Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) (6 page)

NAOMI

Saturday, April 17th

I can’t do it anymore.  Living my live vicariously through a TV screen.  How did I get so off track and lose myself?

My white loft is beginning to smell like a perpetual trash bin.  My rooms are full of tall, dark-haired Russians, overflowing ashtrays, and thick guttural sounds of raised voices fighting over the vodka bottle.  It’s a beautiful spring day and I am going out, alone.

I dress in a short white, peasant dress and sandals, pull my thick hair up into a high ponytail, skip the heavy jewelry, and sneak out the front door while they’re all watching that damn Russian cartoon,
Nu Pogodi
, about a wolf and a rabbit.  I laugh as I get on the elevator, thinking about three grown men and their sister, leaning over their knees, watching a cartoon as if it’s the World Series final game.  So lame.

I walk into the elevator and a thought hits me, if I’m rich now, why am I still living in my parents’ loft, which I hate, and riding an elevator that I loathe.  I should go apartment hunting for a nice walkup, maybe in the Upper East Side.  It’s not as if I have anything else to do.

When I heard that Darren Broderick was a silent partner, I remember feeling relieved.  Well, if he’s a silent partner, then I am mute, gagged, and my mouth is stuffed with a handkerchief.  I’m never consulted about the high-rise renovation.  Mr. Slotzky treats me like a young girl.  The fact that I have a degree and graduated tenth in my class from NYU Leonard Stern School of Business rolls off his back as if it’s a Girl Scout Award for making brownies.  I don’t want to work with him anyway.  Old horny bastard, worse than Carl Swartz on his worst day.

I decide to take a cab over to the Upper East Side of New York City, namely between Central Park/Fifth Avenue, 59th Street, the East River, and 96th Street.  I make a few calls to some of my mother’s old connections.  Marlene McAllister replies immediately.  She is one of the few realtors I enjoyed at my parents’ lavish parties in the past.  Marlene texts me a list of small apartments where the owners will rent short term to a vetted client.  A few walkup flats sound promising.  I could never afford to buy in this area before.  I might be able to swing it now, but I won’t buy anything new until Bradley can see it with me.  Renting for a few months sounds like a solution, a welcome haven from the storm of my life.

The weather is beautiful, the streets lined with trees newly budding, and the sky a clear blue.  It’s uplifting and I smile.  It’s refreshingly devoid of the trendy bourgeois bohemianism here and I feel like my old self.

I love the old walkup apartments, no elevators, no doormen to tattle who comes up or who goes in and out, like Gus in my building.  I like the freedom.  I watch for sale or rent signs, and jot down a few reality company names.  I wonder if LaLa owns any of them. 

I stop in a sports bar, the East End Grill & Sides between 86
th
and 87
th
on First Avenue and order a light lunch.  I enjoy a cold beer and notice the mix of the crowd watching soccer.  Retro T-shirts, skinny jeans, hip eyewear, expensive Italian suits, and twenty different styles of shoes.

Yes, Bradley and I could make our new home here.  I’m excited.  It feels like a place that’s changing daily.  I love the blending of bluebloods, wealthy dowagers, heavy frat boys, and lawyers in suits. 

I walk the sidewalks counting the number of restaurants, bars, and retail stores.  Everything seems bright and promising.  I love being free of the Slotzkys and I plan to visit here often.  I have an idea in mind and I intend to carry it out after seeing this area today.

I stop at a street vendor’s wagon and order a double cheese coney.  The small, metal tables are all soiled, so I lean against a light post and eat, relishing the sounds of honking taxis and the smell of mustard and grease.  A group of schoolgirls sit around a small fountain giggling at their iPhone screens. 

“He’s so so so so so dreamy.  Bradley Dobrov.  I’d love to be the one marrying him.”

I stand up straighter and smile.  It must be on the internet, about the show; Bradley and me getting married.  Wouldn’t those girls be shocked to know that ten feet away stands the lucky lady?  I toss my paper wrapper in the trash and move closer to them.  Curious, I want to hear their conversation.

A girl with red hair and covered in freckles, shifts closer to her friends and announces her thoughts.

“Bradley could pick anyone.  They’d be crazy to turn down that hunk of burnin’ love.”

“That picture of him naked, OMG what a great ass, and the other parts,” one girl giggled her hand over her brace-covered teeth.  “You could
SO
see his thing.  Even my mom was looking at it.”

Naked!  Bradley was streaming naked?  When did that go viral?

“His wife will be soooo lucky. I can’t wait to see them as a couple.”

That was weird; did these little girls imagine they’d all be coming to our wedding?  That’s it with people in the public eye; everyone thinks they know you personally.  I wipe my hands and get ready to move on when the next high-pitched squeal stops me cold.

A blonde girl with a superior smirk sits up straight, as if she’s imparting pivotal insider information.

“He’ll have at least twenty to pick from, all gorgeous women. I wonder what his type is, I bet he likes blondes.”

Twenty?  They must be looking at the wrong guy.  Probably Googled Dobrov and spelled it wrong.

Little Miss Braces asks, “When’s the new show going to air?”

The blonde tosses back a curl, licks her lips, and widens her eyes in glee.

“Right after Model House wraps up in June and Bradley is free.  It says right here production starts immediately.”

What are they talking about?  Surely Bradley isn’t going to be in another TV show right away?  We are getting married.  He promised me this was it.  We have a new life to start.  I feel anger building inside me as if someone dropped a bag of Lego’s inside my chest.

The spotty redhead swipes her own expensive phone and reads from the screen.

“Rumors are flying that Bradley Dobrov, will be the next male to star in the hit show, The Bachelor!  The top Russian model and runway star will try his hand at finding his future bride.  The show promises to be one of the best rated shows in years as Bradley Dobrov is riding high with a massive following after his risqué nude shots from his current show, Model House.” 

“I’m so excited to watch the show.  I’m going to tape it and watch him over and over, maybe in slowmo.  All those mushy love scenes, the make out shots, I bet he’ll be steamy.”

“I bet he uses his tongue.”

They all giggle and punch each other in the arms.

“Do you think he’ll propose at the end?”

There is something almost wicked learning about Bradley’s deception from the voices of little girls.  I know I should walk away, but they hold me in their circle as if a terrible jump rope is connecting me to them.

“Sure stupid, they always do.”

“They make out like crazy on that show.  He’ll be kissing them all by the second night.”

Finally, I’ve had enough.  I pull out my phone and do my own quick search.  Sure enough, Bradley’s face lights up the screen.  The headlines match the girl’s words bursting my last hope that they are wrong.  “Rumors have it that the hot star of Model House will soon have every lady’s heart pounding, as he begins filming the TV show, The Bachelor later this summer.”

I trip, nearly falling into the girl with the braces.

“Sorry.”

No, it can’t be true!  Bradley would never agree to be away from me longer to film any show, but the Bachelor?  A show where the man finds his new wife…proposes…the damn overnight stays…the traveling around the world with twenty-five beautiful women?

I don’t know what to think.

He loves me.  Bradley said he loves me.

Surely they can’t publish that story unless there’s some truth in it, can they?

The hotdog taste in my mouth lays on my tongue like despair.

The thought of losing Bradley again is making my head throb with unshed tears.

The idea of him dating and marrying someone else with the world watching, that’s enough to kill me.

My beautiful spring day turns into a black haze as I struggle to return home.  Bradley Dobrov, you damn dog.

Then I stop and stamp my foot.  No.  Bradley is true.  It’s just another damn trick for ratings.  It’s ridiculous! 

“I don’t believe a word of it!”

He loves me. Bradley loves me.

BRADLEY

Friday, April 22 & 23rd

Okay, I have a plan.  One of the other dudes in the house has a collection of Japanese Manga.  I’m gonna slip one of those into Presley’s drawer during our three hours of privacy they so generously give us every night from three to six.  That’s when the cameras go quiet and the mics are off.  It’s supposed to be a perk for us, but I think it just relieves the editing staff from watching three hours of mind-numbing video every day.  Then I’ll slip the vile porn out of the drawer.  What I’m going to do with it then is still up for discussion. 

3:02 AM

Presley’s snoring away, blissfully unaware his life hangs in the balance and depends on me, Bradley Dobrov, secret agent.  I open his drawers, one by one.  There’s nothing but clothes. 
Shit.
  Of course, I should have figured.  They couldn’t plant it the night before because he might find it before filming.  Smart little bastards.  Probably Jenn Ergenmeyer thought of that little detail.  She’s definitely the brains of the operation.

Well, there’s nothing more to do tonight.  I go to bed and stare at the ceiling, stomach churning.  When Presley gets up around seven, I haven’t slept at all.

“You look terrible,” he informs me.  “Rough night?”

“Something like that.”

By the time everyone’s up and out in the common area, it’s close to eleven.  The producers come in with the cameramen and announce we’re taking a field trip.  We all troop out into the warm sun and head for Central Park.  Frisbees and some soccer balls appear magically and we are ‘encouraged’ to take off our shirts and play.  Pretty soon, a crowd gathers to watch Models in Playland.  It’s actually fun.  Good to be outside, in the fresh air.  Fun to have people looking at us, admiring the fine specimens concentrated all in one spot.  A few of the guys pour water bottles over their heads and shake their heads like dogs.  The crowd cheers.  I do a couple of handstands and there’s more cheering.  It’s so much fun that I almost forget what’s happening tonight and suddenly I realize they must be planting the porn while we’re out.

They pretty much keep us out all day, signing autographs with our fans, posing for selfies with them.  Pizzas arrive and we eat.  Around six, they round us up and we head back to the house.  By the time we get there, dread has built up in me to the point where I have to force myself to cross the threshold and get into the elevator.  We’re told there’s no time for showers or changing.  Then Tim Smith shows up.

“I hope you gentlemen enjoyed yourself today.  We have an exciting announcement for you all.”

Jenn Ergenmeyer appears from behind him, lavender hair gleaming like a demented troll doll.  “We are not airing the episode this evening that we planned to show.  Instead, the network has given us permission to go live!”  She’s breathless.

No. 
This is horrible news.  Not only is Presley going to be humiliated, but it’s going to be in front of a live audience.  At least if it were taped, he could go home and prepare his family and friends.  They’re probably going to be watching.  Jesus.  I look at Jenn Ergenmeyer and Tim Smith.  The wolves are staring right at me.  I need a smoke.

Up on the roof, I order a double vodka at the bar and light up.  Exhaling the smoke, I look out at the city.  I wonder how many other people right now are facing a decision like mine.  I knock back the vodka, order another.  There’s got to be a way to stop this.  I absentmindedly flick my lighter on and off.  Joeson shows up, arms wrapped around each other.  They bum cigarettes from me and order margaritas.  They have no idea what’s about to happen.  They hand me back my lighter and make some joke about all the product in the house and how it’s probably for the best we aren’t allowed to smoke in the house.  Something clicks inside me.  My watch says it’s seven ten.  I’ve still got time before we go live.

In the house, I brush right by the evil twins, saying loudly that being lactose intolerant, I should NOT have had all that pizza and then I race to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.  The bathroom is right next to our bedroom and I’ve never been so happy about it.  I take every jar, tube, and bottle of hair product and dump it all into the tub, plugging up the drain.  I grab the magazines and newspapers lying all over the place and throw them in, too.  Then I pull out my lighter and hope for the best.

Before leaving, I carefully lock the door from the inside and pull it closed behind me, doing my best Ace Ventura.

“Do NOT go in there!  Whew!”

Everyone laughs because we’re guys.  I just have to hope the fire really gets going before we can go live. 

7:53

Cameras are set up, we’re on standby, the crew listens to their headsets.  The wolves have left to watch remotely from the conference room.

Please let this work, please let this work.

Presley sips a beer on the couch.  The camera guys shift around.  The director counts us down.

“Live in five, four, three…”  She gestures the last two numbers and points at Mason. 

He opens his mouth and says, “Does anyone else smell smoke?”

Joel, apparently delivering his scripted line without realizing Mason has gone off book, answers, “Yeah, I noticed Presley’s been acting weird too lately.”

Then it happens.  Fire licks out from below the bathroom door.  The camera guys drop their equipment.  Everyone runs toward the exit.  Everyone but me.  I run into our bedroom.  The fire has already spread through the wall and is crawling across the floor toward Presley’s dresser.  Just before leaving, I knock it over into the flames, then I run like hell.