Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) (10 page)

NAOMI

Tuesday, May 3rd

I enter LaLa’s grand old building in the East Eighties.  The same doorman opens the door and I imagine it must be a coveted position working the door for the very rich.  His Christmas tips probably amounts to a tidy sum. The very same young lady behind the front desk offers me a warm smile and says, “Miss Swanson, Mrs. Lucille Rochefort De La Cologne is expecting you.  You know the way.”

I force myself to enter the golden elevator, where the brass plate announced the title PENTHOUSE on it.  I check my appearance in the mirrored wall and uncross my arms.  Too defensive.  I need to waltz in there looking confident, as if I hold a powerful hand and I’m not afraid to play it.

I remember coming up here the last time, with Bradley.  How we laughed, kissed, held hands, joy bubbling from us after our separations and disagreements.  Both of us thrilled to be back together.  How short the time we shared before that damn show took him away from me again.  How bittersweet his marriage proposal was in the entry above me now.  I jump as the doors open, and I think about my future, what it can be if I just pull this offer off.

I stand straighter, adjusting the belt on my black, off the shoulder dress.  I check my hair, professional, and braided down my back, my four-inch heels smart and trendy, and then I squeeze my fingers together feeling Bradley’s ring resting on my left hand.  I step out of the elevator, and a maid dressed in a navy uniform with a crisp white blouse greets me and shows me the twenty feet to the double mahogany doors.

I see the same massive white room, with white furniture, a white marble fireplace without a fire this time.  Instead, it’s filled with white orchids in a white granite planter.  It’s gorgeous, but cold, and for the first time I remember this is my mother’s sister.  They both decorated in all white; how else are they the same?  Classical music plays softly this time and I wonder if it’s on a continual loop or if LaLa plays it just to impress guests.

The doors swing open to my right, but no Chase to greet me this time, only three little white poodles with bells on their collars. They bark in a chorus of sharp notes.  I can’t help but smile.  A butler in full dress livery chases after them calling their names, “Mya, Mellow, Marty, back inside.”

Their presence breaks the tension in my stomach and I take deep breaths.  I feel the side of my purse, comforted by the thick paperwork inside, and walk confidently forward.

LaLa is wearing an outfit similar to the ones Jackie O used to wear, small tweed, a delicate pink, down to the Mary Jane pink pumps, all that’s missing is the pillbox hat and white gloves.  The picture of sophisticated elegance and style, my aunt rushes close to me, almost knocking me over, not with her body, but by the strong scent of her perfume.  Her watch, my god, she must have five carats of diamonds circling the face.

“Naomi,” she sings, “Come in dear, we’re so glad you called.”

“We.”  So Chase is here.  Well, all the better because I need his help too, even though it galls me to ask for it.

“Hello LaLa, nice of you to invite me.  I hope we can become friends.”

I watch her face for slips, a smirk, or a sting from her stare, but she smiles a genuine smile and hugs me softly.  “Yes dear, yes.  That’s what I want too.”

“Sis,” comes a male voice and I turn to see Chase almost lying flat on a long, white lounger by the window.  Not attempting to stand or even straighten his posture, he gives me a small wave, like a man passing on a yacht.

“Hello Chase, I hope we can bury the hatchet and be friendly as well.”

LaLa claps her hands with glee and I hear high-pitched barking from the next room.  “Wonderful.  I am so glad you are here Naomi.  We have much to discuss.”

She offers me a drink and I accept a glass of white wine.  It’s superb and I wonder how old and rare the vintage is. 

We chitchat like acquaintances for an hour, feeling each other out, watching body language and listening for fluctuations of voice.  I hear about Chase’s award-winning talents in tennis and sailing.  LaLa talks of her dogs’ placements in the Madison Square Garden dog shows.  I share as little as possible, mentioning my time working on my degree from Stern, and even resort to gossip about models and runway shows.  They seem to relax, and I can tell by their mood that neither one of them have spoken to any of the Slotzky clan yet.

I test the waters further by confiding that I want LaLa to sell my loft in Tribeca as soon as possible.  She claps her hands again and I can’t help but see how greed lights up her face.  Good.  I’m counting on it.

Chase seems bored, and I see my window of opportunity closing.  I need to make my move.

I open my purse and lay out a file of paperwork I had a top New York attorney fill out for me two days ago.  They both lean forward, like sailors going over an exciting new wave and I smile.

“What’s this dear, your loft paperwork?” LaLa asks, putting on a little silver pair of glasses she pulls out of nowhere.

“No.”

She leans in and Chase, bolder, steps right up to me and grasps the top page.  He reads the title, scans down, flips the page, and keeps reading.  LaLa shoots him an annoyed glance and huffs.

“Chase, don’t be rude, Naomi will explain.”

“It’s okay; I want my brother to read it all, every page.”  It hurts to play pretend sibling with this man, but I will do anything to gain them to my cause.

Chase glances at me and I notice we have the same gray shade of eyes.  I wonder why I never noticed the slight resemblances we share before now.  Weeks ago, I thought he was Darren Broderick’s brother, now I can see that he’s mine.  It hits me strange and a pang of emotion hits me in the chest.

I study LaLa and she too has facial features like my mother.  Strangely I tear up and smile.

“What’s wrong dear?”  My aunt asks.  I feel good that I can answer with an honest reply.

“I’ve been without any family for over two years.  It just hit me.  I have an aunt and a brother.  I can see the likenesses in both of you, sorry.”  I wipe my eyes and see Chase examining my face for signs of treachery.  I refuse to offer him anything but an honest look. 

Now’s the time, I take the plunge.

“I’m sure you’ve both been watching the show, Model House with my fiancé Bradley.  You’ve seen what they are willing to do for ratings.  The owner of the studio had me filmed in a phony bed scene to influence Bradley.  They are also holding an arson charge over Bradley’s head.”

LaLa nods and purses her lips.  I don’t know if it’s because of the stripper, the bikini models, or my movie with Viktor covering me.  Before Chase can make some smart remark and anger me, I add, “I know you both understand.  Thank you.”

Chase flips another page and I peek up long enough to see a huge grin cover his face.  LaLa notices it too and she squints at the file.

“What is this dear?”

“It’s a contract.  I’m giving you all my rights to the unsold beach property and my share of the high-rise on Chambers Street, and in return, you are going to help me free Bradley early from that terrible show, clear our names, and press the owners to drop the charges against him.”

I could see the mathematical calculations clicking off in their heads.  Millions of dollars.  I don’t care about any of it.  I want my life back.  I want my man back.  And I want to get even.

“Join you in what exactly?” Chase asks, sounding happy and interested.

“Why, in taking down the Slotzkys of course.”

“Fedor Slotzky?  What’s he got to do with this show?”

I explain to LaLa and Chase all about the FSTScom Media Group, the entire family of Slotzky’s deeper plot, and why I need their help.

“With your increased ownership percentage, combined with mine, you can force their hand.  You promise me that you’ll make them drop the reins on Bradley, and I’ll give you everything I have.”

I study their familiar faces, and see them exchange secretive looks.  Chase loosens his stance and grins at his mother.  I feel it.  I have them.  I toss on some sugar to finalize my cause.

“Please, you’re my family now, I’m asking for your help.”

BRADLEY

Sunday, May 1st

Last night was the Saturday wrap party we have every week.  First there’s a viewing of all the outtakes and stuff that doesn’t make it to the show.  Then there’s a big dinner and plenty of booze.  Usually, I don’t drink too much because I know they’re just waiting for us to slip up and do something stupid (translation: interesting).  But the whole thing with the Naomi video really got to me.  I mean, I just can’t get it out of my head that she practically jumped into his arms after kicking me out a few months ago.  And now he’s back there while I’m stuck here, saving us a million dollars.  Anyway, there were a bunch of girls here from some Mexican bar, dressed in jeans shorts, halters, and cowboy boots.  They had holsters with shot glasses and bottles of tequila and of course it’s always the tequila with me, right?

So I haul my eighty-pound head out of bed and stagger to the kitchen for some water.  It’s dead silent.  All the bedroom doors are open, and no one is around.  I’d call out if I didn’t think it would shatter my skull.  I’m on my second glass of water, staring out the window, when I turn back to the living room and there is Tim Smith.  He’s dressed in plaid Bermuda shorts, a pink Polo, and Sperry’s wrapped in duct tape to hold them together. 
Jesus.  Just what I need.

“Good morning, Brad.”

“Bradley.” 
Ow.

“Why don’t you come sit down?  I’ve brought you a latte.”

“Said the spider to the fly.”

Tim Smith laughs out loud.  “I thought we were friends.”

“God, I’d hate to be your enemy.”

He laughs again.

I sit down.  “Where are the cameras?”  I’m not stupid enough to think this isn’t on the record, whatever this is.

“No cameras.  Just us.  Mano a mano.”

“You know you talk like an asshole, right?” 

“A rich, successful asshole.  And you wanna know how I got here?”

“No.”

“I can recognize an opportunity.  Not everyone can, you know.  People walk past opportunities every day and don’t even know it.  You are about to do the same thing, and I’m here to stop you.”

“I don’t want your help.  You’re trying to break up my girlfriend and me and it’s not going to work.”

“Ah, so you think
I’m
the bad guy here?”

“Ummm…yeah?”

“I thought you were smarter than that.  You saw with your own eyes, that the second you’re gone, what’s her name?  Naomi?  Is in bed with someone else.  As I understand it, one of your best friends.”

I must look startled because he rushes on.

“Yes, yes, yes, of course we have researched all of your backgrounds before we let you sign a contract with Model House.  Legal stuff.”

“You mean, forced us to sign.”

“Au contraire.  You signed willingly.  We only made sure you kept up your side of it.”

I stand to go.  “Whatever.  I’m going back to bed.”

“Sure, sure, Brad.  You go get your beauty sleep.  We can talk later.”

I walk toward my room without saying anything, hoping he’ll disappear the same way he appeared.

“Oh, um, yeah, Brad?”

Shit.

Without turning around, I answer, “Yeah?”

“We just had one more thing to go over.”

Hold up.  We?

I turn around and Jenn Ergenmeyer is sitting next to Tim Smith, grinning her wolf teeth at me.

“Where did you come from?”  I don’t know if they have secret wall panels, trap doors, or if they truly are supernatural.

“I have this little photo album I thought you might enjoy.”  She pats the couch next to her.  On her lap is a large white leather book.

Reluctantly, I trudge back to the couch and take a seat.  Tim Smith shoves the latte into my hand and I take a sip.  I feel my head clearing a little, but my stomach is not too happy with me now.

Jenn Ergenmeyer hands me the book and I open to the first page.  It’s a glossy black and white photo of Naomi in a café with Viktor, cups of coffee between them.  She’s smiling big and he’s gazing at her like she’s a frosty bottle of Tsarskaya Gold.

“That was taken last week,” Jenn Ergenmeyer informs me.

“So?  She’s having coffee with Viktor.  I don’t expect her to stay locked up until I return.”

“Turn the page.”

On the next page, there are four shots of the two of them, walking along the river.  Each one is slightly different, like they were taken in succession.  They might be holding hands, but it’s hard to tell.  I can’t help myself and I keep turning.  The next few photos are grainy, shot through what looks like the loft window.  Viktor and Naomi sitting on the couch, standing in the kitchen, Viktor looking out of Naomi’s bedroom—our bedroom—window, grinning like an idiot.  In that one, his shirt’s off and in the background, there’s a blurry figure on the bed that might or might not be Naomi.  I slam the book shut.

Tim Smith puts his hand on my shoulder.  Somehow he’s worked his way behind me.  “Hey, we know it’s tough, but this is the truth.”

My stomach turns.  Acid rises up into my throat, but I swallow it down.  “TRUTH?  You two wouldn’t know the truth if it bought you dinner and fucked you in the ass.”

“Brad, we’re going to leave you now,” Jenn Ergenmeyer says in the reassuring tones of a therapist.  “You have a lot to digest.”

I don’t know if it’s her word choice, but at that moment, I vomit all over her shoes.  Her expensive, exclusive, Frye cowboy boots. 

She lets out a sound somewhere between a scream and gurgle, like she’s being strangled.

Tim Smith grabs a handful of towels from the kitchen and throws them over her feet.  She steps out of the mess, one foot at a time, calmly wipes her boots with the towels.

“You should really go back to bed now.  We can discuss your next move when you wake up.  Hopefully, you will come to the right conclusion which is that you don’t owe that cheating whore one more second of your time or consideration.”

I’m too miserable to answer and too unsure to defend Naomi.  I just want to crawl back into bed and wake up to find out this is just a nightmare and Naomi is right next to me where she belongs and there aren’t a hundred tiny mariachi players dancing on my brain while they shake their maracas.

Tim Smith hands me a wad of papers.  Through my blurry eyes, I can make out the words at the top of the page:  The Bachelor.  Skimming down, tiny legal print marches across the page, interrupted here and there with lines and x’s and places for the date. 

“Six figures for the season, exotic travel, hot sex, and when it’s all over, you can keep the girl or dump her and just wait for all the endorsements and offers to roll in and make you a multimillionaire.  That doesn’t sound so bad, does it Brad?”

I don’t even bother to correct him.  I just slink back to my bed and fall asleep with the contract on my stomach.  I dream of wolves with shiny coats and sharp teeth with vomit on their duct-taped paws.