Текст книги "Fever dream"
Автор книги: Elsie Silver
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
“All right, we’ve got Cookie here first.” Teri gives me a thumbs-up and backs away, drawing her fingers upward over her lips in a silent suggestion that I smile.
I force my lips up and say, “So tell me, because I’ve been dying to know… is your name actually Cookie?”
It’s awkward as hell, but to her credit, Cookie lets out a boisterous, genuine laugh that sets me at ease. “Yeah. I get that a lot. I love to bake, so my dad started calling me that, and it stuck.”
My lips twitch, because that’s actually kind of endearing, and Cookie has an easy, sunny way about her that I appreciate. Still, I’m not ready to use that term of endearment.
“So what’s your real name?”
“Kayla.”
“Can I call you Kayla?” I ask, because I don’t know if I can keep a straight face with the whole Cookie thing.
She slaps me playfully on the shoulder. “Oh, don’t be silly. Everyone calls me Cookie!”
I wince, but she breezes past it with her bubbly personality. We fall into conversation for several minutes, and I find it stress-free to talk to her. The camera doesn’t bother me as much as usual, and it’s only when Teri tells us that time is up that I register Julia’s presence.
Cookie departs with a quick hug right as Julia steps forward to hand me a bottle of water while the crew jumps into action preparing for the next woman.
Julia seizes the chance to taunt me when she whispers, “Imagine moaning Oh, Cookie.”
I shoot Julia a dirty look as I swipe the water bottle, only for her to close her eyes and make a soft moaning noise. “Yes, Cookie. Just like that, Cookie.”
My lips twitch as I try not to laugh. I shouldn’t laugh. But unfortunately for me, I find Julia Silva to be way funnier than I’d ever admit.
“Yeah, so I love murdery things.” Catherine sits across from me, looking ethereal in her flowing dress.
My brows jump in startled surprise. “Murder?”
“Ha! Like true crime. Podcasts, books, movies. I’m starting my own podcast delving into all the gory details of past cases. Possibly even tackling new ones.”
This woman looks too sweet to be into gory details. Golden hair, a sugary-sweet voice. I find the contrast funny and kind of relatable.
We spend our time talking about serial killers, and strangely I kind of dig it.
“My name is Madeline, but you don’t recognize me, do you?”
The woman with long, straight dark hair and matching thick brows smiles at me flirtatiously.
I rack my brain, trying to place her, but everything comes up blank.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t.”
“I went to school with your sister.”
“Oh. You’re local then. That’s cool. Which sister?”
“Parker.”
My forehead scrunches as a memory from the past dawns on me. “Madeline… from Parker’s English 30 class?”
In our family we called her Plagiarism Madeline because she stole Parker’s paper and tried to pass it off as her own. It had nearly gotten my sister suspended until she could prove that she’d emailed it to herself a few times over the course of working on it, just to save backups.
“Yes!” Madeline confirms, not a shred of embarrassment on her face. This chick is as delusional as I remember. Which makes the rest of our conversation uncomfortable as hell.
The only thing that gets me through it is knowing I’ll be able to eliminate her soon.
“I hated that movie.”
I grimace at Cynthia, trying to find some sort of common ground with a woman who appears to hate everything. I’ve tried music, travel, television, and sport, all of which seem to bring her zero joy.
“Do you have a favorite movie?”
She shrugs, a sour expression on her face as she stares down at her nails. “I prefer reading.”
“Cool. A favorite book then?”
“Ugh, I don’t know. Everything being published these days is so basic. Bad writing. Predictable storylines. I just keep rereading the classics.”
God, she’s fucking miserable.
“Maybe you should write a book?” I suggest dryly. “Put something up to snuff out there, ya know?”
Someone like Cynthia gets off on criticizing people for doing the things she’ll never be able to do herself. I know the type. Grew up with one coaching me at every rodeo.
She lifts one shoulder in a bored shrug. “Maybe.”
I look over at Julia—standing off camera, just behind a frowning Richard—and roll my eyes. Because talking to Cynthia is more painful than being gored by a bull.
All it does is make me realize how easy it was to open up to Julia that day in my kitchen.
And that I enjoy her company a whole lot more than I should.
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CHAPTER 16
Julia
“SO, HOW WAS the first week?” my mom asks.
Her skin is soft and pale. An almost perfect match for the blond (but now trending gray) long bob that frames her face. She’s Norwegian and she looks it. I suspect her and my dad would have been a striking couple to see side by side. His dark features contrasted against her light ones.
I might have her button nose and round cheeks, but the rest of me is all Silva. Theo looks even more like our dad than I do.
I smile at my mom. Happy to see her. This visit has become one of my favorite parts of my week.
“Well?” She tucks a strand behind her ear as she eagerly waits for my answer. She’s seated on the wicker love seat across from me on the bricked-in patio behind her sprawling rancher, so I can’t escape the expectant glint in her eyes. I don’t want to lie to her—I hate lying to my mom—but I also don’t know what to say.
When I can’t delay my answer any longer without her noticing, I give her a casual shrug and a soft smile. “Pretty good.”
Because that is what this first week at the show has been. Pretty good. Not great. Not exceptional. Not terrible. Highs and lows. My boss is a douchebag, and I got prickles in the ass. But I’ve realized that Emmett might not be as bad as I’ve always thought he was, which is strangely satisfying. It’s like he’s slowly restoring my faith in humanity.
Or my faith in men.
“Just pretty good?” she asks, head tilting as she lifts her cup of tea to her lips, eyes narrowing inquisitively.
“Yeah, you know how it is. Nothing in life is perfect. You’ve always told me that.”
She grins now and shoots me a wink. “That’s a guarantee, baby girl.”
“The executive producer told me that if I keep up the good work, he’ll write me a letter of reference, which would be huge. This show on my résumé, plus an endorsement from the head honcho, would push my foot in the door in Hollywood. I’m already eyeing job listings for scripted TV with major streamers.”
My mom’s head tilts. “Which is where you wanted to end up eventually.”
I point at her. “Exactly. So this would be huge. Especially so early in my career.”
“Does that mean he could also hurt your job prospects if this doesn’t go well?”
“I suppose so. But you know me. I’m a hard worker. I have a positive attitude. What could go wrong?”
“What indeed…” She trails off with a thoughtful hum.
Leave it to my mom to play devil’s advocate. I chuckle at her predictability and scan my surroundings. Beyond the trees, I can see the edges of what was once my father’s ranchland, purchased when he first moved here from Brazil. Since his passing it’s been sold off in pieces to people who are eager to use the land in the way he would have wanted. My mom interviews every prospective buyer and chooses who to sell to based on “vibes.” And sometimes the vibes don’t match the highest offer, much to her realtor’s dismay.
But that’s Loretta Silva. Practical, but also an incredible judge of character. She always knew that land would keep us afloat, but as a midwife and suddenly single parent to two young children, she was certainly not in a position to manage a ranch. Still, every swath of land found what she refers to as “a good home.”
The small apple orchard that encircles the house that Theo and I grew up in is all that remains, and even that is leased out to someone who takes care of the trees and fruit. It’s the perfect setup because it means our family does zero work, but we still get to enjoy the sweet smell of apple blossoms, the feel of sitting in a forest, and the bright pops of red that dot the trees. It makes this property feel plain magical. It’s why I always come back.
Besides my mom, of course.
I absently wonder how many times I’ve shown up at my mom’s house for morning tea over the past couple of years, just to shoot the shit and not be a hermit who only works and studies.
I’m not sure my mom recognizes how strange the past two years have been for me. She’s been swept up with Theo and grandbabies. And that’s not to say she isn’t there for me. She is. She’s endlessly supportive. Easy to talk to. A goddamn open book.
In this case, it’s me who hasn’t been open with her. But it hasn’t kept me away. In fact, avoiding having a social life has led me to visiting her more than ever. And knowing her, she isn’t oblivious to the changes in me—she just doesn’t demand an explanation. She’s never pushed me to say more than I want to.
“Okay, so it’s not perfect,” she presses. “But are you having fun?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Surprisingly, this question is easy to answer. “I am totally having fun. Learning a lot. Meeting people. Making connections. No matter what, this is going to look great on the résumé once the show wraps.”
My mother leans forward, her expression mischievous. “Has there been any good drama so far?”
She knows that I’m working on a dating show, and she knows that it’s basically being filmed in her backyard. But aside from that, I’ve kept the details vague and limited to “on a farm to the north” and “I can’t tell you that because NDA.”
It’s kept her at bay, but knowing Loretta Silva, the not knowing has to be killing her.
I let loose a breathy chuckle as I think back on the week. Good drama. I highly doubt that Dick Wad would describe most of what’s happened on camera as good drama. In fact, I heard him complaining to Teri that even with the cameras rolling twenty-four seven, they haven’t caught much. A little gossip between the girls, but nothing groundbreaking.
Maybe if he’d had a camera in Emmett’s kitchen, the prickle extraction experience would have excited him. But I thank the stars above that’s not the case, because Richard finding out about that is the last thing either of us needs.
He’s a loose cannon with very specific ideas about what he wants to unfold. There’s no doubt in my mind that getting that up close and personal with the bachelor when it wasn’t strictly necessary would be enough for him to fire me.
“Bits and pieces,” I say, evasively. “The first elimination ceremony is tonight. And he has to send two women home. So, I’m assuming there will be some exciting revelations in their exit interviews. Or maybe some shots fired, we’ll see. And then tomorrow is a day off. Although there will still be crews on-site and twenty-four-hour camera footage. There are endless opportunities for them to pick something up.”
Mom leans forward, as if she’s trying to draw even closer so she can whisper her next question. “And are you going to tell me who the bachelor is?”
My cheeks pinch as I stare back at my mom. I honestly think if it were anyone else, I might skirt the NDA and figure out a way to tell her.
But I promised Emmett I wouldn’t. And over the past week, he hasn’t done a single thing to make me believe he doesn’t deserve at least a sliver of my loyalty. I want to respect his wishes.
I’m not at all obsessed with him like the girls on the show appear to be when filming their B-roll interviews. But I would be lying to myself if I couldn’t admit that beneath the obnoxiously flirtatious and overly confident exterior that Emmett Brandt is infamous for, there’s a streak of sensitivity—hell, even a virtuousness—that I never expected.
Much like this job, I recognize Emmett is also not perfect. Not all good and not all bad. But certainly a lot kinder than I thought he would be.
Which must be why I take a sip of my tea, look my mom in the eye, and wave her off with a casual flick of my hand before lying to her. “I can’t tell you. But you wouldn’t know him anyway.”
“Bah.” She flops back against the cushions in defeat. “I told Theo you’d never tell me.”
My head tilts. “Theo?”
My mom laughs. “You know how he is. He wants to know everything. That man is like a town crier at the local hairdresser, spreading gossip, digging around for secrets, putting his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
I can’t help but laugh, imagining my brother under a hood dryer at Emerald Lake’s oldest salon, chatting with little white-haired ladies who’ve traded gossip in this valley for the past seventy-plus years.
Knowing him, he’d have a grand ol’ time and win every one of them over within an hour. He is charm personified.
“I can envision that a little too clearly.”
She chuckles her agreement. “Same. Speaking of… he, Winter, and the kids are coming to spend some time here in a couple of weeks. We can do a bunch of activities all together if your schedule works for it. Gonna make all my grandma dreams come true.”
“Oh fun! Definitely keep me posted!”
It comes out just a little too brightly, and I catch a weird look from my mom. But I can never tell if she’s not-so-subtly hinting at me when she waxes poetic about being a grandmother.
There’s this part of me that feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m coming up short compared to Theo. He’s vivacious. He’s living life to the fullest. He’s got kids. A wife.
He’s got all the things I feel like I’m supposed to have—things I probably do want. But I keep moving the goalposts on myself for when I’m allowed to make room for them.
When I finish my degree. Once I complete my master’s. As soon as I get this job down on my résumé. Not until I have a secure career.
It almost makes me wonder if I’m avoiding those aspects of life on purpose.
“Well, consider this your first heads-up—he’s far too excited about getting the details on this dating show. You might want to carry a copy of that NDA in your purse to protect yourself against his grand inquisition.”
My stomach flips. Not because I’m nervous to see my brother. Hell, I really do love it when he and his family visit. No, my stomach flips over because I hate the prospect of lying to him too.
I hate dancing around the truth with my mom, but she’s not going to lean into me the same way that my brother will.
I shrug and do my best to take an unaffected sip of my peppermint tea. “Well, Theo can ask me all he wants. I’m used to his antics.”
But the prospect still leaves me unsettled, because I can’t figure out why I am so fiercely determined to protect Emmett’s privacy.
Even through the dim cast of crackling firelight, I can tell that Emmett looks miserable. I set the pit near where he and Brad stand to add to the rustic vibe of the space, but I barely notice it now.
“Emmett,” Brad starts, his smooth, deep voice filling the space. “You have three women before you. Three women who want nothing more than to see where this goes.”
Good lord. Nothing more? I’d like a word with the man they have writing these scripts.
Brad doesn’t seem to find the wording as cringeworthy as I do. He carries on, eyes shining with sincerity, as if this is the most profound decision of Emmett’s life. He squeezes his shoulder in a show of faux support. “Unfortunately, you only have one bolo tie remaining. Which means you’ll need to say farewell to two of these incredible women.”
Rather than roses, each woman receives a bolo tie along with a request for her to stay and continue to “see where this goes.”
To his credit, Emmett makes a show of looking torn over the decision. His shoulders are held stiffly while his calloused fingers fiddle with the thin rope of the final bolo tie in his grip.
Evelyn, Madeline, and Cynthia stand across from Emmett and Brad in the courtyard area next to the bunkhouse with expectant looks on their faces. The setting is perfect.
Large white candles set atop gnarled stumps illuminate their side of the set, and the stars sparkle above us in the clear night sky. It’s idyllic—or at least the set is. I’m brimming with pride as I take in the first elimination ceremony. Reality shows like this aren’t necessarily where I want to end up long term, but damn if this won’t look good on TV and my résumé.
“You have all spent a fun-filled week together,” Brad says, gesturing between parties from his place next to Emmett. “But all good things must come to an end, and in the search for love, it’s important to be as honest and true to yourself as you can be. Isn’t that right, Emmett?”
The search for love.
“Of course. This is an enormous decision,” Emmett echoes, and I hold back a scoff because it’s abundantly clear to almost every person on set that no one is finding love on this show. Especially not the way that Richard produces it.
It’s a strange experience, watching someone make a supposed monumental decision while pretending there isn’t an entire crew on the sidelines watching, filming, and—let’s be honest—judging.
The tendon near Emmett’s jawline flexes as his gaze drops to his hands. Hands that were on me mere days ago. Firm and gentle and capable all at once. His touch has haunted me all week, but I’ve chalked it up to the fact that I haven’t let a man lay a hand on me in over two years.
I’m starved for touch. It could have been anyone. His words apply to me as well. I’m sure my fascination with him has more to do with the way his swagger comes and goes. The way it changes depending on the setting and who he’s around.
He flirts with me.
He’s cranked up the charm for the cameras all week while showing the women around the farm. Now, though, he looks like he wants to dig himself a hole to crawl in and die. The problem is his moodiness will get him into trouble where the show is concerned. Because if it comes off wrong on camera, Richard will lose his ever-loving mind.
“Your time is up,” Brad states with a level of finality. “Who will be staying to”—his voice drops lower for dramatic effect—“court the cowboy?”
Madeline preens, like she believes she’s the chosen one. Cynthia appears smug, like the other two don’t stand a chance. And Evelyn works to cover a scowl, like being in the bottom three is a personal affront to her.
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing over court the cowboy.
“It’s been incredible spending this week with you all. Truly, each one of you is so special to me in her own way. But there is one woman who just stands out in my mind.”
The humor of the moment shrivels up when Emmett makes his pick.
“Evelyn,” he states to a chorus of gasps from the other women. Relief flashes across Evelyn’s face. “Will you accept this bolo tie?”
She saunters forward while Cynthia and Madeline stand in shock. “Of course I will.”
Evelyn reaches in for a hug from Emmett. She drapes herself around him and whispers something in his ear as her fingers rake through the back of his hair. To my surprise, it irritates me. It’s not that it’s him. It’s just that it seems like an overstep. The way she always touches him denotes a level of familiarity that doesn’t exist between them.
I’m likely just feeling protective of him now that I know about his childhood. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
“That’s my girl,” Richard mumbles from somewhere behind me, and it makes me want to make the sound cats do when they hack up a hairball.
When Emmett draws away, he grips her biceps and holds her at arm’s length to create space between them. For the briefest moment, his eyes flash to mine. It’s too fast for anyone to clock.
Anyone but me.
“Good fucking god. When did this alleged manwhore turn into such a frigid little bitch?” Dick Wad mumbles.
Thankfully, Richard can’t see me roll my eyes from his position behind me.
He’s just so gross. I’m mostly having fun with this job, but the guy makes me feel like I need to bleach my brain to unknow the shit he spews.
“Don’t scare me like that again,” Evelyn coos, hooking her painted fingernail into the space between the buttons on Emmett’s dress shirt. “We both know I’m not a bottom-three type of girl.”
I cringe, and whispers burst out behind us from the other daters. Every woman within earshot heard it, and if Evelyn keeps talking like that, she will not be well-liked in the bunkhouse.
“Is it possible to die of secondhand embarrassment? Asking for me,” I hear Akira whisper not so quietly. Jada, lifts a hand to cover her smile while Catherine snorts a shocked laugh before the three of them share a conspiratorial grin.
One quick glance over my shoulder at the grin on Dick Wad’s face tells me Evelyn’s got at least one person eating out of the palm of her hand though.
Emmett offers her a tight smile and a squeeze, still gripping her arms. I watch his fingers press in, then soften as he steps away.
A harsh sob draws my attention. Madeline, just eliminated, bursts into tears. For a moment, Emmett looks downright stunned as he stares at the woman. The other women rush to console her, but Evelyn only rolls her eyes dramatically.
And as much as I pride myself on being a girls’ girl… I find my distaste for her growing.
Even girls’ girls have their limits.
Cameras follow Emmett, cutting in close as he approaches the eliminated women and… shakes each of their hands. Like this was some sort of business transaction.
Cynthia’s lips purse like she’s been sucking on a lemon, and Madeline only cries harder, like she’s in love with the guy after spending a total of two hours around him.
It’s all fucking weird.
I glance away and see Evelyn addressing the camera and one of the producers as they take B-roll footage.
“Yeah, I think it’s important for Emmett and me to be on the same page. We have so much physical chemistry. I know I’m the right choice for the solo date next week, but I might have to loop him in on that. You know how thick boys can be.”
Her implication about Emmett’s intelligence rankles me as she twists her hair around one finger and lets out a ladylike giggle. She leans forward and continues with a sultry gleam in her eye, “In fact, I’m going to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to head to his cottage right now and wait for him. Get him alone.”
I freeze and then fully turn back to face the scene.
Did I hear that right? She’s going to march up to his home and demand he spend time with her?
I scan the set and crew for Emmett’s frame, even a peek at his mussed waves a head above the rest, but he must have slipped away—and who could blame him.
Evelyn turns, eyes narrowing toward Emmett’s place. Then, with a sure nod, she marches toward the long gravel driveway on sky-high heels without a single shred of doubt to show for herself.
Everyone on set bursts into action. Cameras follow at a distance in the fading light, and someone quietly signals for a drone to launch. Through the open door of the nearest utility trailer, I see editors pulling up security camera footage for Emmett’s cottage and the driveway leading to it.
My stomach drops as I realize how closely they watch everything.
Would they have seen me go into his house? Me leaving? Is there audio? Would they have heard our exchanges outside?
Surely there aren’t cameras inside. But he’d better have gotten rid of that fucking boner before he left his house. I replay how our interactions might have been perceived. I’ve had meetings with producers since, and no one has said a thing to me about it. I suppose, as staff, there is nothing inherently wrong about my going into his place.
I was injured. He did the polite thing and helped. Nothing even happened.
But none of those placations stop my heart from racing like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
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