Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) (5 page)

BRADLEY

Friday, April 2nd

I can’t hide in here all morning.  Presley left around six to get a jump on the gym, I guess.  The cameras do love his flexing, I’ve heard.  It’s pretty quiet, so I open the door a crack.  Just a few of the guys on the sofa, surfing the television.  It’s pretty limited, what we see.  No news, no Model House.  Just sports, movies, and ME TV, which runs Hogan’s Heroes nonstop.  I venture out into the living room and hear Schultz proclaiming that he hears, ‘nossingk, nossingk at all’.  The guys laugh.  I guess they’ve never seen it before.  I notice Joel and Mason holding hands.  They’re a couple now, one month in.  The producers have dubbed them ‘Joeson’ and insist we refer to them that way.  So stupid.  I can’t wait till this whole thing’s done and I can get back to Naomi.  She’s probably so lonely in that big loft without me. 

I’m no more than a foot into the room when two cameramen pop out of another bedroom.  Damn.  I’d give anything to be able to retract into a shell right now, away from their blinding lights.  As though they’ve been given a script while I was in hiding, the guys start peppering me with questions:  What happened?  Where’d you go last night?  What, did you get a boner from that stripper?

Alright, let’s get into it.  “I got a girl at home, waiting for me to get back.  It’s complicated, but I just, well, I don’t want to hurt her.  And believe me, she would not be cool with me having a lap dance.”

Joel pipes up.  “She sounds like a bitch.  What other kind of fun is there here?”

“You’re one to talk.”  We all know Joeson is having it regularly everywhere in the apartment.  It’s getting to the point where I don’t even want to sit on the furniture or eat at the table. 

Joel shrugs.  I could tell his heart wasn’t in it anyway.  He probably got promised something for saying it.  That’s the big secret here.  The guys who make the producers happiest are getting huge modeling contracts when the thing’s over.  Personally, I couldn’t care less. 

“I know what’s going on here; we all do.  They’re playing us against each other for the ratings.  I’m looking past the next two months into my future, which doesn’t include lap dances from skanks with cake on their tits.”

The camera guys are eating it up.  They whisper to each other.  One of them asks if I want to do a confessional. 

“Hell no I don’t.  Your guys will probably edit it to make it look like I said something completely different.  No thanks.  I’m going to the gym.”

The camera guys try to follow me into my bedroom.  Technically, I’m supposed to let them.  If I refuse, they just use the footage from the remote cam that’s in every single room of the house.  So I just think, fuck it.  I strip down and throw on my gym clothes like I’m on the runway at Versace, blow a kiss to the camera, followed by a middle finger salute.  They follow me all the way to the fitness center, but about halfway through my forty-five minute silent run on the treadmill, they shut off the cameras and wander off.  It’s good to be boring.  Now I just have to keep it up for another two months, twenty-four seven.  What could go wrong?

NAOMI

Friday, April 9th

I’m not excited to watch Bradley’s next Model House episode, but I have to see him, I miss him so damn much.  After last week’s stripper show, I cringe to imagine what this week will bring.  I wish we had a secret signal, like Carol Burnett had pulling her ear, anything to know he was thinking about me, just remembering he still has a girl would be a nice reminder for me.  I’d take anything at this point.

The ashtrays are filling up fast as Viktor and Natalia light up their mixture of tobacco and hashish.  Someday I’ll probably get raided and end up in jail.  Just when I assume the noise in the living room can’t get any worse, a knock hits the door and I hear Natalia squeal, “Bros, welcome.”

I peek around the corner and see Aleksey and Luka throwing their coats on the floor as Viktor comes over and grabs more glasses.

“You don’t mind KuKu?  I don’t get to see them often, we party together, watch Bradley okay?”

What could I say?  Run out there like a school principal, clap my hands, stomp my feet, and order everyone out?  I didn’t want to be alone.  I gave in and just shrug.  Viktor hugs me from behind, not so accidently brushing his palm over my breasts, and whispers in my ear, “You are my best friend baby.  I love living with you.”

We all gather around my giant Toshiba TV with drinks in hand, and the show begins.

“God, it’s Bradley!”  They are interviewing him right up front.  He looks so hot, his hair messed, his shirt all wrinkled and casual, his pants riding low on his hips.  I lick my lips and lean in.

“What happened?  Where’d you go last night?”  A staffer shoots questions at Bradley as if he’s walking the red carpet at Cannes and I wonder how much he loves all the attention.  Too much? 

Then the picture switches off of Bradley and into the ‘Confession Booth’ with that stripper skank preening in front of the camera.

“Sure we messed around some.  We came in here away from the cameras for a hot and heavy make out session.  The poor guy’s been in lockdown for over a month and he was ready for a release if you know what I mean.”

A staffer asks, “We thought Bradley was engaged.”

She winks and a crust of dried mascara falls off her fake lashes and onto her cheek in a black clump.  I can’t help but smile.

“My little Russian bear seems to have forgotten all about his old girlfriend, look at me?  You assume he could think of another woman with me riding his cock?”

The station bleeps out the word ‘cock’ but everyone in the universe can lip-read that word.  An embarrassed cough comes from behind me and I turn around to see four surprised Slotzky faces staring back at me with pity in their eyes.

I feel my eyes tearing up and my vision goes blurry.  I try to reason it away, they added her for ratings, it’s a setup.  Bradley wouldn’t do her, would he?  No, I have faith in him.  This isn’t happening again.  I stand and say, “It’s for ratings, dubbed in.  She’s talking a pack of lies.”

“Sure baby, sure,” Viktor replies handing me another glass of vodka.  Then I hear Bradley’s voice and I turn around again.

“It’s complicated, I got a girl at home, waiting for me to get back, but I just wanted a lap dance.”

“What, did you get a boner from that stripper?”

Bradley doesn’t answer, but they show his face up close and he winks and smiles.  What. The. Fuck?

Another question comes his way.  “There’s been talk you’ve been complaining about this fiancée of yours to the guys, telling them about her behavior, the stick she has up her ass all the time.  I hear she’s a control freak, criticizes your every move, won’t let you smoke.  She sounds more like a jailor than a lover.  Is any of that true?”

Another guy from the show, a Joel chimes in “She sounds like a bitch.  What other kind of fun is there here?”

“You’re one to talk.”  Bradley says back and the guy walks off.  I can’t believe it.  I’m in shock.  Viktor comes over and wraps his beefy arms around my shoulders and I lean into him for comfort.

Bradley’s talking again, but I miss some of it.  The hurt cuts deep.  They have film of Bradley ridiculing me?  Would he do that?  Could he tell them ‘I had a stick up my ass’ and still want to marry me?

“I know what’s going on here; we all do.  I’m looking past the next two months into my future; it includes plenty of lap dances with cake on their tits.”

The camera guys are smiling, almost drooling as they remember last night’s gyrations.  They whisper together.  One of them asks Bradley if he’s going into the confessional room again for another private quickie.

Another shot of Bradley smiling.  The cameras follow Bradley into his bedroom, and he strips down bare-assed as the day he was born, and he blows a kiss to the camera, followed by a middle finger.

The staffer comes back on chuckling, “Guess we got our answer, everyone knows what that salute means, he’s going back in for some more action.”

There’s a commercial.  The room goes silent.  I breathe.  Just breathe.

BRADLEY

Friday, April 16th

I got pulled out this afternoon to the conference area on the first floor.  No cameras, so I guess this is top-secret stuff.  The producer, Tim Smith, is there, as well as the head scriptwriter, Jenn Ergenmeyer.  They’re smiling—grinning more like—a mini-pack of wolves.  I can practically see the drool on their chins.

“Bradley Dobrov.  The boy wonder himself.  Shit, you really brought it last week.”  Tim Smith crosses his legs and sits back in his chair.  He waves a hand at the empty seat, tells me to ‘take a load off.’ 

“I guess that’s why it seems like I now have my own personal camera guy?”  I answer.

Jenn Ergenmeyer laughs.  She sounds like a jackhammer.  “Keep it up, and you’ll get a second.  You really brought the ratings up.  Friday’s broadcast was our highest number yet.  And the clip of you stripping down is all over social media.”  She leans in, stares into my eyes.  I feel like a new pair of Laboutin pumps on a sale table at Barney’s.

“Yeah, funny thing, someone leaked the version without the censor bars.  Your dick is blowing up the internet.”

Jesus.  I choose silence as my defense.  For all I know, they’re taping this.

“Anyway, we were thinking of giving you some lines this week.  Play this gig right, and you could be looking at seven figure deals when you get out of here.”  Tim Smith puts his hands together, steepling the fingers.

“Yeah, I’m not interested.” 

Another staccato laugh comes out of Jenn Ergenmeyer.  She runs a hand through her lavender pixie cut.  “See?  It’s that awesome bravado we want to play up.  We’re thinking Presley needs to go.  All he talks about is his fucking family.  BORING.”

I do not like where this is going. 

“Come on Brad—can I call you that?” 

“No.”

Tim Smith plows on.  “I know they’re looking for the next Bachelor and we think you would be awesome.  Just say the word, and we’ll make the call.  You finish up this testosterone hell you’re in, and you could be sharing a mansion with twenty-five hot ladies dying to fuck you.”

“I’m not a bachelor and I already have one hot lady dying to fuck me.”

They don’t seem to be hearing anything I’m saying. 

Jenn Ergenmeyer opens up a file.  “We just need you to do one thing for us.”  She slides it over to me and I see a script.  My name is highlighted in yellow.  It looks like they want me to ‘discover’ child pornography in Presley’s drawer.  I feel sick. 

“No way, you sick fucks.”  I stand to leave.  They’re still smiling at me.

“Sit down Brad.”  Tim Smith says through clenched teeth.  “We have something else for you to read before you make a decision.”

He slides another file over to me.  It’s my contract, all thirty pages of it.  It’s open to page twenty-seven and also highlighted.  Here’s a little tidbit of information I should have noticed as I skimmed through the contract in my post-Naomi break-up haze:  the producers have the right to ask us to perform some rehearsed material and non-compliance means immediate dismissal and a fine of one million dollars.  My heart drops.  I can’t put us in that kind of debt.

“Think of some other way,” I start, “he’s got kids, for chrissakes.”

“And we have bills to pay.  He’ll be alright.  After a year, his silence clause ends and he can dig himself out.  Americans forgive pretty easy.  He’ll probably end up on Ellen.”

I can’t believe I’ve gotten myself into this horrible situation.  The one person who could help me figure it all out is less than two miles away, but I can’t even talk to her about it.  I sit back down, put my head in my hands.  Maybe I could murder the two of them right now, hide their bodies.  Wouldn’t be any kind of loss for humanity, that’s for sure.

“When?”  I ask.

The wolves grin bigger, lick their lips.

“You’re gonna be a huge star, Brad, huge.  We film tomorrow at three.  Better study up.”  Jen Ergenmeyer nudges the script closer to me. 

I pick it up like it’s a dead rat and leave.  I have a lot of things to do before three tomorrow, and studying this piece of trash isn’t one of them.