Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) (9 page)

BRADLEY

Saturday, April 24th

They’ve moved us to another townhouse, this one more beautiful and luxurious than the last.  I guess my antics have a little to do with this upgrade.  I’ve probably doubled the ratings.  Nevertheless, I’m surprised at how I’m being treated.  No one seems mad or annoyed.  It’s as though nothing ever happened.  Whenever I bring up the fire, the guys change the subject or the phone rings or someone knocks at the door.  I haven’t seen Tim Smith or Jenn Ergenmeyer since they walked away from me in that alley.  So, I just settle in, check out the new clothes in my closet, all designer, all terminally hip.  New clothes and a new roommate.  Presley is gone.  The official story is that he had a ‘family emergency’.  Paolo is all moved in, his closet full of new clothes as well.  I don’t know why; he walks around in his underwear most of the time.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I am Italiano.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My blood, it runs hotter.”

“Oh brother.”  I roll my eyes.  This is going to be a long five weeks. 

“Hey, bro, don’t be jealous.  You have nothing to feel inferior about.  Russian men can be very, how you say?  Passionate?”  He’s eyeing me up and down, pursing his lips, batting his eyelashes. 

“Uh, I don’t play for your team.  My bat swings towards the female population.  One in particular.”

Paolo stands, wipes the corner of his mouth with one finger, makes his fingers into the ‘okay’ sign.  “No problem, bro.  This market is very well-stocked.”  He prances out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts of Naomi and Viktor together in that loft.  It’s almost more than I can take, but I have to be strong and have faith in Naomi.  If we’re getting married, I have to trust her.  I mean, Viktor, really?  There’s no way she’d ever go back to him.

Friday, April 29th

We’ve been ‘filming’ all week and finally have a day off.  It seems like all the activities they have dreamed up recently are designed to make us look like we’re having way more fun than we really are.  One day there was a shoot with all these hot female models in bikinis.  Another day, they shuffled us onto a bus that took us to a Burlesque Cruise on the East River.  Paolo picked up one of the drag performers and brought him back to our room, so I slept on the couch.  The camera guys tried to get me to be angry about it, but I really wasn’t.  He’s still kind of touchy-feely with me and I was happy to have his attention elsewhere.

We’re supposed to have movie night tonight.  Some exclusive premiere or something.  The booze has been flowing since around noon, and they brought in platters of heroes and salads and wings a little while ago. 

I sit next to Joeson, who are still going strong.  “What’s the movie?  You guys know?”

“Who cares?”  Joel shrugs his shoulders.

“Yeah, as long as they keep the drinks coming,” Mason agrees.

I wander off to ask the other guys, but no one seems to know. 

A couple of hours later, we are all gathered in the living room, in front of the forty-six-inch flat screen TV.  There’s a popcorn machine and more drinks and diet soda.  I think I see Tim Smith briefly, but he disappears wordlessly and the lights dim.  The screen goes black and white words appear.

What you are about to see is real.  Last week The Producers of Model House were informed that one of you is being cheated on while you are here.  It is always with great hope that, when we leave our loved ones, they will be faithful in our absence.  Unfortunately, this is not always the case.  However, in the long run, it is always better to know the true nature of those we surround ourselves with.  It is in the interest of this full disclosure that we present this video.

The video starts up and immediately, I recognize our living room.  I go ice cold.  Loud music plays as the camera focuses on Viktor.  He grins and then grabs a bottle of vodka.  The next thing I see is Naomi on the bed, half-smiling at the camera.  Then Viktor is over her, streaming vodka onto her stomach, pulling her arms over her head.  She squeals and he pulls her shirt up and licks her stomach.  She says something, but the music is so loud, I can’t understand it.  The next thing I see is Viktor pushing his way between her legs.  Her face is blocked out, but I imagine her angry, there’s no way she’s liking this.  And who’s filming it anyway?  The music keeps growing louder and louder. 

“That’s ENOUGH,” I shout, start to get up.  I’m turning this shit off.  A pair of hands pushes me back down.

“Easy, Dobrov.  You need to know the truth.”

“This isn’t truth, it’s bullshit.  How did you even get this?”

On screen, Viktor’s body covers Naomi’s.  She thrashes under him.  Is it passion or resistance?  Then Viktor kisses her like he’s trying to give her a tonsillectomy and her body relaxes.  He takes her face in his hands and I finally see a little smile cross her lips and then the screen goes to black and so does my mood.

NAOMI

Friday, April 29th to Saturday April 30th

I take a cab over to my new home, a small walkup off 2nd Ave. Upper East Side. 
Marlene McAllister came through with a temporary rental flat for me.  It’s owned by an elderly society dame who’s traveling in Europe and likes to have her property taken care of while she’s gone.  It’s
800 square feet of silence and even better, a Slotzky-free zone.  If Mr. Slotzky imagines he could force me to live in that pigsty with his family, then he’s mistaken.  I’d heard my last Russian songfest, cleaned up my final table of ashtrays and booze, and washed my last glass.

I’m so furious with that family, especially Viktor’s personal betrayal, posing me in a sexually enticing position to please his devil of a father, and to gain a stupid distillery?  The damn asshat!  A few weeks ago I thought we were friends.  Now I see he’s been using me all along.  He arranged our first meeting, moved in and played my Svengali, bought me presents, arranged my bohemian look with clothes, jewelry and hair styles, he created the ‘new’ Naomi to his liking.  Even then, Viktor had an agenda of breaking Bradley and I up so I’d be easier to manage in their building renovation deal.  And I assumed he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Now he’s making me look awfully dull.  Viktor should have stayed in acting; he’s a master at manipulating me.  I’m ashamed of myself too because not only did I let him, but I also had sex with the sleaze ball.  The thought of it disgusts me.

I’m so happy to escape that white loft, home to my parents’ misery and damaged marriage, with every room full of terrible memories.  I love living somewhere new, free from reminders of Molly at my kitchen table back in early February.  I want to distance myself from everything in the past.  I need a new beginning.  Bradley and I both do.

That next morning, it wasn’t even difficult for me to sneak out in the early hours, rolling three suitcases behind me; the loft sang with the deafening sounds of drunken snoring. 

I am hiding out until Bradley returns.  No way am I leaving myself open to any more of the Slotzky games.  It feels good to breathe in fresh air without choking on cigarette smoke.  It’s wonderful to skip up a few steps and avoid the elevator I’ve hated all of my life.  I’m feeling better than I have in months.

Only one dark cloud hangs over me. 

The video.

What will Bradley think?  Will he believe I’m cheating on him a few days after he’d come back to see me?  No!  Stop thinking that.  Everything is fine.

I remember our talk about a sign, a signal and I regret that I didn’t catch on sooner to the Slotzky plot; I wish I had pulled my ear, fought Viktor harder, something.

My new closet-sized apartment is furnished with authentic Chippendale cabinetry.  The antique quality has me uneasy, I feel like a child playing in grandmother’s priceless suite.  The chairs are Georgian with splat-backs and claw-and ball feet, and the upholstery cushions are comfy, with down-filled pillows flying French tags.  The apartment has actual draperies, with tieback cords woven with golden threads.  It has a museum feeling but it’s still homier than my mother’s sterile white tastes.  It has a television, a small 21” screen, and on Friday night I get ready to watch the Model House show.

I’m not much of a prayer, but I hope Mr. Slotzky was bluffing about the video.

The show starts boring enough, the guys strutting around, going on a few trips, then several shots of women in bikinis walking around the house, bending over, leaning down, posing in every way they could think of to show off their bodies.  Normally I’d be upset seeing them in the house with Bradley, but if this is all they want to show tonight, I feel nothing but relief.  Just when my fears cool off and I can breathe normally, the show returns from an eight minute commercial break with a terrorizing announcement.

“What you are about to see is real.  Last week The Producers of Model House were informed that one of you is being cheated on while you are here.  It is always with great hope that, when we leave our loved ones, they will be faithful in our absence.  Unfortunately, this is not always the case…” 

I can’t listen to the rest.  I cover my ears with my hands and let out a shout of anger as I see the men in the house watching the doctored video.  The music is crazy loud, and I realize why when I notice my mouth is moving, but no one can hear my words.  Please Bradley, detect these manipulative flaws. 

You can see much more of Viktor than myself under him, but the details are damaging.  The vodka dripping onto my stomach, him licking me, then Viktor pushing between my legs.

Hell!

Then, the shot goes from the video to Bradley’s reaction. Bradley begins to stand as he shouts, “That’s ENOUGH.”

“Easy, Dobrov.  You need to know the truth.”

“This isn’t truth, it’s bullshit.  How did you even get this?”

The movie continues and it’s deceptive as it captures my smile, the idea in my head that I’m going to knee Viktor in the balls, only my motive is not obvious on the screen.  Another commercial.  I look down at my hands and realize I’m shaking.  Bradley is fighting it, questioning it, but he’s angry too.  I don’t think I ever saw him that upset.

Another thought hits me.  My reputation.  There goes my business future, my good name.  Don’t they need a signed release to show my face on television?  That damn Russian, Fedor Slotzky, his company, FSTScom Media, could I touch them?  I have money now.  I still own a quarter of that high-rise project.  What if I shut it down? 

I realize I need an attorney, and more importantly, just because Fedor Slotzky sees me as a mindless orphan child, it doesn’t mean I am one.  They underestimated me, those Slotzky slobs.  Even if Bradley and I break up, especially if we break up, I’m going after them.

“There’s only so much pushing and shoving Naomi Swanson can experience until a fire lights under her ass,” I smirk out loud.

I’m going to fight back, I’ll take on the entire Russian clan if I have too, starting right now.

My thoughts drift to my aunt LaLa and even that slime ball Chase.  They might help me if it would gain them something.  I’ll have to go in carefully, feel them out, and see if I can get a read on them.  She’s a powerful woman and I saw the tears in her eyes when Bradley proposed to me in her penthouse.  Maybe the old girl does have a heart.

I’m going to find out.

BRADLEY

Friday, April 29th

The lights come up and no one moves.  The air is thick with expectation.  I scan the faces around me.  Some guys look genuinely sad, some stare at their hands or the floor.  Tim Smith emerges from the shadows like Nosferatu. 

“Bradley, we here at Model House want to offer you our deepest sympathies on this recent…turn of events.”  He walks over to me and places a hand on my shoulder, like he’s my father. 

I stand up, brush off his hand.  “I don’t need your sympathy, because that was a complete lie.  Naomi would never get into bed with that guy again.  We’re engaged.”

Joel interrupts.  “Hold up, bro.  What do you mean, ‘again’?  I mean, if it’s happened before…”  He lets the words hang unfinished.

“He has a point,” Mason agrees.

“Shut up, Joeson,” I say through clenched teeth.  “Nobody asked you.”

Tim Smith holds up a hand.  “Actually, I did ask them.  I asked all of your housemates to vote on whether or not you should break off your engagement to this cheating bitch.”

“Easy,” I warn.

“Anyway, they were told that after this special ‘movie,’ they would be asked to vote on what should happen next.  So if you’ll all hand in your votes right now, we’ll calculate the results.”

“This is madness.  I don’t care what the results are because I’m not breaking up with Naomi.  And that’s that.”  I start toward my bedroom but the camera guys jump in front of me, blocking my dramatic exit. 

Paolo edges toward me.  “Si, it’s true what they are saying, paisano.  Unfortunately, once a cheater, always a cheater.  Che schifo—how disgusting.”

I should not have been listening to any of it.  But they all kept commenting, goading me, pushing until a little crack of doubt opened in my heart.  She did once cheat on me with Viktor, letting him buy her all kinds of clothes and jewelry before my side of the bed was even cold.  And all the stuff he told me about his KuKu and their marathon sex sessions before we both knew the truth about her was disgusting, like Paolo said.  Except it sounded better in Italian.  In Russian, it’s moshennik.  Was my Naomi a moshennik?  A cheater? 

Tim Smith must have seen my hesitation.  He moved behind the camera guys and said, “How about a confessional?  You can get out everything you’re feeling.” 

“No.”

“Maybe get a message to her?”

“One you doctor to make me look bad?  No thanks.”

“Listen, I’ve tallied up all the votes and all the guys think you should lose this cheating whore.  Move on.  She has.  You could be the next Bachelor.”

I shoot him a look meant to show surprise.

“Oh come on.  I know you’ve heard the rumors.”  Tim Smith sounds like a used car salesman.

Mason yells from the couch, “WE’VE ALL heard the rumors.”

The other guys make noises in agreement.  I feel like a cornered animal.  Anger wells up inside of me.  I’m angry with Tim Smith, the other models, Viktor, and if I’m gonna be honest, even Naomi.  Why hadn’t she made Viktor move out?  And who were the two people filming the whole thing?  How many people did she have living in our loft, without even one word of discussion with me? 

After a long, long silence, the camera guys finally shut it down and start packing up their equipment.  Tim Smith steps into the middle of the room. 

“I guess Brad here has a lot to think about.  I’m sure for those of you who’ve been through a bad break-up, you will be struggling with your own personal memories tonight.  I, myself, have been the victim of three bad marriages.  Believe me, I understand.  That’s why I’ll be in the confessional for the next two hours, if anyone wants to come in a get something off their chests.”

“You’re a real humanitarian,” I say to Tim Smith.  “I’m going to bed and don’t call me Brad.”

I slam the door behind me.  I get into bed without changing or brushing my teeth.  My eyes won’t stay closed, though, because every time they do, all I see is images of Viktor, crawling all over Naomi and that damn smile of hers.  Maybe I should set her free.  At least until the show’s over.  Maybe doing the Bachelor would be a great career move for me.  Maybe.