4. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Ursula
W ith the support and blessing of both my blood and chosen families, I pack two enormous suitcases stuffed full of the crown-jewels of my closet along with the new for camera wardrobe Daphne and Julian have compiled for me over the past few weeks.
My professional train case full of makeup and hair styling tools has been overhauled for my own personal use, and my potential ‘ reveal’ gown—a bespoke Julian St. James piece, hangs carefully in a fancy garment bag.
I’ve called upon Cammy and Lotte to house-sit for me while I’m gone. The pair couldn’t be more delighted to have an excuse to stay in LA a little longer in their own space away from the watchful eyes of their older brother Cosmo, under the auspices of taking care of feeding Baxter and cleaning his tank and getting my mail.
A win-win for everyone.
My stomach roils with nervous energy as Daphne smooches both of my cheeks, a hand laid over her enormous pregnant belly as Cosmo and Magnus help load my massive suitcases and rolling train case into the back of the sprinter van that’s arrived to spirit me away to the ‘bubble’ Build-A-Pack-Blind set.
“You’ve got this La-la.” Daphne reaches for one of my hands and gives it a quick squeeze. I grip her tightly, as if she might tether me to this moment—this instant in time before so much stands to change.
“Be your wonderful self, be prepared to actually fall in love—and everything is going to be just fine,” Daphne reassures me as we draw back from one another, tears already welling in my eyes.
Daphne tries to slip her hand from mine, but I just clutch her tighter.
“What if nobody wants me?” I blurt out, my terrified voice barely above a whisper. “What if I come back alone?” I choke, my voice squashed out by unshed tears.
“Then they’re all fucking morons who didn’t deserve you anyway,” Daphne claps back, yanking me to her side with our still joined hands.
“But it’s going to work, I can feel it!” Daphne beams at me, tucked protectively under her arm alongside her massive belly.
I nod, blinking the tears from my eyes.
“If you say so Dee,” I concede, giving her one last sidelong hug before she releases me to the confines of the sprinter van—the rest of Pack Silver waving me off from the other side of the tinted glass as I depart for my next grand adventure.
The sprinter van brings me to a large, nondescript looking building at the edge of studio city. The driver releases me to the care of several production assistants who look like they may not even be of legal drinking age, all outfitted in wireless headsets with clipboards and blinking tablets. They swarm me like a bunch of chittering insects—gathering my many belongings and shepherding me into the building; audibly confirming with other staff which hallways are free of other contestants, so I can be appropriately ushered to my living quarters unseen .
“Alright, miss…” The leader of the assistants, runs down her list with the tip of her finger until she finds my name. “Goldblum-Laskaris, nice to meet you—my name is Kimmy and I’ll be the head production assistant for the ladies-unit.” She smiles, a bright expression that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Kimmy.” I smile back, a little unsettled.
“Nice to meet you too, ma’am,” Kimmy responds, my pride smarting at being old enough to be ma’am to this twenty-something Hollywood professional.
“Feel free to unpack your things and get settled—we will do an all-call for the ladies in about an hour; we start shooting in the ladies lounge in a little under two hours,” she explains, her cold smile already starting to fade from view.
“Thanks Kimmy–I’ll see you then.” I wave her off as she and the rest of her team trickle out of my room, ready to close the door behind them.
It doesn’t take me long to unpack my things, between my nervous energy and the effective room setup, I’m done inside of 20 minutes.
Since the production assistants took my phone and my tablet from me upon arrival, I haven’t had any of my usual scrolling or texting distractions. Even though I was particularly worried that I would feel the pang of pain, not unlike a phantom limb, once my phone was taken from me—I’m surprisingly ok with the lack of distraction.
My room is outfitted with a very comfortable queen bed, a full size dresser, a nightstand, an ample sized closet with mirrored sliding doors, and an en suite bathroom with a brightly lit vanity and a shower/tub combination that looks like it’s actually big enough to have a proper bath in.
This is a small comfort, since I can’t seem to go three days without a self-soothing tub. I know, I know—my priorities may seem a little out of whack, but any creature comforts while I’m putting myself so far outside my zone are a plus.
I’m contemplating taking a little nap before I have to show up for my command performance in the common room, when my stomach lets out a loud, burbling growl.
I glance at the minimalist brushed stainless steel and white face of the clock on the wall. It’s nearly noon, and I was too anxious to bother with anything besides iced coffee this morning. Now my stomach is letting me know the error of my ways.
My handlers had mentioned earlier that the common area, where I’m due to appear within the hour anyway, is fully stocked with meal materials and snacks for our food and watering needs.
Emboldened by my growling stomach, I double check myself in the mirror; a simple ribbed mock turtle-neck sweater dress in a soft shade of lavender paired with a long gray duster sweater covering my bare shoulders. I’ve decided to accessorize with a pair of enormous circular mother-of-pearl frame glasses and chunky leather ankle booties. Julian called the look nesting omega MILF as he and Daphne dressed me like a paper doll this morning. I can’t say that his assessment is off base. I can only hope that it plays well on camera for my first appearance.
To my surprise, I’m the first one in the common area when I arrive.
There’s a suspicious lack of televisions/screens in the space, but otherwise I feel like I could be in a nice Marriott; tastefully coordinated sofas and upholstered chairs, plate glass coffee tables, and glass sliding doors to the workout and spa facilities at one end of the common room and a pair of swinging saloon doors leading to a brightly lit kitchen and long banquet dining table at the other.
I gather my sweater around myself and scurry into the kitchen; eager to see what awaits in the fridge.
To my delight, I discover an array of delicacies readily available. Heaps of fresh fruit, cheeses, olives, and most importantly, hummus .
I’m about to reach into the fridge and grab myself a cucumber to cut into spears; so I might offer my fellow participants a little snack of hummus, olives, and cuke dippers to share, when a cloyingly sweet scent fills my nose. Plumeria and Bubblegum with a powdery shower fresh -finish. Even before I turn around, my amygdala has already begun flashing the neon sign for mean girl Omega deep in my lizard brain.
“Already raiding the fridge?” A high pitched voice chimes, a nasty titter of laughter cascading just behind.
Like a main character in a horror movie, I find myself turning to slowly face my doom, instead of immediately fleeing. In slow motion, I come face to face with a 5’8” platinum blonde with the body of a swimsuit model; her flat stomach tanned and exposed between her cropped tank and short-shorts.
I can’t tell what my face is doing as I take her bombshell appearance in, but I hope it’s not too awful.
“We might start dating the boys blind , but they are going to have to see you eventually—so you might wanna slow your roll, babe.” She sneers through a plastic smile.
While I’ve been made fun of for my weight, since before I can remember—I wasn’t actually expecting anyone to be so outright shitty about it in front of the camera. Too bad for me. I’ve found myself cornered by this gilded viper before the camera crews have even started rolling.
I can feel the tears stinging at my eyes, my lip trembling against my best wishes. I can’t think of anything to defend myself that won’t sound more pathetic than my stunned silence—so I just stand there. Paralyzed. Willing every last cell in my body: Do. Not. Cry.
I’m about to buckle when suddenly mean-girl-Barbie is jostled forward—nearly knocked off her feet by six feet of woman; an incredibly athletic and muscular frame, ashy blonde hair with big chunky hot pink highlights tied into a very messy bun atop her head; her features like a fae queen, with high sculpted cheekbones, tilted mauve eyes and full lips.
“Ow!” the mean girl whines as the fae queen shoulders past her hard, taking a place beside me, arms crossed protectively over her chest.
“What the fuck was that for?” Bitchy Barbie snipes.
“For being a bully, and for having a dry ass looking bleach job,” my rescuer, my queen, sneers, her lip curled to reveal her sharp canine teeth.
I can tell right away from her scent of ripe red raspberry, sparkling champagne, and a heady basenote of candied violet—she is a sigma.
I’ve known about sigmas; the most biologically similar to omegas like me, but with a few exceptions. Sigmas perfume, like omegas, can accept pack bonds to be ‘bitten into’ a pack, and can give birth. Unlike omegas like me though, sigmas can also breed/impregnate in addition to birthing. They can perform a biting bond just like an alpha, and they do not nest. Socially, sigmas tend to be dominant and stoic loners and outsiders. When they do form attachments, they tend to favor smaller family units and an even smaller inner circle of friends.
No wonder her presence in the room is nearly palpable.
“I was just trying to help a girl out–look at her face! Even she knows it was just a bit of tough love,” blondie whinges, tossing her platinum tresses over her shoulder, self consciously fiddling with the dry split-ends.
“Yeah, sure—you’re totally a girl’s girl being that fuckin’ nasty.” Fae queen rolls her pale mauve eyes and heaves an exasperated sigh. “Why don’t you go find someone else to terrorize until they start rolling cameras, Regina George ? My friend here and I are about to have a little snack and your hot garbage personality is putting me off my appetite.”
I can’t help but snort a laugh at that last part, a hand snapping up to cover my mouth and nose so that I don’t burst into hysterical laughter and make more drama.
Blessedly, mean-girl-barbie lets out a quick ‘Hmph!’ and turns on a heel, making her way back into the main common room with her injured pride.
My newfound sigma protector, with her vibrant hair and stunning eyes, slumps slightly; her entire body softening into casual ease; hands in the pockets of her sweatpants–their rolled waistband slung low across her hips, her own washboard midriff exposed.
“Sorry for white-knighting there before we’ve even been introduced,” she laughs with a hint of embarrassment, her broad shoulders caving slightly; making her slightly smaller and less broad–but not by much.
“No sorrys!” I blurt, waving her apology off.
“I was about to start crying like a kid getting dissed on the playground,” I laugh weakly. “You really saved my ass back there.” I beam, thumbing over my shoulder.
“Pshaw, it was nothing.” She grins, giving the quartz tile floor a little scuffing kick.
“I’m Ursula, by the way.” I beam, extending my hand toward her.
“Hey Ursula, I’m Roxy.” She reaches out and clasps my hand, firm and sure.
“A pleasure to meet you, friend…might I interest you in an impromptu mezze platter and some fruit?” I waggle my eyebrows at Roxy. “Unless your hunger was purely a fictional device to get Heather Chandler outta here, that is.” I offer earnestly.
I’m delighted when Roxy lets out a big belly laugh at my riff on her ‘Regina George’ joke.
“While ditching her was my main concern, I am actually fuckin’ starving.” Roxy releases my hand, her smoldering, husky voice blooming from her peals of laughter.
“Well then, since I owe you–let me fix us a plate.” I swing the refrigerator door open, gesturing to the goodies inside before sweeping my hand in a wide arc toward a pair of wingback chairs overlooking a small gas fireplace on the far wall.
“I would tell you that we’re even–but I don’t wanna miss out on snacks.” Roxy rubs her palms together eagerly, her tongue darting out to make a sweep across her lips like a looney tunes character contemplating their next meal.
During our snack session, Roxy and I shared some basics about one another before we were due back in the common room for the start of shooting.
As luck would have it, we’re both New England girlies.
I, myself, the consummate Masshole, while Roxy hails from the beautiful white mountains in New Hampshire.
That’s not where the similarities end either. Both of us come from small packs–in which we were the only breeders of our family generations.
Though, I’ve always been a city mouse , moving straight from Boston to the ‘City of Angels’ without even a suburban detour between. Whereas, Roxy has only recently converted to urban life, having grown up on an extremely hippie-crunchy commune, deep in the wooded mountains.
We continue chatting easily until Kimmy, the production assistant, pokes her head into the kitchen, gently palming the mic on her headset as she calls us into the common room to begin shooting.
I follow Roxy like a baby duck follows its mother, barely a step behind her heels as she slinks back into the common room.
To my relief, Roxy lifts a large throw pillow from the sofa cushion beside her as she takes a seat, eyeing the open space meaningfully in silence as Kimmy herds us into a small semi-circle around none other than Anna Jones .
I bounce down onto the cushion beside Roxy, my heart in my throat as I stare up at Anna; her luminous brown hair is tied back from her face, and a simple navy sheath dress is hanging smartly on her lithe frame.
There’s the sound of shuffling and a few shushing whispers before the cameras begin rolling. Anna takes the time to really find her lens and lean into her voice before she begins speaking clearly and confidently to camera.
“I am here in the ladies’ lounge with our female contestants!” Anna gestures to the seven of us seated around her.
I’ve watched some of the show, so I know that the ‘character’ edits for each of the contestants that goes to the next stage of the game will begin to be introduced; individual introductions filmed in offshoot confessional rooms cut together with the footage of us in these first opening scenes played against upbeat backing music to help the future audience meet the cast of faces they will follow for the duration of our ‘season’.
In real time, however, all I can do is try not to sit too awkwardly and keep a non-goofy smile from taking over my features whilst also not succumbing to intense ‘resting-bitch-face.’
“This season, we have eight lucky ladies looking for love!” Anna gushes before starting her introductions at the far end of the room.
“Our participants, one sigma and seven omegas, will vie for the affections of twenty-three mysterious men of mixed designation!” Anna does an excited little shimmy, allowing the last of the secondary camera crew to make their way in front of the petite redhead seated at the opposite end of the room from Roxy and I.
“Let’s meet our omegas!” Anna beams, sweeping a hand toward the redheaded woman.
“Allie,” Anna introduces her, before moving to a brunette woman with beautiful tattoos–still on her feet and not quite looming over Allie, seated in her plush armchair.
“Lana.” Anna bobs a quick nod at her before moving on to an incredibly glamorous looking woman with close cropped coily hair and large, hooded eyes that seem to glitter like gold sandstone.
“Jesse, Suzi, Kara,” Anna rattles off the names of three women seated next to one another on the sofa on the far end of the room, the three of them in similar bodycon dresses—each with a bobbing ponytail or bouncing blowout in a different shade of blonde.
“Brittney,” Anna introduces mean girl Barbie, and Roxy and I share a little snicker.
Of course her name is Brittney. Why should either of us be surprised?
“And last but not least, Ursula and our sigma Roxanne.” Anna gestures to Roxy and I at the end of the couch. I watch Roxy wince as Anna uses her full name instead of the name she chose to introduce herself with.
“How are we doing this afternoon, ladies?” Anna asks with all the bubbly brightness of a kindergarten teacher addressing her class on the first day of school.
Most of the other contestants begin to cheer and whoop—so I feel pressured to join in, clapping weakly and making a whistling noise from my seat while Roxy watches us with mild disgust.
Just like a teacher trying to drum up excitement on the first day, Anna puts a hand to her ear and makes an exaggerated I’m listening face—her lips pursed and eyebrows drawn together.
“I don’t know if I heard you! How are you doing this afternoon ladies!?” she asks again, the other omegas cheering louder and clapping more spiritedly. I half heartedly follow suit, embarrassed that Roxy is watching me short circuit under the pressure of my own people pleasing nature. Who do I want to please more? The other omegas and the production team? Or Roxy, the super cool sigma who saved me from being eaten alive by bitchy-Brittney?
Only time will tell! I am released from my momentary hell by Anna moving right along—doing her best to get this reality TV ball rolling.
“Today begins your dating cycle in the bubbles!” she gushes, knitting her fingers beneath her chin.
“You get to begin to explore your connections with the men who have come here to share in this experience with you!” Anna practically squeals.
“Are you ladies ready to start?” She stage whispers conspiratorially to camera, though the question is obviously meant for us.
Again, the other omegas cheer loudly to show their ascent—while I commit to an awkwardly paced clap and a wavering grin.
“Alright ladies! It’s time to see if you really can Build-A-Pack-Blind!” she calls out to moderate applause.