Reality Girl: Episode One (5 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Two days had passed since our poolside display of mutual satisfaction. Rhett stood at the far edge of the kitchen island. His dark blue tee shirt was covered in flour handprints, and his face expressed his content nature. We hadn’t had sex since that day at the pool, but it didn’t seem that we needed to.

We were too busy simply having fun.

He ladled the sauce onto the dough and reached for the cheese. “This is going to be good.”

Preparing a meal together was an intimate experience – something I wouldn’t have guessed – and I was enjoying it immensely. After spreading the sauce evenly, he began to sprinkle the cheese on top.

“Here,” I said as I slid the cutting board toward him.

Pepperoni, cooked sausage, sliced onions, bell peppers, fresh basil, and mushrooms were my offering, all fresh and sliced to perfection.

He glanced at the cutting board, looked at me, then scowled. “I’m not going to put that shit on it.”

At first I thought he was joking, but after a quick study of his face, he sure didn’t look like it. “What do you mean?” I asked innocently.

He scooped up a handful of sausage. “The fucking vegetables. They’ll ruin it.”

Ruin it?

I loved onions and peppers on my pizza. I could forgo the mushroom, but not the others. “I think they make it better,” I said with a smile. “More flavorful.”

He grabbed a handful of pepperoni and shook his head. “Not on
my
pizza.”

‘Your’
pizza
?

I thought it was ‘our’ pizza?

I stared back at him in disbelief, making every effort not to show my disappointment. “Just put them on half of it then.”

He was methodically placing the slices of pepperoni on the pizza, and when I spoke, stopped and looked right at me. “Not gonna happen. They’ll ruin it.”

“Just on half of it,” I said, making sure he knew I only wanted them on the portion I intended to eat.

“I said no,” he said sternly. “Toss that shit in the trash.”

Oh, wow.

His reaction may have seemed insignificant to many women, but not to me. My inability to accept the fact that he could so easily become a dick was probably why I had never made it in a long-term relationship. I had every intention of doing what I must to please my respective partner, but I wasn’t a doormat, and I never would be.

I was a woman, but I wasn’t
that
woman.              

If he could so easily act like an inconsiderate asshole over something as simple as cooking dinner, I suspected it would be natural for himto do so at any other time he felt the need
.

“Just make it however you want,” I said. “I’ll put the onions and peppers on it when you’re done.”

He glared at me. “You’re not putting that shit on my pizza.”

“
After
you cook it,” I snarled. “I’ll cut the fucker in half, and put
my
shit on
my
half.”

He eyed me up and down and then the corner of his mouth curled up. “You don’t have to get all butt hurt about it.”

“Butt hurt? Really? We were making a pizza together. It should be fun, but you decided to be a dick. Fuck it. I’ll go get something else to eat.”

He shrugged and reached for the meat-covered pizza. “Suit yourself.”

I crossed my arms and turned away, only to find Bobby standing a few feet away, filming the entire argument. I reached for the camera lens, clenched my fist, and lifted my middle finger. “Turn that fucker off, I mean it.”

He lowered the camera and took a few steps back.

“So you’re really leaving?” Rhett asked.

“Yeah. Really,” I said over my shoulder.

CHAPTER NINE

I raised my glass and looked at Franky through one of my drunken eyes. It was only half as difficult to keep it open if I kept the other one closed. “So what do you have to eat? I’m hungry.”

He leaned down and rested his elbow on the edge of the bar, then raised his hand to his chin. His mouth curled into an ever so slight grin.

I tried to return a smile, but failed miserably. I did, however, manage to force a little drool out the corner of my mouth. I wiped it away with the back of my hand and stared at him with my only available eye.

“You’re cute.” He nodded toward me. “What’s wrong with the eye?”

“Cute and hungry. And I think it’s tired. Either that, or it’s drunk.”

“Probably a little of both. You should have eaten
before
you started the margarita-fest.”

I chuckled. “Now you tell me.”

He stood up and tapped himself on the chest with his index finger. “Bartender, not babysitter. I can grab a menu, can you read it?”

I attempted to take another drink, but sloshed most of it onto my face. “Hit me with the highlights. The crowd favorites.”

“Bar food mostly, none of which is very good. But we’ve got some killer pizzas. We make ‘em fresh. They only come in one size, which is huge, but they’re our specialty.”

I attempted to wipe the sticky mango concoction from my chin. “Fucking pizza.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re anti-pizza?”

“Not generally. But--” I hesitated, then continued. “I had a bad pizza night. Long story. What can I get on it?”

He shrugged. “Anything you want.”

“Onions, peppers, pepperoni, sausage, and fresh basil?”

“Sure. Is that how you like it?”

I nodded. “Uh huh. But, can I get the veggies sliced thin and long instead of chopped into little chunks?”

He cleared his throat and grinned. “Any special way you want the pepperoni sliced?”

“Nope.”

“Good,” he said. “Because it’s pre-sliced. The veggies aren’t, though.”

He tapped his finger against the screen of the countertop-mounted iPad. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned around and grabbed his rickety stool.

His eyes scanned the bar, and after satisfying himself that everything was in order, he sat down. “What’s a bad pizza night?”

I closed my open eye and opened my closed one. His image changed from clear to blurry. “Huh?”

“A bad pizza night. You said you had a bad pizza night.”

“Oh. Yeah. The douchebag that I’m supposed to be with for this month is a pizza prick.”

“A pizza prick?” he laughed. “How’s a guy get that title?”

“Really, he’s just a prick.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“We were cooking a pizza together, and he refused to let me put onions and peppers on it.”

He scrunched his nose. “What do you mean,
refused
?”

I shrugged. “Refused. Like, he said
no
.”

“Maybe he’s a hater of goodness.”

“He was.” I leaned forward. “So, get
this
. I said we can put them on my half only, and he said
no
. He said it would ruin it. So, I said I’d just put it on half of it after he was done cooking it. Then, the asshole said
don’t get all butthurt
.”

“Wow. I’m guessing he’s not going to be the one?” He raised his index finger high in the air. “Bring on contestant number two.”

“It’s not funny.”

“Actually, it is.”

“No, it’s not,” I argued.

“We’ve already talked about it. You’ve got to live with six fuckers that
they
picked for you.” He raised his extended index finger as if to make a point. “Not six you’ve selected from a group. As you get to know them, their true colors come out. This guy sounds like a controlling prick.”

“I’m thinking so. He was a Navy SEAL.”

“Yeah, I bet he was,” he said sarcastically. “When it comes to hooking up with women, everyone was a former Navy SEAL.”

“No. He really was.”

“Well.” He stretched his arms wide. “There’s your problem. It’ll always be his way or no way at all.”

“I’m not going to have to worry about it anymore.” I pushed my drink to the side. “Can I get a glass of water?”

“Sure.”

He poured me a glass of water and slid it across the bar. “Why don’t you have to worry about it anymore? You quitting?”

“No. I won’t quit. But I’m done with
him
. Maybe we can salvage a friendship from it.”

“Why is it that all women want to try and be friends with a guy after he fucks them over? It’s like you can’t accept that some people just don’t deserve to have friends. This guy sounds like a grade ‘A’ prick. Just kick him to the side.”

I took a drink of water. It tasted awful. “I don’t know if it’ll be that easy.”

“Jesus. You two have already bumped uglies, haven’t you?”

I glared at him. “Why do you say that?”

“The way you said,
I don’t know if it’ll be that easy.
Just sounds like you’re fucking.”

I didn’t respond.

“How long have you been there?” he asked.

I tried to silently count the days, but my pickled mind couldn’t seem to do so. I was going to guess, then before I could prepare a response, he continued. “Shit, it’s only been a week, hasn’t it?”

The answer came to me. It was Tuesday. I sighed. “Eight.”

“You’ve fucked eight times, or it’s been eight days?”

“Eight days, we’ve boned twice.”

“Well, at least there’s only twenty left,” he said.

“Twenty what?”

“Days.”

I buried my head in my hands. “I’ll probably be spending more time in here, that’s for sure.”

“Okay by me.” he stood up. “Here comes your pizza.”

I smelled the pizza long before I saw it, and even though I really wanted to eat it, was slow to raise my head. By the time I did, it was in front of me on a plate. I opened both of my eyes and admired the medley of vegetables on what was the largest pizza I had ever seen.

“Lock that front door, will ya, Pete?” Franky pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and tossed them in the air.

I glanced over my shoulder. A middle-aged Hispanic man snatched them from the air and nodded. “Sure.”

“He’s the cook?”

“Juan. He came with the bar. Great guy.”

“I thought you called him Pete?”

“I did.”

I reached for a slice of pizza and shook my head. “Why?”

“Too many Juan’s in San Diego County. I call him Pete to save confusion.”

“Oh.”

I lifted the slice of pizza to my mouth and took a bite. Franky was right, the pizza was great.

“This is really good.”

“They’re
really
good when you’re drunk. Sober, they’re a solid 7 out of 10.”

I took another bite and shook my head. “This is a ten.”

“You have minimal pizza experience, or you’re drunker than I thought. When did you get here?”

“Dinner time.”

“When’s dinner time for you two love birds?”

“Stop it,” I whined. “I don’t know, six or something.”

“Wow. Eight hours of margaritas.”

I devoured the rest of the slice and reached for another. “Eight hours?”

“It’s two o’ clock. It’s
tomorrow
. We’re locking up.”

I couldn’t believe I had been there for eight hours. “Holy crap. Can I finish this?”

“Just like I said the other day. Movie stars get special privileges. You can stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you.” I folded the pizza and raised it to my mouth. “Want a slice?”

He narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose. “With onions and peppers?”

I shrugged. “Your loss.”

“Just kidding.” He reached across the bar and grabbed a slice. “This is the only way I like it.”

I studied him as I ate my piece of pizza. Dressed as usual – in jeans, a blue tee shirt, and sneakers, he looked cute.

“I can stay as long as I want, huh?”

He looked up and nodded. “Yep.”

“I want to stay here until this is gone. Will you help me finish it?”

“Will I share a pizza with a gorgeous woman? Let me think on that for a minute,” he said. He reached for another slice. “I think so.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I really don’t want to go home.”

“Never?” he asked.

“I don’t know about that, but at least not for now,” I said, although I was afraid
never
was more accurate.

CHAPTER TEN

I opened my eyes to slits, realized it was daylight, and pulled the pillow over my head. The morning sun was a bit too much for my state of being, and I needed a moment to adjust. Although I had no idea how many margaritas I drank for sure, my head told me I had consumed too damned many.

I vaguely remembered devouring half of a mammoth pizza.

I inhaled a long, slow breath and smiled to myself at the fresh scent of the pillowcase. After a moment of regaining my senses, I slid the pillow from my face and gazed up at the ceiling.

White?

Since when is the bedroom ceiling white?

I turned to the side.

The bedroom was not a familiar place. Although there were many of them, I had been in all of the bedrooms in the mansion I was living in – or at least I thought I had. I looked around the room for anything that sparked a memory.

I saw nothing.

The room had cream colored walls, a white ceiling, and white crown moldings. The dresser, nightstand, and headboard were a modern contemporary design. The walls were adorned with modern abstract art, and the corner of the room had two odd shaped – but very tasteful – sculptures. In the corner, a large walk-in closet that was obviously completely empty.

Nothing looked familiar.

Not at all.

I jumped to my feet and realized short of my shoes, I was in bed fully clothed. Another quick glance around the room revealed a handwritten note on top of the dresser.

Lou,

I checked on you a few times this morning, but you were sleeping. Sorry. Had to get to work. Just lock the door and pull it closed behind you.

Had a great time talking.

Can’t wait to do it again.

Franky

I closed my eyes and tried to recall what had happened. Like a movie edited by a schizophrenic squirrel, bits and pieces of the night played in my head. I had ridden home with Franky. In a Jeep. We ate pizza. He made me a milkshake.

I remembered stairs.

Lots of them.

And declaring my hatred of Rhett for being a selfish prick, being a pizza prick, and being a prick in general.

Shit.

I walked to the window and pulled the blinds. Sure enough, the house I was living in sat across the street.

Fuck.

I pressed my hands against my pockets and then remembered I had relinquished my phone to comply with the rules and requirements of the show. Nervously, my eyes darted around the room again. Sitting beside the door were my shoes and socks, which I had no recollection of removing. As leaving my shoes at my bedroom door was a habit of mine since childhood, it stood as a simple display of further proof that I was much drunker than I realized. I surely didn’t remember leaving them there.

I found slight satisfaction in knowing that I slept in what appeared to be a spare bedroom. I found further satisfaction that I was still dressed.

Thank you.

Now, all I had to do was figure out how to get back home without Rhett, the camera crew, or anyone in production knowing where I had been. For them to find Franky would be disastrous.

I got my shoes on, wandered through the huge – but very warm – home, and found my way to the back door. I peered through the glass and into the massive space. Equally as impressive as the deck and pool at the home where I was living – if not more – the area was lusciously landscaped, furnished and decorated no differently than the home I was temporarily living in.

Neatly and tastefully.

I opened the door, locked it, and pulled it closed behind me. As I wandered toward the corner of the yard, I decided I needed to know much less about Rhett, and much more about Franky.

But first, I needed to make it home without raising any eyebrows.

And, I wasn’t so hungover that I didn’t realize that doing so, in itself, was going to be tricky.

Very tricky.