Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) by Angela Conrad, Kathleen Hesser Skrzypczak Page B
Authors: Angela Conrad, Kathleen Hesser Skrzypczak
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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.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bet my life on my man
NAOMI
Tuesday, May 3rd
“You’re talking millions of dollars Naomi, are you sure this lover boy of yours is worth it?” My half-brother Chase surprises me with his question. I thought he’d be doing cartwheels in greedy splendor, not second-guessing my decision.
“Yes, dear, my son has a point. Did you watch the last show? They’re pressing Bradley to drop you, cut you out of his life, and become the next star of that bachelor show. It’s got to be tempting for any man, the money, the fame, the women, and the travel to exotic places. Chances are you’re throwing away your inheritance for nothing.”
I’m stumped. I never expected them to argue with me, or frankly, to care anything about my future. It’s flattering, and suspicious.
I feel my
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bet my life on my man
NAOMI
Tuesday, May 3rd
“You’re talking millions of dollars Naomi, are you sure this lover boy of yours is worth it?” My half-brother Chase surprises me with his question. I thought he’d be doing cartwheels in greedy splendor, not second-guessing my decision.
“Yes, dear, my son has a point. Did you watch the last show? They’re pressing Bradley to drop you, cut you out of his life, and become the next star of that bachelor show. It’s got to be tempting for any man, the money, the fame, the women, and the travel to exotic places. Chances are you’re throwing away your inheritance for nothing.”
I’m stumped. I never expected them to argue with me, or frankly, to care anything about my future. It’s flattering, and suspicious.
I feel my
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