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“What network is it?” My mother taught me two things: how to make a perfect martini and the power of the network. It wasn’t so much the project that mattered; it was the platform and time slot. That, more than the plotline or pacing, would determine its success.
“It’s cable,” she said flatly. “But it’s right up your audience. Your sponsors are going to love this exposure, Cash.”
She never called me Cash. My suspicions rose. I carried my plate into the kitchen and set it beside the sink. “What channel?”
“MTV. It’s a reality show. Scripted, though.”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Cash.” It was a command, one that required absolute obedience. I took a french fry off my plate and waited to hear what she had to say. “You need to go and talk to them. Promise me you’ll at least do that.”
I tilted my head back and tried to imagine telling Frank about this. I didn’t need to hear his lectures on what reality tv could do to an acting career. I had seen the shit side of the industry myself. Hell, if anyone knew that, it was Therma. She had been in the passenger seat when True Hollywood Story had profiled Mom. We’d had crews follow us around for a week while they filmed every sordid bit of our lives—a peek behind the curtain that revealed exactly how far my mother had fallen from grace, or from the public’s perception of her grace.
“I’ve got it all set up for you,” she forged forward. “All you have to do is show up and listen to them. And if Frank tells you any different, let me know, and I’ll shove my favorite pair of Louboutins up his rear. He’s a manager, dear. Let the big girls handle this.”
I stayed silent, thinking that I would let Frank handle her. He had a way with Therma that I didn’t, and I had long suspected that they fought their battles in the bedroom.
Frank would kill this. A reality show? I may have sold my soul for Instagram followers, but I was on track to be an actor. Frank knew that, even if Therma couldn’t seem to understand it. Frank would get me out of it.
* * *
“We’re looking at an entirely new concept in television.” The producer had brilliant blue hair that bounced out from her head in tight ringlet curls. “Six super influencers. All together. The lives behind the camera, but on camera. You know everyone we’re talking to, of course. You guys are the Rolling Stones of social media.”
“All guys?” I did a quick calculation of the list.
“No. I’m referring to guys in the gender-neutral sense. It’s actually three on three. I can’t share the names yet, not until we have signed disclosures from everyone.”
My interest in the project skittered a fine line between rabid and dead, with only one factor pushing the lever. “Is Emma Blanton on the list?”
She tilted her head at me, a coy smile playing over her dark ruby lips. “What an interesting question!”
I waited for an answer.
Finally, she shrugged. “I can’t tell you that. But, let’s say she was. How would you feel about that?”
There was no easy answer to that question, and none—absolutely none—that I would give to her, especially not with two cameras pointed at my face and a mic pinned to my lapel.
I gave her my best bored look and wished I was better at this. “I have no emotions when it comes to Emma.”
She gave an unconvinced laugh. “None?”
“None.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if she was on the show. Or…” she drawled, glancing at me. “Or if you and her dated on the show?”
I tried not to shudder, but the camera caught it. Later, they replayed that reaction over and over again. And each time they did, the ratings went higher.
* * *
“She’s in.” Trevor Phan’s announcement was made as he entered the kitchen. I used the edge of my fork to cut a wedge of pancake and watched as he pulled his sunglasses off the top of his head and tossed them on the counter. They skittered across the lime green surface and came to rest against the pepper grinder. “It’s Emma, Marissa, Eileen, Johno, you, and that prick from YouTube.” He paused. “You know who I’m talking about? The barbecue sauce guy.”
“Layton.”
“Yeah, that guy.” He pulled up a stool beside me. “It too late to get food?”
I nodded at Paul, who pulled the batter from the fridge and turned the gas burner back on. “So, six of us.”
“Yep. Three guys, three girls. It’s going to be fucking Caligula in there.” He pulled his messenger bag up to the counter and undid the top flap, then withdrew a page. “Here’s the schedule.”
I pulled a paper towel off the roll and wiped my mouth. I’d never been on a reality show before, scripted or non, but this schedule looked intense—sixteen-hour days for six weeks. I looked at Trevor. “Has Frank seen this?”
