Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) by Angela Conrad, Kathleen Hesser Skrzypczak Page A
Authors: Angela Conrad, Kathleen Hesser Skrzypczak
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family now, I’m asking for your help.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mayday! Mayday!
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Mayday! Mayday!
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
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