17. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Teddy
Brittney may end up being a total smoke show, but her taste in dudes—other than yours truly of course, is totally lame.
I mean, for a chick who’s supposedly a model and influencer—it’s not surprising that she picked out all the dudes who are either professional athletes or also models…but come on.
As the first one to arrive at Brittney’s common room, I watched as the usual suspects filed in: Hunter, professional football player alpha with the disposition of a drowsy yellow lab. Laurence, the pretty boy fashion model beta. Kurt, the obnoxiously rich IT alpha-bro who discovered the cult of crossfit and cannot stop himself from preaching to anyone with ears.
I had dutifully done my best to talk fitness-shop with Kurt while Laurence sneered at me from the far end of the kitchen island; Hunter desperately trying to get all of us to do shots with him—since this was, according to him, ‘A NIGHT FOR THE BOYS!’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was more like a snoozy sausage fest, dude.
Since I had scored a total of three key cards; one for Brittney’s lounge, one for Roxy’s, and one for Ursula’s—I decided to move on to the next destination for the evening: Roxy’s pack lounge.
On my way out of Brittney’s lounge, I nearly walk into another one of her suitors on his way in. He's so pale that I almost stop to ask him if he's feeling ok, but his white blond hair and silvery blue eyes tell me that it's more likely just his complexion.
"Oh sorry man, my B" I apologize absently, holding the door open for him and Timmy.
"No worries." He gives me a lazy smile, the silver ring hanging from his septum glittering in the entryway light. Something about him looks familiar…but I can't place it.
"I'm sure I'll catch you later, but I'm Teddy." I reach out and shake his hand.
"Yeah, I bet." He lets out a dry laugh and clasps my hand in a firm, respectable handshake. "I'm Ash."
Something shakes loose in my brain, and I can suddenly place where I've seen him before.
My face must give away my surprise and recognition, because Ash's easy expression clouds over, exasperation drawing his brows and pulling a sigh from him as he turns away from me—hurrying into the pack lounge, Timmy hot on his heels.
That was Ash Dressalier, known by most as ‘KR30SOTE’—the famous DJ and EDM artist.
Well shit, it would be tacky of me to double back now and act all star-struck—but I’ve been pumping KR30SOTE bangers in my headphones at the gym for years.
I’ll get a chance to catch up with him later, I’m sure. I just gotta make sure to tone down the meathead fanboy around him or I’m gonna come off as a star-fucking dweeb.
Roxy's lounge is only marginally better than Brittney's. Inside of five minutes, I've decided that investment banker Ian is just another boring rich dude who thinks that his fat wallet can compensate for his total lack of any real personality, but both Karl and Anton—a pretty average dude who owns a successful gym near Venice Beach actually seem pretty cool.
“Alright so,” Anton grins, his perfect white teeth almost glowing in the pale blue reflection of the pool as we all pull beers from the mini fridge. “Who else has keys to other rooms—and who do you got?”
“I’ve got keys for here, Suzi, and Lana.” Karl brandishes two more plastic room cards with little lettered stickers in the corner , holding them high in the air and swishing them like a fan.
“Amateurs,” Ian sighs, waving a total of four Cards in his hands. “Roxy, Jesse, Suzi, and Lana.”
I shake my head.
“Shit dude, that’s like—legit half the chicks on the show,” I laugh, incredulous.
“What can I say?” Ian just shrugs. “Bitches love the smell of money.”
I wanna gag. His response is so tacky. I mean, I know—it’s sort of like palming a big stone in a glass house; since I’m ‘bitches’—I am here for the money opportunities… But shit dude, I wouldn’t say that kind of thing on camera.
Ian and Karl are already doing more shots, talking about what kind of cars Ian owns and how he plans on springing an absolutely bonkers Beverly Hills Mansion on Roxy instead of the show-appointed-nests in the final ‘real life’ portion of the experiment by the time I’m up to share my key-card haul.
“What about you?” Anton sidles up to me, the two of us breaking off from the others pounding jaeger and talking about how the trip to Costa Rica is gonna be the most epic fuck-cation they’ve ever been on.
“I was at Brit’s earlier, and I still have a card to Ursula’s I haven’t swiped yet,” I sigh, taking a sip of my beer as we shuffle toward a pair of pool loungers.
“Oh shit dude, you passed the prissy prude’s tests! Good for you!” Anton huffs a little laugh—unfurling a pack of cigarettes from the sleeve of his white t-shirt.
I’m surprised at how my insides bristle at hearing Anton refer to Ursula as ‘the prissy prude,’ but even more shocked when the camera crew—which had been sticking to us like glue, suddenly takes 5; turning off their equipment and giving the pair of us a wide berth as Anton lights up.
I must be doing something awful with my face again, because Anton jumps in, “Fuckers get a slap on the wrist from the streaming platform if they do any kind of ‘glamorizing tobacco use’ on their original programming. It’s been the only way I can get these motherfuckers off my ass, short of going into the bathroom to take a shit or rub one out.”
I can’t help but laugh at this. Anton has a point—I’ve felt like a fucking fish in a bowl since I got here. Putting up a literal smoke screen suddenly seems an obvious choice of evasion.
“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I laugh, flopping into a lounge chair beside him, looking up to the starry sky above.
“But seriously though, bro.” Anton takes another drag on his cigarette and gives me a playful punch in the shoulder.
“Ursula grilled me like I was a fuckin’ burger, man. Took a hell of a lot to get her to exchange scent cards—and yeah sure, she smells sweet but I bet you she’s a sour old maid—a total double bagger.”
At first I can’t help but chuckle along at his casual, glib assessment—but as soon as he suggests that Ursula’s a double bagger the laughter turns to ashes in my mouth.
It’s like looking at a mirror of some of my own less-than-charming behavior, and I’m not a fan of what I see. Even if the cameras aren’t on us, I shift uneasily in my pool lounger—slugging down the latter half of my beer to excuse me from any kind of commentary.
“What was Britt’s like?” he presses. “Bet she’s hot—but her pack is gonna be a bunch of jackass walking hormones,” he laughs, seeing that I’ve come up empty and passes me another beer from the metal bucket of ice he’s towed over to the seating area with us.
“No offense to you, of course!” He offers me a metal bottle opener from his pocket, his cigarette pinched between his rolled lips at the corner of his mouth.
“None taken,” I scoff a laugh, taking the second beer and popping the cap off before tucking it into my pocket. “You basically guessed already. About the guys at least—obviously I haven’t seen Britt yet…but the way she talks…” I shrug taking another swig of the mediocre lager.
“Lemme ask you something, dude.” Anton leans in close, even though the other guys and all the camera crews are on the other side of the pool area.
I keep an eye on the other guys, making sure they maintain their distance, as I listen to Anton’s words, low and conspiratorial, “Are you like, actually for real about this whole thing?” He looks at me skeptically.
Unwilling to give myself away that easily, I hold my silence—allowing Anton to step in and fill the gaps himself.
“Because, no offense dude—you’re going to have to step it up if you want her to buy what you’re sellin’ once you actually see her face to face,” Anton warns me, a playful smile curling his lips as he ashes his cigarette into the empty beer bottle on the table beside us.
“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” I dart a glance back toward the others, still a healthy way away.
“Look at that tool, Karl,” Anton instructs, nodding his head gently in the direction of the others; the hulking alpha jock excitedly making a bid to get stuffy Ian—a few shots of Jager deep, into some rounds of Overlook on the gaming system inside.
“Yeah, what about him?” I grunt dismissively, doing my best to play casual.
“He and the rich boy are totally in this. They both want to find their pack, their girl—settle down and crank out babies and do the whole family thing,” he groans, pulling the pack of cigarettes from the nearby table—lighting the next with the ember of the still-burning butt between his lips.
“And?” I prompt, not liking where this is going—even without the watchful eye of the cameras.
Anton’s features screw up as he fails to contain an incredulous, scornful laugh.
“And…you fucking reek of unserious, my guy.” He gestures to me, stuffing his spent butt into the empty beer bottle he’s been using as an ashtray.
“Oh yeah?” I raise a brow.
“You practically have fuckboy tattooed on your chest.” he nods toward my liberally unbuttoned shirt and I can’t help but feel a little called out.
“Look who’s talking,” I growl back, jutting my chin toward the creeping of black ink at his neckline, his heavy gold chain, Anton’s smug smile only a further endorsement of my claims.
“Guilty as charged, brother—as they say, it takes one to know one,” he barks a laugh, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
Some of the tension goes out of me with that small gesture. I can’t be too angry with him, can I? He is right, after all. Wouldn’t it be nice to have at least one person in this entire experience who I can actually be on the level with? It seems like Anton might actually get it .
Still unwilling to completely give up the ghost, I allow him to take the lead once more after some gentle prompting, “So, what are you in for?” I raise a brow at him, preparing to collect my collateral—just in case he thinks he’s going to blackmail me and play hero about it later.
“Me? I’m here for a little fun, to get more word out about my gym—but mostly to pump up all my socials and to get my brand front and center before I launch a bunch of workout supplements this coming fall,” he answers plainly, taking another drag of his cigarette.
“Coffin nails for the guy who markets his body as a temple,” I let loose a gallows laugh. He’s gotta be for real…but I can’t believe he’s just out and out with it like this.
“No one in the gym or on the internet sees this shit—don’t sweat it. It’s about optics, dude,” he assures me, tapping my knee with a level of familiarity we do not yet possess.
“So, what are you doing here—and don’t tell me it’s to find your true love or I’m gonna laugh in your face,” Anton presses.
I don’t want to give up my position, let alone give him the satisfaction of having cornered me—but I can tell that this asshole is like a dog with a bone. Better to give him what he wants and to move on in hopes that he’ll go after something else to hold his attention.
“Same as you,” I shrug him off—desperately wishing that I could just get up and walk away from this vulture without making shit uncomfortably awkward.
“That’s what I thought.” He grins, his eyes glittering; mean and hungry. “Hook up with a babe—show off the goods.” He nods to the bulge of my biceps beneath the cuffed fabric of my button down. “Make a shit load in ad revenue after you go home, do a land office business in pussy after every baddie with Nestflix streams your shredded bod once our season premieres.”
I hate the way his words make me feel. I’ve had more or less the same thoughts, but hearing Anton recite his plans like some kind of oily, sneering villain—makes me want to climb out of my own skin.
“I have some things I need to take care of on the outside, things that need certain amounts of financial commitment,” I explain coolly, doing my best to justify what sets me apart from Anton. In part for him…but just as much for myself, if I’m being honest.
“Of course, of course—noble and steadfast.” Anton nods sagely. “Just so happens that you’ll enjoy a lot of soft and hard bennies as a result of your sacrifice.” He kicks back—putting his second cigarette out and folding his hands behind his head like a pillow.
I don’t want to spend a second longer around this douche, so I’m thrilled when I see the camera crew moving back toward us with purpose as soon as they see that Anton’s snuffed out his final cigarette.
Without a word, I slip from the pool lounger and get to my feet—making moves for the exit.
“Hey, Teddy—where you goin’?” Anton calls after me, an incredulous laugh swinging upward with the intonation of his question.
“I still got one more spot to hit tonight,” I call nonchalantly, doing my best to keep up the mantle of easygoing and fun for the cameras while putting distance between us as quickly as possible.
Anton and I are different.
We are not the same.
I’m not like that.
I do my best to assure myself as I make my way out of Roxy’s lounge and into the hallway, where Timmy waits to ferry me to my final destination.