Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) (10 page)

Uncle Jack watching reality TV. What a bizarre image. Only way that could happen was if he prosecuted the producers for financial malfeasance. “Okay, I concede that point.”

“Besides, you’re going to be sequestered for the summer. If there’s any heat, it’s going to fall on me,” Lissa reminded her.

“And that’s not a problem because—why, again?”

“Because you and I stick together. Because I want you to do this. C’mon, Lib, look at it from my side—I’ll get to watch my sister do something really cool,” Lissa urged.

After all the grief Lissa gave Libby about her series of predictable choices designed to please the family, it’d be nice, just once, to impress Lissa. Libby closed her eyes. Another reason to do this. The pros were outweighing the cons—and she hadn’t even told Lissa about that kiss with Rand.

Libby sighed. “Okay, let’s review the plan. I take my exams, fly to Anchorage, work out like a fiend at your gym while you answer my phone and email, then when it’s time, I show up in L.A., dive into
The Fishbowl
and let you take all the heat. That about it?”

“Yup, I think so. But you’re the lawyer, you tell me.”

“I’ll have to think about that, but we pulled it off at the Cork, so I should be able to do the same thing here. I just need a defense for why it’s not fraud in the inducement.”

“What?”

Libby sighed. “It’s a tort, like trespassing. You know, the common law of torts?”

“Whatever
that
is,” Lissa teased. “Okay, so you figure out how you’re not breaking the code of tarts. I think I can keep Mom and Dad happy for the summer. What else do we need to worry about?”

“I guess I need to sublet the apartment, hunh?” Libby said weakly. She closed her eyes and let her shoulders slump with either relief or resignation. She was actually going through with it.

“That’s the spirit!” Lissa crowed.

Libby stood at her window looking at the streetlights glinting off the Schuylkill River. Two phone calls—Rand’s siren song luring her to disaster on the West Coast, and Lissa’s offer to help her buy clothes for the trip. God forbid Libby should be wearing mom jeans when she crashed and burned.

* * *

Three days.

Libby looked around the lobby of Anchorage’s airport. Days might be longer in Alaska, but they’d zipped by since she arrived, filled with their manic efforts to prepare for the show. Now she was leaving for L.A., ready or not. In three days she would be dropped out of her simple life—like a plastic bag filled with tap water—into
The Fishbowl
. First step, leave Lissa and Duke.

Lissa started to cry, not just the artful single tear on a cheek, but actual sobs. Libby gestured to Duke,
Do something
. He put an arm around Lissa, patting her back gently, then looked at Libby,
Is this enough?

Libby shrugged. Who knew with Lissa?

Duke had surprised Libby. When they’d first met she’d thought him superficial—a slick politician in training—but he was good for Lissa. He settled her. And Lissa had a knack for dealing with him, particularly when he got intense discussing the Senator. Libby might even miss Duke when she left. If she ever left…

She turned back to Lissa. “Hey, come on, no tears. You’re going to be seeing me on TV every week for the whole summer.”

Lissa hugged her again, hard. “I know, but it won’t be the same,” she said in a choked voice.

Libby made a face at Duke—
What do I do now?
His turn to shrug. Lissa behaved as though her every happiness was on the line, but then, that was Lissa.

“Hey, Liss, just think of all the fun you had torturing me at the gym,” Libby reminded her.

Lissa chuckled damply. “You are definitely losing that pasty law school flab.” She wiped her eyes. “Don’t forget to use a lot of sun block. Not cool to win the game but get skin cancer.”

“Yes, Mom.” Libby grinned. She hadn’t explained to Lissa that she wasn’t going to win. That would have required her to explain about Rand, and she wasn’t ready to do that. Every time she thought about him she felt a shivery rush of anticipation, followed by a wave of pure anxiety. Each morning she woke up one day closer to seeing him. Or maybe just talking to him, which would be almost as good.

Phone sex without the phone
.

Had she really said that out loud to him? God, what must he think of her? She felt hot with embarrassment every time she remembered. Maybe she’d only thought it and not said it out loud. Then she heard his voice in her head—that incredible sultry and passionate voice—and she knew. She’d said it out loud.

Lissa sniffed mightily and Duke handed her a handkerchief. Libby watched Duke’s tenderness with her sister with some envy and a touch of anxiety. She wanted that closeness with someone, and it was hard to talk herself out of thinking it could be Rand.

She pictured him at the bar, flashing that wicked half-smile at her. But then her inner skeptic would think of all the reasons he might not be for real. He’d been kidding, he was dating someone else, he wouldn’t be the one asking her questions. She had a vivid imagination for possible disasters, it turned out, and at night, lying on Lissa’s pull-out couch, Libby would run through them all. The next day, all she could think about was Rand.

Lissa began to rattle off her recipe for winning. Libby let the words flow over her like a benediction. Lissa would be hurt if she knew Libby’s only goal was to stay in the game as many weeks as possible.

“And watch those jocks—they chat up the girls, but they always form their own alliance. Get with the gay guy, okay?” Lissa looked so serious. Libby was surprised at the level of detail to Lissa’s game strategy. She’d have Libby doing abdominal crunches in the middle of their living room while she talked through all her theories on alliances, whether it was a good idea to win the Shark Fights, and how to use the Get Off The Hook card.

Libby had enjoyed these sessions. Okay, maybe not the crunches. But the time with Lissa had been special. Duke had never seen
The Fishbowl
, so he kept asking basic questions. Fun to listen to Lissa’s solemn tutorials, as though the rules of a fish-themed reality show were as important as legislative procedure.

For Libby, the worst thing would be to get fished out first thing and sent home. So she’d plotted with Lissa and Duke about whether to join an alliance right away and who to avoid in the first few weeks.

Now it was time to fly to L.A. and get on with the job.

“Guard myself with the jocks. Got it.” Libby shifted restlessly. She had plenty of time before her flight, but she wanted to get moving. Standing around ramped up her anxiety.

Libby shifted her gaze from Lissa to the check-in counter for her airline.

Lissa finally got the hint. “I know, I know. You want to go. Just let me think if there’s anything else I need to remind you. It’s going to drive me crazy, watching you play the game and not have any way to tell you what to do.”

“Can’t you guys use psychic twin communication?” Duke joked.

They turned on him. Lissa gave him her “don’t mess with me” glare, while Libby just gaped at him. Had he really learned nothing from watching them for three weeks?

Duke held up his hands, “Okay, okay. I get it. That’s one of those twin myths, right?”

Libby nodded. “If Lissa was psychically linked to me, you’d have known about it when I nearly failed my Evidence exam.”

“Which you aced,” Lissa grumbled. She’d been there when Libby went online to learn her grades for the spring semester. Lissa’s reaction to Libby’s string of As had been profane contempt, but that was just a smoke screen. Lissa was proud even if it meant there’d be another lawyer in the family.

Libby grinned. “Ah, but I didn’t know that. Believe me, I really thought I’d failed.”

“Anyway, Lib, if you get a blinding flash of intuition when the show airs, it will be Duke and me screaming at the TV set.”

“Good thing we don’t have telepathic powers, then. The only blinding thing your screaming would give me is a headache,” she teased.

“Well, don’t play like an idiot, and I won’t have to scream,” Lissa pointed out as though Libby had a problem concentrating.

Libby just smirked. “Right. Use sunblock, offer to cook but don’t be eager to do the dishes, play to win all the creature comfort challenges but turn down any money prizes, don’t trust the jocks, but it’s okay to be friends with the gay guy, and if I get a blinding headache it’s my own fault because I just screwed up. Is that it?”

Duke laughed. “Sounds right.”

Lissa sighed. “I guess so.” She turned to Duke, “We have to let her go, babe.” Like he was the one hell-bent on one more coaching session. He smiled at her. Yup, he was a good guy. For a politician.

Libby took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s my check list—you’ve got my cell and my email password?”

At Lissa’s nod, Libby continued. “You can ignore the cell phone all day until dinner time. If anyone asks, I’m super busy at the law firm.” She’d asked a law school friend who really did have a summer job at an L.A. law firm to cover for her in the unlikely chance someone tried looking for her. “If there’s a dire emergency, you’re really going to have to hold it together. I don’t think they’d pull me out of the game for anything less than Mom or Dad dying.”

They looked at each other for a moment. “Oh, Lissa, I’m going to count the days until I can see you again. You’ll come to L.A. for the end of the show, right?”

Lissa nodded vigorously. “Trust me, I’ll be the first person you see when you get out of that place.”

* * *

A car service met her at LAX and drove her to a hotel, where she was met by a snippy young woman with a clipboard.

“You’re sequestered until the show starts. I need you to sign these confidentiality agreements, then I’ll go over the rules of the game. A photographer will be here in the morning to take publicity stills. You won’t meet the other contestants until the show starts. They’re staying in other hotels, so don’t even look for them. And you’re not to tell anyone in the hotel about the show. On Saturday morning, pack all your clothes and wait in the hotel lobby for a car.”

Libby wanted to ask if it was okay for her to breathe, but something about this officious woman suggested no sense of humor.

When she arrived on Saturday at what must be the soundstage, she was told her luggage would be searched for contraband such as books, MP3 players, phones, etc. A staffer then showed Libby to a small room that looked like a little-used office. Nerves warred with disappointment that she hadn’t seen Rand during the orientation, or whatever this was called.

A young woman came in to fit Libby with a lavalier microphone and transmitter pack. She didn’t introduce herself, just launched into a rushed explanation about the “lav mike” and what Libby should and shouldn’t do with it and the transmitter pack. Libby lost her when she started rattling off information about cardioid mikes and how the house was wired everywhere. The key thing was that she must never take off the mike. The woman repeated this several times. Libby nodded politely.

Twenty minutes later, she was collected by a crew member, this one wearing a headset he spoke into while ignoring Libby. She was shepherded through the studio to a stage she recognized as the Kiss-and-Cry area where the departing Fish got to snivel while the host, Jeremy Andrews, made soothing noises. There were several other people similarly miked and ready—her fellow contestants. Two more of the crew, also wearing headsets, were close by, poised to keep the Fish from talking to each other and starting the game too soon.

The group intrigued her. Everyone was good-looking, even the token older man. Libby figured she represented the “average”-looking person, even dressed as Lissa. One woman around her age was looking very bored and a bit arrogant. There was a cute blond guy who was either from some tiny town in Oklahoma or was the gay-guy-with-a-heart-of-gold and pecs of steel. And some tall, dark and handsome type who was eying her kind of intensely. A jock. Libby shifted her gaze away from him without making it too obvious.

The most beautiful contestant was a stunning woman with hair like polished ebony and golden bronze skin—evidence of Native American heritage, perhaps. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were bright and she looked like she was about to laugh. Libby instinctively liked her, whoever she was. Libby was about to scope out the rest of the Fish when a phalanx of people arrived. Their presence commanded everyone’s attention.

“Hello, Fish,” the woman at the front of the wedge greeted them. “I’m Marcy Edelstein, Executive Producer of
The Fishbowl
. Welcome to you all. We’re excited about this season’s show. Just a couple things I want to mention before we begin taping.”

As Marcy delivered her little speech—part stern warning, part pep talk—Libby checked out her entourage. Rand was behind Marcy and a bit to the left. Libby guessed there was a rough pecking order among the producing staff and Rand was the production equivalent of middle management. He was checking his hand-held, and barely looked up while Marcy talked.

Eventually, Marcy wished them good luck and took off with most of her staff trailing behind her like ducklings. Nothing happened. Nobody said anything, but the tension among the Fish was rising. It felt like a harbinger of the stupid endurance contest that decided the winner, which Lissa had characterized as “the one where you have to stand on the head of a pin.” Luckily bartending had trained Libby to stay on her feet for a long time.

Libby shook her right foot, which had fallen asleep. She really regretted not eating more at breakfast. She was rotating her head to ease the ache in her neck when Jeremy Andrews appeared. He took the spot marked for him and stood facing the camera. The Fish would appear behind him in the shot. Someone did a sound check, and then before Libby even got used to the idea, studio lights came on, the cameras rolled and Jeremy was reading from cue cards.

“Welcome to the eighth season of
The Fishbowl
. Behind me are twelve people convinced that they can swim like a shark, avoid getting hooked or fished out, and go on to win one million dollars—all while living in
The Fishbowl
!”