shows up the next morning with a bouquet of wildflowers and a red beaded necklace in a blue Tiffany sack.

He is my roomie, all his belongings are still here, and he offers me a deal I can’t refuse.  I let him in.  I’m lonely already and the resemblance Viktor shares with Bradley is like having a live cutout doll as a stand-in.  What is Viktor’s crime anyway?  He slept with that redheaded whore Luba?  I’m not a hundred percent sure Bradley didn’t dip into that cesspool too.  I never confronted Bradley, after all, I have no grand morals to stand on in that department; I’ve screwed my way over every inch of the loft with Viktor.  I’m calling it even.

Viktor arrives with paperwork in hand, a ginormous check from his father, and an apology letter from LaLa also signed by Chase.  It seems that when they heard how Bradley left to star in a television show, one where he would be locked away from my sight for three months, their attitudes lifted like clouds over a Cancun beach, and the mob of Slotzky Siberian Huskies transformed themselves into a smiling pack of Russian Bolonka puppies.

The check represents a deposit on the land I supposedly own in Montauk, New York, property LaLa is selling for me.  She has buyers lined up and she cleverly started a bidding war, escalating the prices on all the building lots to a ridiculous level.  Within a few weeks, she presents signed contracts, deed transfers, state inspections, and a mountain of legal goblin speak that Aleksey Slotzky drew up.  His English is so broken, it’s like talking to a Dell rep from India, whose five known languages are shuffled together in a deck of words and dealt in sharp spurts without punctuation.

There’s no more talk of Darren Broderick.  It seems he’s played his little part in the Slotzky drama and went to the Bahamas without any of us.  I guess the allure of the floating Booze Hut in the hotel pool was too much of a draw for him to pass up.  LaLa said he is ‘only’ a silent partner. I didn’t miss him one bit.  I return his ring via a delivery service.  One down, one to go.

Now I’m one of four investors rebuilding and flipping the building on Chambers Street.  Fedor Slotzky, LaLa or Mrs. Lucille Rochefort De La Cologne, as the paperwork noted, Darren Broderick, and me.  I’ve gone from worrying about covering the tax bill to financial freedom. 

Chase still has a jealous burr up his ass, but his mother LaLa is sharing her penthouse, investments, commissions, and assets with her tainted son.  It seems to placate him for now.  I can’t forgive him for all the lies he told me about Bradley, how he’d paid Molly to ruin my relationship, and he can’t forgive me for inheriting our father’s lands.  I’m calling that one even too.

Friday, April 2nd

Now, Viktor and I watch Model House together with popcorn and M&M’s like a movie.

The first month of Bradley’s TV show is pretty lame.  Most of the younger men vying for the cameras placed on every wall in the house, even the shower is in full view.  They argue, play pool, talk about sex, and work out.  Beautiful male bodies, covered in sweat never hurt the eyes, and mine are glued to my man Bradley.  He is quiet, looks as if he’s trying to avoid the cameras and the drama.  He talks a lot to a man named Presley, a guy about his age, married with kids.  I bet his wife loves this stupid lockdown job as much as I do. 

One night Bradley has an interview in the ‘secret confession room’ and tells the camera he is engaged.  He shares how much fun we have together, the love he feels for me, and I watch his handsome face with tears running down my cheeks.  It is going to be okay.  One month down already.  My lover and fiancé Bradley Dobrov will soon be home.

Tonight, Natalia, Viktor’s sister drops by.  We call a truce, though she isn’t my favorite Slotzky by a long mile, I understand she’s lonely and young, so I tolerate her the best I can.  I make snacks, no fish, but plenty of their favorite Tsarskaya Gold to drink.  Hell, I’m even letting them smoke in my loft.  I feel a little bit bad for Natalia, she really had a crush on Bradley, but she knows we’re getting married and she says she’s seeing some stockbroker who lives on 7
th
Street.

“It’s starting KuKu,” Viktor shouts from the other room.

Balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres and my drink, I hop on the sofa next to him.  We’ve become good friends again, him offering design advice; we go out together for harmless walks in Central Park or for meals.  A few times he’s talked me into doing the paddleboats.  Viktor’s like a child, with a sexy punch.  Those blue eyes looking at me, his hair shining in the sunlight, I can admit that at times I’m tempted to brush back that thick hair, or lean into him closer than necessary.  I should not be around another man who resembles Bradley so closely.  It’s like being tantalized by a doppelganger sent by Satan to seduce me.

“Looks like a party,” Natalia cries out in childhood glee.  Snapping me back to the present, I look closer at the screen.

Bradley just walks into the large, ugly orange room and stops in front of a giant cake in the middle of the floor.  What the hell?  I can guess what’s in there and my blood turns cold.  Bradley sits in a chair in the middle of the room and the deejay plays “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me” by the Pussycat Dolls.  Sure enough, my every dread surfaces as a scantily-clad hot girl pops out and goes for Bradley.

Natalia is laughing, “Ha ha Naomi. Bradley has another woman after all.  I knew he was not the man to marry and only settle for one.”

I turn toward Viktor, “I thought the show said
No women
?”

“KuKu, you joker, of course there’s going to be women.  That was part of the reason I signed up to be on the show.  The producer gave us all a copy of the layout.  Everyone on the show signed it.  First, just the men, and then the surprises start.  Women come in, mix it up, make it hot.”

“So, Bradley knew there’d be women in that locked down house with him?”

“Had too, we all knew.”

“Look!” Natalia squeals, “Her tits are in his face now, he’s having fun!”

I jump off the sofa and dive on the floor right next to the TV for a better view.  Sure enough, tits in Bradley’s face, her ass grinding into his no doubt budding erection.  Frickin’ fun!  He left me to handle this financial drama alone, deal with the herd of Slotzkys, so he could go party with other women?

I turn around, the sight making me sick.

“Viktor, does he expect me to watch two more months of this?”

“Sure, you’re engaged.  He’s just having fun, casual sex, for the cameras.  Male’s behavior is different from females.  No worries.  Nothing serious.”

I turn back to the screen; this cake-popping whore is pulling Bradley’s hair, touching his face.  She’s got her legs wrapped around my guy’s hips, moving up and down…I stand up and walk into the kitchen.  I hear the Slotzkys laughing and cringe.  Bradley’s probably pulling her thong down with his teeth.

Suddenly, this separation is getting too real.  It isn’t just a physical separation, but he is on some mating-dating shit show.  Would they share beds?  Would I have to watch Bradley and other women moving under a raised sheet, hear their moaning, and watch them smile at each other the next day?  Was I supposed to blow that off and go with the flow in my old bohemian style, or chew nails like the real Naomi would do?

I lean over the sink and close my eyes.  “The lyin’ sack of…”