Chapter 13 Chloe’s ‘90s Hits, Now Playing
THIRTEEN
The unique thing about the Mediterranean Gemstone— other than it being a massive floating TV set for drunk singles looking for love—is that, in addition to the full-sized public pool, it also has a private pool, reserved solely for use by the contestants.
The public pool, located in the middle of the ship on the Lido deck, is open to anyone who wants to use it, including the cast and crew.
Cast members rarely film there, but once a season or so, a few producers will bring their contestants to this pool to scope out singles from the ship who might be interested in chatting.
These contestants usually haven’t made any kind of connection with another cast member yet and are desperate to stay on the ship, instead of being walked off the metaphorical plank in the next port.
Because that’s how Love at First Sail works. If, by the end of each week, you haven’t found someone you’re interested in, or who is interested in you, then you have to hope there’s another soul somewhere on board who’s ready to take a chance on love.
All that to say, the main pool is fairly busy at all times, because the public never knows when a cast member might come by to hit on someone and invite them onto the show.
Even if we know that those who are “chosen” are actually producer plants, the general public doesn’t.
Otherwise, what would be the appeal of vacationing on the Gemstone over some other mega-cruise?
Meanwhile, the Love at First Sail pool, on its corresponding deck, is like a tropical oasis, tucked away at the stern of the ship.
By design, the water is Jacuzzi-warm. It means that contestants are often hopping out of the water to cool off…
and flaunt their scantily clad bodies. It makes for pretty decent TV, if you’re watching less for the drama and more for the… plot.
If by “plot,” you mean “nudity.”
Because there is nudity—a fair amount of it, actually—and it’s just one more thing that makes Love at First Sail different from other reality shows. Shedding your clothes on set is not only allowed, it’s encouraged, and it certainly makes for some interesting scenarios.
Like the scene I’m currently filming, in which Duncan is trying to beat Molly in a game of strip poker.
In the eyes of the contestants gathered around the table, and even the other crew off to the side—a DOP, a sound guy, two PAs, Demi, and several other producers—Molly doesn’t appear to know what she’s doing.
Her linen cover-up lies in a heap nearby, and her sandals have been discarded under the table.
She’s down to just her swimsuit and she keeps glancing nervously at Duncan, who is still fully clothed as he tilts back on his chair with a confident grin.
“Tell you what, sweetheart,” Duncan drawls. “If I win this hand, you take off the last two pieces of clothing you’re wearing.”
Molly looks at him, innocent and wide-eyed, and asks, “And what if you lose?”
“I’ll take everything off.”
A few men behind him—clearly able to see his hand—snicker.
“Alright, then…” she says, though I can tell she’s faking the hesitation in her voice.
I wouldn’t blame anyone watching this scene play out for thinking that Molly’s going to lose. She’s almost completely naked and hasn’t won more than one hand.
But they don’t know her—not like I do.
Because I know that, when we were bored and broke in college, the two of us would frequently visit the nearby casino so she could shark overconfident finance bros.
It paid the rent, and it was a good reminder that the best friend I had known for years wasn’t just a bombshell.
She was smart. Cunning. And had an excellent poker face.
So, I already knew Molly was going to take this man for all he was worth—in this case, his entire wardrobe—leaving him completely nude, and either entirely mortified or extremely aroused.
That is why I have my camera focused entirely on his face, while the DOP is more preoccupied with Molly.
He might think he’s about to get a great shot of the leggy blond losing both the game and her remaining clothing, but as Molly slow-rolls her four of a kind, crushing Duncan’s full house, I know it’s the shot I’ve framed perfectly that’s going to make the show.
And to think I was only supposed to be here to get B-roll of drinks being poured. Funny how that happens.
What’s even more ironic is that, as Duncan shoots forward from his precarious perch—sculpted brows knit together in shock at her cards—I can also see what’s coming next. His chair is still only supporting him on its two back legs. And they’re starting to bow.
I move my fingers skillfully to the lens, zooming out fast to frame the entire scene just before Duncan’s chair emits a deafening CRACK as the legs break clean off the seat, flinging him backward.
I wince, watching as his back smacks the ground, and flick my eyes to Molly.
She doesn’t even flinch, a smug smile resting comfortably on her face.
A few of Duncan’s castmates rush to make sure he’s alright, but he waves them off.
By the look on his face, it seems that he’s gotten past the initial shock of her sneaky win—and his embarrassing fall—because a dark grin is tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stands up and pulls off his clothes, baring all for the world to see.
“Now that,” Duncan croaks, grabbing a half-empty glass of amber liquid from the table and shooting it back, “was hot.”
Molly’s grin widens as she leans back in her chair, and I can’t help but silently root for these two.
Even if I despise her.
Molly stands, her black bikini bottoms hugging tight to her body, and she slides her arm around Duncan’s naked waist, fitting into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Duncan reaches down to tilt her chin up toward him and plants a passionate, if somewhat overeager, kiss on her waiting lips. I roll my eyes. The ridiculousness of the kiss is just for show, that much is obvious—even if his uninhibited admiration of her had been genuine.
It feels sleazy.
Especially with his dick hanging out.
But Molly doesn’t seem to care.
As the crowd disperses, producers move to chat with their contestants and PAs slink off to the corners of the pool area to talk in hushed tones. Across the deck, I notice Molly break away from Duncan to move to the bar, which is kitted out in tacky bamboo and grasscloth.
“She’s certainly a handful.” I jump at Demi’s displeased voice as she appears beside me, her gaze lasering across the deck at Molly. I shudder—I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of that withering glare.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” I mutter. Visions of Molly nearly getting us thrown into the casino’s lock-up after a particularly wild night make my teeth grind, even so many years later.
I was always down to accompany her on whatever reckless shit she had planned—mostly because I felt responsible for making sure she didn’t end up dead—but she always took things a step too far.
“Care to elaborate?” Demi offers. I roll my eyes and shake my head.
I had already considered her offer to connect me with Key Five Productions in exchange for handing over dirt on Molly. It was tempting—extremely tempting—and I didn’t think Demi would go back on her word. However, I wasn’t entirely sure she was the kind of “in” I wanted.
From what I could tell from her LinkedIn profile, which I cyberstalked last night (after remembering to turn on private mode, thank God), Demi had previously worked for a string of the trashiest reality shows on the market.
At first, I thought it was because she wasn’t good at what she did—usually, she stayed with a show for one or two seasons, and I assumed that maybe she wasn’t being invited back.
But then I came across the many glowing commendations from previous colleagues on her page.
They painted her as a passionate and cunning producer whose results were exceptional for their show and its ratings.
And every single person who left a comment on her page had the same thing to say: they wished she would consider returning for their next season.
Honestly, it’s impressive, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me envious.
Demi is good at what she does, and now she has her pick of whatever gig she wants, whenever she wants, because of it.
But Demi isn’t who I want my name to be tied to.
Because I can see past her skill, past the person she wants you to think she is, to glimpse the duplicitous side of her.
You don’t become that good at being manipulative without making enemies.
And I don’t need any more enemies. I need people who will have my back, who will speak my name in a room full of opportunities because they truly believe in me and want to see me succeed—not because they’re leveraging my struggles for their own gain.
If there’s anything I want to leave behind in my twenties, it’s that kind of insincere relationship.
“I really don’t know why you’re protecting her,” Demi scoffs as she eyes Molly, who’s now perched on a stool at the bar—her long, tanned legs crossed one over the other, and a drink in her hand. “Would she do the same for you?”
“Maybe not,” I reply pensively. And I’m telling the truth.
Because honestly? I don’t know what Molly would do. I don’t think I know her very well at all.
The DOP who had been glued to Molly earlier casually approaches her, and she flashes him the dazzling smile I know she saves for people she thinks can be beneficial to her.
“Would it help if I explained my angle?” Demi asks.
I drag my eyes from Molly and sigh. “Sure, fine—whatever.”
Demi smirks like she’s just confirmed her suspicion that I’m actually three toddlers in a trench coat, and not an actual adult woman.