Chapter 7
Wes
Listen, I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve never exactly had trouble in the dating department. I’m six feet tall, gainfully employed, physically fit, and apparently something of a pretty boy. No need to pretend that I’ve struggled to get attention.
Finding a connection? That can be trickier, especially when your hobbies are a bit “weird” and “off-putting to women” (according to Morrie). But who doesn’t struggle to find the one in this day and age, when we’re so connected and yet never been more disconnected from each other?
But I digress. All of that bragging about my sexy lewks is to say I’m not someone with an inferiority complex by any stretch of the imagination—so when I say my fellow Mountain Man contestants make me feel like a hobbit, I’m not being down on myself. I’m an above-average-looking guy.
These men? These are Greek gods.
I don’t think anyone else on this show is under six three. And they’re all built like they do nothing but juggle car tires all day. There’s some body diversity, which is a pleasant surprise; so not all the men are totally ripped, but they’re all big, strong, burly, barrel-chested types.
That’s when it hits me—I’m part of the body diversity, too. I’m the token little guy.
At first I tell myself, no problem! I’m a friendly dude. I can skate by on my charm, easy. I’ve done it before—hell, I’ve done it undercover in prison. Reality TV should be a walk in the park in comparison to that, right?
Wrong. These handsome, brawny gods are frickin’ dreamboats in the personality department, too.
This is honestly the most interesting, coolest group of men I’ve ever talked to before.
Jerome, from North Carolina, runs a nonprofit for kids who are color-blind.
Nicky, from Virginia, is from a legacy firefighting family that goes all the way back to the nineteenth century.
Denver, from, well, Denver, is studying to be an archaeologist and is training to be one of a handful of people left in the world who can read a dead language.
And myself? I am Nate Russell from Tennessee.
Personality ambiguous. I’ve come up with a few token hobbies and habits, but when I was putting together my cover story, I was trying to find ways to blend in as much as possible, not stand out.
Even the fact that I’m one of two Nates on the show (hence, why I have to go by Nate R.) was designed so I wouldn’t make too many waves.
I can’t exactly give Nate all of my actual hobbies and personality traits, either, since (a) I like to keep a firm line between my undercover persona and my actual life, and (b) I’ve been warned in no uncertain terms from Morrie that I must never, ever tell people about how much I love bagpipes.
But I’m probably blowing things out of proportion. Maybe these guys aren’t as impressive as I think. Or maybe they are, but I fit in just fine with them. Maybe any inferiority on my part is all just in my head.
This hope is almost immediately dashed as I take in the look on Morrie’s face after the meet and greet with the other men. He’s posing undercover as my producer, so he got to witness firsthand just how much of a loser I am compared to pretty much every other guy on the show.
When we’re finally alone together, he winces at me. “Do you have any secret skills?” Before I can get too excited, he adds, “Something actually impressive, like being able to bench-press one of the Mountainettes, not, like, swallowing a sword.”
What’s cooler than swallowing a sword, I ask you? But, admittedly, as this skill has never gotten anyone a girlfriend in the history of the world, I can see Morrie’s point. Frustrated, I rake a hand through my hair. “What are we gonna do?”
This is about more than just my ego, after all.
I need to stay on Mountain Man for as long as possible so I can get close to one of the Mountainettes.
Harmony Miller, daughter of Aaron Miller.
This entire undercover mission hinges on that.
But why would Harmony choose me when I’m the only guy who isn’t built like Thor and whose undercover personality could best be described as “elevator music, but a person”?
Morrie sighs. “I think it’s time we visit the executive producers.”
It’s pretty much a last-resort strategy. Morrie and I have never admitted as much out loud to each other, but I’m almost positive it’s a mutual feeling.
We’re scared of the executive producers.
Sienna Diaz more than Raquel Ezra, I think.
She’s frighteningly direct and will say things out loud that most people would be way too chickenshit to vocalize.
Though, Raquel has that intense stare that makes it feel like she can see right through you, so honestly, it’s a toss-up.
It also doesn’t help that they’re both stunningly gorgeous.
And they always smell so good. I’m not sure why, but that makes them even more terrifying.
A couple years ago, I spent three months undercover in prison, and somehow I feel more unsure of myself now, knocking on the door to their office, than I did then. “Come in!” a voice calls from inside.
Morrie and I exchange a glance. I wonder if he’d let me hold his hand . . . ?
Kidding. Mostly.
Drawing in a bracing breath, Morrie lurches ahead of me and pushes open the door. “Ms. Diaz. Ms. Ezra. We were wondering if we could have a moment of your time?”
This is ridiculous. We’re both employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, for goodness’ sake, but Morrie’s voice cracks like he’s going through puberty, and my hands are legitimately shaking. I smile my broadest smile to cover it up. “Just a tiny moment. Half a moment, really.”
Raquel and Sienna exchange amused looks, like they’re used to men turning into babbling idiots in their presence. “Half a moment,” Raquel agrees, looking pointedly down at her watch. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a photoshoot soon?”
They’re both looking at me now. I don’t make direct eye contact, for fear I might turn to stone.
“About that . . .” I do my best to sound like a polished professional and not trip over my words.
“I met the other men just now, and I couldn’t help but notice they’re all . . .” I search for the right word.
“Panty-melting?” Sienna supplies.
Probably not the phrasing I would have gone for, but she’s not wrong. And, as if she’s well aware that she’s not wrong, Sienna smiles knowingly at Raquel. “We have a real eye for sexy.”
“And they’re so interesting,” Raquel adds. “Everyone is so cultured and smart and wonderful. We’re really happy with our group.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s kind of the problem.”
One of Raquel’s eyebrows arches. She is completely stone-faced. Yep, she’s definitely the scarier of the two. “Problem?”
Sienna lets out an aggravated sigh. “We are up to our necks with problems, boys. Between the studio sending in a lackey with the personality of a paper towel to babysit us to a wardrobe department intern’s creepy uncle demanding that he get to do product placement on the show, we have filled our weekly quota of problems.” She lets that sink in a moment before giving us each a meaningful glare in turn.
“So this had better be something important. Or ideally, something really, really easy to fix.”
I look to Morrie for help. He wipes his palms on his trousers before gesturing toward me with a thumb. “Unfortunately, we’ve realized that ‘Nate’ is rather bland compared to the rest of the cast.”
Raquel and Sienna react with surprise at the word choice, checking my reaction, but I’m too aware of the issue to be offended. I shrug. “A little on the tame side,” I agree.
“Like . . . beige wallpaper,” Morrie continues.
I frown at him. “They get it, Morrie.” Still feeling the collective gaze of beautiful executive producers on me, I turn back to the two women and hastily add, “Not me, me. My undercover character. I can juggle knives. So.”
My comment just hangs in the air for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then Sienna clears her throat. “Okay. I’m struggling to see how this is a problem. For us, anyway.”
“He’s short, too,” Morrie chimes in. “I mean, not relatively speaking, in most contexts. But when you stand him next to those guys, he looks like Peter Pan.”
Peter Pan? “I’m not that much shorter,” I object.
“Like a tiny, little boy who never got to grow up,” Morrie continues, just rubbing that salt right in my open wound.
Raquel holds up a hand, cutting both of us off. “Let me make sure I understand. What you’re saying is we chose a cast of men who are too interesting and too tall.”
I check with Morrie. We both nod at that assessment.
“For a reality show that we’re hoping will be a massive success,” Raquel continues. “Because if it’s a massive success, we can use the proceeds to fund our studio’s projects—even the ones with women and LGBTQ and BIPOC writers and directors that might not get greenlit anywhere else.”
“What were we thinking?” Sienna deadpans.
I shake my head. Clearly, this isn’t coming out right.
“Obviously you want the show to do well. And you chose great! But since it is a competition, and I do need to stay on the show long enough to complete my important federal business—” I really emphasize the word “federal” to remind them just how official this is.
Nonetheless, Sienna looks decidedly unimpressed as she holds up a hand.
“Let me cut you off there, boys. We’ve been very compliant with the FBI’s request to put a special agent on the show.
But this is a show about women’s empowerment.
About consent. So let me be extremely clear—we will not be forcing any of our contestants to choose to keep you on.
If they send you home, we will not be intervening.
We want our Mountainettes to have a real shot at romance.
At love. Now, I’m sorry if you’re feeling intimidated by the sheer awesomeness of the other men around you.
But I encourage you to use this as a learning opportunity.
When will men finally understand that it’s not size that matters—whether it be height or length or girth?
A man who’s confident in himself, who asks questions, who really listens to the answers is far more appealing than the tallest, hottest dude with the hugest schlong. ”
I clear my throat. “For the record, I’m not worried about my dick size.” Lies. I’m totally intimidated. Those other men are huge. That’s gotta translate to other places too, right?
Sienna rolls her eyes at Raquel. “Do you think he heard anything that I just said?”
“Confidence,” I repeat back, to show I was paying attention, “asking questions. Being a good listener. I can do all of that. Totally.”
Raquel gets a far-off, contemplative look on her face. “A really long tongue doesn’t hurt, either.”
Huh? I move my tongue around in my mouth, wondering if it’s considered long or short or average. It’s, frankly, something I’ve never considered before. Great. Now I’m going to have one more thing to overanalyze and spiral about.
Sienna checks her watch pointedly. “Aren’t you going to be late for the promo shoot . . . ?”
“Ma’am. Yes, ma’ams.” For some reason, Morrie and I back out of the room, like we’re peasants leaving the presence of two queens.
Once we’re in the hallway again, we look at each other, no longer bothering to hide our dismay.
“Do you think any of that stuff about confidence and being a good listener is true?” I wonder out loud. “Is that really what women care about?”
Morrie doesn’t even have to think about that. “Of course not.”
“Shit,” I say.
“Shit,” Morrie agrees.