Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) (13 page)

While the others were chatting about nothing in particular, waiting for the disembodied voice to tell them what to do next, Libby went back into the living room to look around. There was always a challenge involving details of the decor, so no reason not to study for it now. The walls this year were vaguely rounded in places, but they still had the large, built-in fish tanks, stocked with colorful fish. Libby crouched down to see the camera behind the fish tank, getting “watery” shots of the contestants in the background with real fish in the foreground. She memorized the number of fish in each tank before turning back to the living room furnishings.

The decor was like Little Mermaid on Ice sponsored by Ikea—lots of blues and greens with sleek Swedish modern furniture. Tall, spiky potted plants mimicked seaweed and the few paintings echoed the sense of being under water. There were a lot of round shapes, too—rugs, wall art, pillows. Bubbles, Libby thought as she counted them.

“Hey, Lissa,” Chris said as she stared at a gigantic photo of a clown fish. Nemo on steroids. Chris was the most outgoing of the bunch, eager to make friends. He tugged on her arm to get her back outside with the others. “What made you want to be on the show?”

Ah, a safe enough question. Too bad she couldn’t tell the truth. “Oh, you know. It looks fun, and there’s a million dollars for the winner. I never ever thought I’d get on.” Libby felt relief to be uttering a true statement for once as she and Chris rejoined the others in the garden.

“Me neither,” Jim—the older man—admitted. “It seems like the average age of the cast members gets lower and lower. All the while I’m going in the opposite direction.”

Libby and the others chuckled, but he was in great shape. All the guys were. Some of them competed shirtless the day before. Plus, she’d caught a glimpse of Greg, her roommate, as he got dressed this morning. All the guys were buff and all the women could wear a bikini without showing too much pudge. The show’s website insisted the producers had no requirement about the sort of physique a potential contestant could have. Of course not. They just didn’t cast anyone who wasn’t “telegenic.”
Cynic.

Her turn. She turned to the cabby/actor. “So, Dylan, what about you? Why’d you apply to be on the show?”

Dylan, who was superbly tanned and had the whitest teeth she’d ever seen, grinned and shrugged. “Doll, you’re effing kidding me, right? The money. I mean, a million’s not that much when you get down to it, you know, after taxes and all. But it sure wouldn’t hurt.”

“Would winning here help your acting career?” she asked, her eyes deliberately wide.

He looked pissed off. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch. I’m a cabby from the South Side.”

Oh, sure, like every cabby in Chicago has a few thousand dollars’ worth of dental work in his mouth. Libby just smiled. For fun, she tried to figure out which movie star he looked like. It was no good. He was so generically handsome he could be anyone on a TV show or movie.

Chris attempted to get Jo to talk. “Um, how about you, Jo?”

She was hunched over by the pool, picking at her black toenail polish. “How about me what?” she said. She barely moved her head.

Chris was like a puppy with a bone. “How come you applied to be on the show?”

“It was a dare,” she stated baldly. “My boyfriend dared me, saying that network TV never picks people like us.” She looked at Libby challengingly. “Goths. We find lightness in the dark, but people think we’re worshiping the devil or it’s some cult. Our piercings and tattoos, y’know. Network execs don’t want to see ’em.” She flicked the ring in her lower lip as if that proved her point.

“But they took you,” Libby said mildly. “What did your boyfriend say when you got picked?”

Jo scowled at her for a moment, then focused on her feet again. “He dumped me.”

“Oh, wow, I’m sorry,” Libby said sincerely. She bit her tongue to keep from blurting out the obvious. Any guy who would make Jo apply and then ditch her when she got on the show was a complete schmuck. He’d probably figured she wouldn’t get on and he could use her failure in some way. Libby stifled a grin when she remembered Rand’s voice saying, “Men,” in fake disgust the night before.

Jo’s confession stopped the conversation for the moment. Libby wandered over to the pool. More Fish to suss out.

By the end of the morning, Libby had them straight. She looked them over, mentally ticking them off. The women were much easier to tell apart—in addition to Jo and Kai, there was an attractive divorcée, Diane, who seemed ready to compete with everyone even this early in the game, a preening redhead named Arielle about Libby’s age, and Susie, a cute-as-a-button blonde from Texas.

The guys were harder. Libby knew her roommate Greg, of course. She smiled at how the others reacted when he said he’d played for the University of Missouri’s marching band. When one of the guys protested that band geeks were skinny and weak, Greg explained solemnly that he needed to keep in shape—band was hard work. Kai asked him what instrument he played. With his tight T-shirt outlining his muscles, they were all imagining the tuba or bass drum. No, he played the piccolo. Libby could feel her facial muscles contracting painfully as she struggled not to laugh—she lay back on the ground and threw her arm over her eyes to disguise her mirth.

Jim, the older guy, was also easy. His full head of gray hair was very distinguished, but it did stand out a bit. She’d dubbed Chris “the Friendly Puppy” because he kept reminding her of Baxter, the golden retriever they’d had as kids. Even fully grown, Baxter had been goofy and playful. Next to Chris was Dylan, the “No, really, I drive a cab in Chicago, bitch” guy. She wondered if they’d had to confiscate professionally-done head shots from his luggage.

That left Jockstrap Bryce, an athlete of some sort who wore his hair slicked back and didn’t seem very interested in any of them. And Country Boy Tommy, Kai’s other roommate. He had a “golly gee” manner that made her think he was going to say Susie was cuter than a spotted calf or something. His smile looked fake and he didn’t come across as especially friendly, at least not when compared with Friendly Puppy Chris.

While everyone chatted in a desultory manner, Libby leaned back on her elbows, paddling her feet in the pool, and thought about Rand. Was he watching them? Had he enjoyed talking to her in the Journal Room last night? Would he want to set it up again, have her go last and stay longer? It was an odd sensation talking to someone who was kind of in the same room. Not a phone conversation, but not the same as talking face-to-face. She imagined having dinner with him, or sitting across from him in a coffee shop. It’d be nice to see his face again. Still, listening to his voice was almost as good. Familiar. Like having a friend in the house.

Rand knew her, had seen her at the bar, had even been to her apartment…

Libby fought back the memories of their kiss after he’d shown her that movie.

The point was, even if he thought she was Lissa, Rand never met the real Lissa. All he knew of Lissa was Libby’s version. And despite only being with him three times, he felt real to her. In fact, talking to Rand felt more real than living with the Fish. She didn’t care about checking out the competition or trying to establish an alliance. She was more interested in gauging from the shadows how long before she’d be summoned to the Journal Room. Even with no clocks in the ’Bowl, Libby was marking time.

Arielle preened in front of Dylan and Jo squabbled with Tommy about rock bands versus country music stars. Libby zoned them out and replayed each time she’d actually been in the same room with Rand. She remembered him from the Cork, telling her about his boss, laughing about the show, protecting her from her classmates. She wanted to linger on these safe images, but as usual she fast-forwarded to those kisses in her apartment. Her memory of that afternoon hadn’t faded. Libby felt a flush, a tingle of anticipation just thinking about it. No more kissing for them, of course. Conversation only. Based on last night, that could prove difficult in the long run. His voice made her quiver with—best not put a word to that feeling. He made her feel nice.

Hah. She closed her eyes to mask her self-derision. “Nice” barely described it. She was hot all over thinking about him from the Journal Room. He had to have been, what, ten feet away when they were talking last night? She wondered how one got from her side of that smoky mirror to his. Even the idea of touching him again sent a chill through her. She had goose bumps and—she glanced down—yes, peaked nipples. Embarrassing, but not enough to stop thinking about him.

She scanned the garden, but no one was paying any attention to her. Not even Paranoid Theorist Jo, who’d gone inside.

Libby tried to imagine her next visit to the Journal Room, but her mind kept coming back to images of skin-to-skin contact. Maybe they’d meet up after the show was over. Maybe she’d get to see his apartment—okay, his bedroom. And maybe he was right over there, behind the smoky glass windows, watching her.

A wave of desire flooded through her at the idea of Rand watching her. Oh, lord. She was turning into an exhibitionist. No. If it was anyone other than Rand watching her, she was most assuredly not turned on. Only Rand.

Ah. A picky exhibitionist.

She shifted, rubbing one calf against the other leg. She wanted to adjust her top, but it might call too much attention to her restlessness. Two months of being this aware of her body? Libby sighed. It was going to be a long summer.

Rand pulled into his parents’ driveway, turned off the car and sat for a moment, gazing at the perfectly-maintained landscaping. His parents’ house wasn’t large by Bel Air standards, but it sat on a particularly gracious lot, perfect for entertaining. Perfect for his mother to swan around, impeccably dressed, making sure everyone was comfortable. Perfect for his father to entertain industry moguls with his stories of clashes with the network honchos. Perfect for everyone to feel smart and creative instead of just lucky.

Even the air smelled perfect as Rand opened the car door. He shook his head. All this perfection and he still dreaded the duty Sunday brunch visit. He loved his parents, but he and Alan-Jennings-the-TV-producer (as opposed to Alan-Jennings-his-dad—when was the last time Rand had a conversation with his own father that hadn’t been about the industry?) seemed locked in a tug-of-war over Rand’s disappointing career choices.

The only imperfect thing the Jennings had to deal with was their son. No wonder he didn’t feel comfortable coming home.

“Darling!” His mother’s warm greeting came with a tight hug. Dee Jennings’ beauty hadn’t faded a bit, her hair still a lovely shade of dark blonde, her face nearly unlined.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Rand,” his dad said, holding out a hand. When was the last time they hugged?

They made awkward small talk as his mother put lunch on the patio table and his dad prepared the Bellinis. Only after all the news was shared about Rand’s grandfather, a retired studio executive, and the Jennings cousins—one of whom had just had a baby to underscore Rand’s lack of a wife and family—did his father raise the one topic that mattered.

“Ronnie Kaplan reports you’re doing a great job on that show.”

Rand’s plan to keep his father from meddling by taking a job in reality TV, which Alan Jennings despised, had a serious flaw—
The Fishbowl
was on the same network as Minor Developments’ current drama,
Brass Tacks
. Ronnie Kaplan thought he was doing everyone a favor by reporting to Alan how his son was getting on. Hah.

“Nice of Ronnie to keep you in the loop,” Rand said.

Alan scowled at his plate. “Now, don’t take that tone. I wouldn’t even talk to him if you’d tell me about your job.”

“It’s a job. I’m a producer. I find people to be on
The Fishbowl
, I write stuff for Jeremy to say, I write stuff to ask the Fish, I endure meetings with Marcy, it’s okay. What more can I tell you?”

“Tell me about this season’s theme,” Alan said. “Ronnie said it’s some social experiment to see if opposites attract.”

His mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her mouth open as if to deflect the growing tension.

“C’mon. You and I both know what sells on that show. Sexy bodies. Actually, Marcy would like the Fish to have sex, but everyone knows it’s hard to get self-absorbed narcissists to mate in captivity.”

Dee asked, “So who wants dessert?” They ignored her.

“You have something to do with casting,” his father said. “Why cast these bimbos, then?”

“It’s my job,” Rand stressed.

“No. That’s not your job. Your job is to make a quality TV show.”

“Quality reality TV? Isn’t that an oxymoron in your book, Dad?”

“I don’t like the genre, no. But look at
The Amazing Race
. That’s educational…on occasion.”

“Whereas,
The Fishbowl
is just about jiggling girls and muscle-bound guys, right?”

“Only if you let it be,” Alan said. His hands pressed on the table top as though he was going to push himself away from Rand’s stupidity.

“Yeah, well, I’m conducting my own experiment this year,” Rand blurted out.

His parents stared at him, his father’s frown spurring him on.

“I cast some atypical reality TV people.” Rand waited for his father to react.

“I don’t understand,” Dee said. “What’s atypical about them?”

Rand explained about the dot-com millionaire, the Navajo woman, and the receptionist who was heading to dental school. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t mention Lissa.

“But, darling, I think that’s wonderful,” his mother said. “Marcy must be so happy you found these people.”

“Marcy doesn’t know, does she?” Alan said slowly. He stared at Rand, that unnerving look suggesting punishment couldn’t be far behind.

Rand was too old for this shit. “I’m doing it on my own, then I’m going to write a screenplay.”

Alan’s eyebrows flexed. “How do some unexpected reality show contestants”—he never called them Fish—“get you a screenplay?”

Before Rand could even decide if he wanted to share his plans, it all came tumbling out. The idea to mess with Marcy’s head, the high-concept pitch—his dad laughed at “
The Devil Wears Prada
gets
Gaslight
ed”—everything. Everything except for Lissa and the love interest. Not sure why he wasn’t talking about her…