8. Eight
eight
ELLIOT
I glance at the paper clutched in my hand informing me that the third episode will be a week-long filming affair complicated by the fact that I turn thirty on Sunday. For the producers, it’s the perfect excuse for a party. A big birthday party with all my family, the ten women I’m dating, and every one of my friends they manage to dig up in the continental United States.
The restaurant parking lot is packed when my limo pulls up. As I waited for the signal to exit the car, I tuck the schedule into the inner pocket of my suit. Outside the window, Michelle enters the restaurant with her wife Samantha. My stepfather is already out front smoking a cigarette, and some of the men from Jenna’s season approach the restaurant’s entrance.
Once the cameras are in place, the ladies exit a nearby party limo, and I emerge from mine, straightening my navy suit and leading the way inside. I hold the restaurant door open, trying to acknowledge each of them as they walk in, but the instant the last woman steps through the door, Ginger appears from out of nowhere, and all my breath gets trapped in my chest.
She looks unbelievable. She rarely dresses up, and it isn’t as if she’s wearing an actual cocktail dress—only body-hugging black pants and a silk blouse. But that’s not what kills me. Her hair is loose. It flows like a river of midnight over her shoulders and breasts. It’s so thick, so everywhere. Just like that night. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Your mom’s on her third drink.”
Mood killed. Classic Ginger.
My hope for an easy night withers. “How long has she been here?”
“Less than an hour. You look...handsome.” Her eyes run up and down the length of my body, though a slight frown appears when she gets to my hair. I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy her focused attention, but maybe she needs a reminder of our circumstances.
“Sorry. I’m taken,” I say.
She shoots me an exasperated look. “We’re keeping it super casual tonight since this wasn’t on the original schedule. Feel free to mingle with the crew. We all know we could be on camera. Tonight may or may not make the final cut. It was too last-minute to map out logistics. Anyway, my problem. Go have a drink. There’s a booth set up. We’ll send the women over one at a time.”
“So I don’t get to mingle...”
“You will,” she says. “Once everyone’s gotten their time.”
My mouth sets in a grim line as I spot Amanda walking up to the bar, her hips swaying beneath the slinky ivory fabric of her dress. A year ago, I would have seen potential in a sway like that, but tonight I only see the chore of it. “Right.”
Ginger follows my gaze. “You want her first?”
I give my producer a cool smile. “You can save her for last.”
Eyes now slits, Ginger turns on her heel and marches away.
Vanessa carefully navigates me through the field of partygoers, crew, and cameras to show me to my assigned booth where I’ll remain a sitting duck for the women to wow me with their amazing qualities. I’m ready for it, though. I need to be wowed.
After about an hour of quick, semi-personal “dates” a few more personalities start to shine through the chaos of the process. Daisy, whom I was close to blowing off, makes me laugh with her self-deprecating wit and convinces me to try a yoga class. Elizabeth the virgin throws some steamy looks my way and talks about her role in a Utah ballet company. Maggie, with her hipster glasses and her love of 90s anime, opens the door to a conversation about why I pursued a career in graphics.
Cassie, another Cubs fan, starts talking about the upcoming playoffs as soon as she slides into the booth, having learned through my visiting Chicago friends of two players coming off the disabled list.
Amanda arrives last. The easy conversation with Cassie went a long way toward helping me forget where we are, despite the cameras capturing every shallow breath I take, but Amanda was a handful at her barbecue—literally. Constantly pressing into me, giving me long, heated looks, and taking any excuse to touch me. I pick up my drink, shaking it into my mouth in an effort to drain the few remaining drops.
Amanda coyly stares down at her full glass and spins the cocktail straw through the ice. “So, something I’ve been meaning to tell you...”
Here we go.
We only have ten minutes, but by the time Kat taps me on my shoulder and gives me the all-clear to mingle, I’ve aged ten years. Turns out Amanda has already been married and divorced at the ripe old age of twenty-six, and she didn’t come out and say it, but it sounds like she cheated on the guy. “We both made mistakes, ” were the exact words she used.
Jumping at the opportunity to talk to literally anyone else, I scan the crowd. My gaze lands immediately on Ginger at the bar, cozying up to my coworker Kyle from home. She’s smiling .
I turn my scowl on Amanda. “Let’s go grab another drink. We can keep talking.”
“Great!”
Amanda and I stand, cameras following us to the bar. I maneuver myself close to Kyle and Ginger, determined to know what my friend is saying to make my tightly-wound producer throw her head back and laugh like that.
I slide into position behind Kyle unnoticed while Amanda takes the opportunity to press herself into my side.
“If you ever make it out to Chicago, I’ve got Cubs season tickets?—”
My head turns sharply at Kyle’s invitation. “You a baseball fan, Ginger?”
Kyle startles, turning to face me. Ginger’s eyes go wide with alarm as she takes in my entourage of cameramen within feet of her. Knowing she’ll likely wind up cutting any footage of herself for the final product, I give her a smirking grin. Serves her right for flirting with Kyle.
“Hey, Elliot. Happy birthday!” Kyle claps me on the back, smiling warmly, and introduces himself to Amanda.
Ginger puts down her drink in a hurry. Like she’s trying to disappear into the background as quickly as possible, she shoves off the bar. Turning the opposite direction, she runs smack into my mother.
The next five seconds unfold in ultra slow-motion.
My mom reels backward, laughing hysterically as she falls and lands, sprawled on her back, her skirt up to her waist. Her laughter rings out even after her head hits the ground with a smack.
Heat rises up my chest. My blood pounds so hard it feels like my skull might explode.
In her loudest bellow, Ginger shouts loudly enough for people in Universal City to hear, “Everybody stop tape!”
The room goes completely silent. Even the soft music grows softer.
“Goddammit, Mom.”
Kyle and I both reach down to help Irene up. She giggles, red-faced.
As we lift her unsteady body off the floor, her jaw goes slack, and she vomits. All over my handmade suit.
“Jesus Christ.” Ginger moves in close, like her little body can prevent anyone from seeing the evolving disaster. She shouts again, this time at the bartender for some towels. Then she turns to me, her hand on my arm, squeezing. Hard. “Elliot, come with me. They can handle this.”
“I need to get her home.” It’s my only thought as my mother sags against my shoulder, smearing her face in her own vomit.
“Matt can take care of her. We need to get you cleaned up.”
Kyle steps in, transferring Irene’s weight into his arms. “I got this.”
“Come with me,” Ginger says again. This time her nails dig in.
Ducking my head, I follow her into the ladies’ room. Once inside, I collapse on the bench in the restroom, my head in my hands as my heavy breathing tries to make up for the air I lost during the shitshow at the bar. It’s a miracle Ginger isn’t filming this.
My measured breaths blow in and out with gale force. My shoulders bend and bow. But Ginger doesn’t call in a camera crew. Instead, she pats my back awkwardly. The way a robot would. “We’ll get her some coffee or a Red Bull or something,” she tells me. “She’ll be fine.”
“She’s not fine,” I growl. “She shouldn’t be here.”
“Then why did you want her here?”
“Because I thought she was better.”
“Better?”
Something in me snaps. I stand to face her for two reasons: one—to get her hand off me, and two—so I can unload. “She’s an alcoholic, Ginger. Isn’t that obvious? I thought you were supposed to be paying attention.”
Her defensiveness gets lost in her pity. “I’m sorry. And no—I didn’t realize. I’m not an addiction counselor. Look, I’ll talk to her.”
“No. Fuck it. There’s nothing anybody can do.”
“A conversation is a start.” She whips out her phone. “Let’s get you out of this jacket. I’ll get someone to bring you a new shirt.”
“You wanna call in a camera crew, too?” I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
She glances up at me, “I’m on your side here, you know?”
I shut my mouth. Her tone doesn’t leave a lot of room for disagreement.
While she taps out a quick text, I strip off my jacket since it took the biggest hit from my mother’s over-indulgence. After tossing it onto the sink counter, I unbutton my shirt. Ginger is standing again, reaching for a towel I expect her to hand me, but instead, she closes in, aiming the towel straight for my bare chest.
Her fingertips brush my collarbone sending a shock so electric down my arms I have to grab both her hands and physically remove them from my body. “What are you doing?”
She gasps, like she went and shocked herself, too. Her wide eyes lock on mine. “I—I’m sorry.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, her eyes continuing to blink with surprise, and mine rushing wildly to take in every single curve of her pale, heart-shaped face. I’ve tried like hell to forget it, but all I can think as I stare at her parted lips is how good it would be to kiss her again. I remember how well our mouths fit together. How each stroke of her tongue unwound me bit by bit.
Shoving the towel into my hands, she takes a step back while my cock stiffens in my shorts.
I turn my back on her and yank my open shirt off my arms, barely managing the necessary words. “You can go.”
“Elliot...”
I glance at her over my shoulder. She’s still staring, but this time it’s at my tattoo. There’s something like amazement or awe in her eyes, like someone seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. It drives me out of my mind. My erection strains against my zipper. Gone are thoughts of morning yoga classes and merging calendars, along with concerns about my mother and the huge mistake I’m making with my life. All my plans and my wishlist future dissolve into one need— Ginger —right now.
“You need to leave , Ginger.”
“Nobody’s gonna mention this okay? And I promise you none of it will make the final cut.”
She isn’t leaving. Fuck. I sit back down on the bench.
“Don’t worry.” She takes a seat next to me. “I texted wardrobe.” Putting her phone in her lap, she folds her hands on top of it and proceeds to wait.
The silence and her nearness are too much. My right heel taps the ground with relentless speed. I shove a hand through my hair, then hunch forward, hands clasped between spread knees. “She was sober for eight years once,” I say to get my mind off Ginger’s leg an inch from mine. “I’m so pissed.”
“I would be pissed, too,” she says. “I mean—I am. Super annoyed, but...”
“She’s not your mom.”
“No. Alcohol gives my mom a rash.”
My short laugh surprises me. But the relief of anything being funny passes quickly enough when I remember where I am.
After a long pause, she speaks. “Why didn’t you mention this to any of the producers?”
“It was a long time ago. She was sick, and then she wasn’t. She still drinks every day, but you know—like someone who drinks every day—a couple glasses of wine with dinner. She hasn’t been plastered like this in years—at least not in public, but—why the fuck am I explaining this to you?” I scrub at my face with both hands to shut myself up and come to grips with my own denial.
“I’m sorry we let this happen,” she says quietly. “I should have been paying closer attention. We’ll do better.”
Her firm hand on my thigh stops the tapping motion of my leg. Everything I’m made of freezes and incinerates at the exact same time.
“Settle down,” she whispers, the sound so intimate, all my blood rushes to my groin.
I can’t handle her like this. It’s too intense. My mind reels with images of taking her into a stall and shoving up her shirt, palming her breasts, and fucking her until she’s clawing at my back. As torturous as the fantasy is, it beats the alternative—having to consider what I’m actually feeling .
Beside me, Ginger’s breath catches. But she doesn’t move her hand. If anything, it shifts, the edge of her pinky finger accidentally grazing the outline of my now raging erection.
Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. She stands abruptly, reaching into her back pocket. “I keep meaning to give this to you.” Face awash with color, she pulls out my old Swiss Army knife. Sitting back down beside me, she leaves a few inches more space between our legs as she holds out the knife for me to take.
I don’t reach for it. “Keep it,” I say. “I gave it to you.”
“Giving someone a knife is bad luck.”
“Since when?”
“Look it up.”
I still don’t take it back. “We need to talk.” I say, the words barely more than a vibration in the air between us.
With a soft grunt of frustration, she palms the knife and crosses her arms over her chest. When our eyes meet again, heat spreads up my abdomen, causing the muscles there to tense. I finally crack. As much as I want her, I could wring her neck for blowing me off the way she did. The way she still is. “I can’t work with you,” I say.
Her entire body goes stiff as a rod. “Excuse me?”
I have her attention. Good. It’s about time. “I want someone else.”
Her mouth goes through the motions of forming a few words, but nothing comes out.
Sensing I have her on the hook, I go in for the kill. “I’ll speak to Marlon about it myself if you won’t.”
Her voice starts working again. “You can’t.”
“Oh no?”
“Elliot, I need this. I can help you. Trust me, I’m good at my job.”
I refuse to budge. “I’m not seeing it.”
Her brows come together with anxiety and even a hint of guilt as she seems to reach her own breaking point. “If you want to talk, we’ll talk, all right? Tonight.”