Reality TV Bites (18 page)

“Are you okay?” Dave asks.

I give him a sidelong look. “Am I okay? Well, I guess that
depends on how you define ‘okay.' Is humiliation on a national TV show okay?”

Dave shrugs. “It's not the end of the world.”

“I see. How about getting fired from your job because Dai Hoshi, the billion-dollar global media conglomerate, will sue your ass for breach of contract if you aren't terminated immediately? Is that okay?”

“It's not good, but—”

“How about your phone ringing constantly and your house staked out by reporters who hope to buy their next car from the profits made by selling your story?”

“Red—”

“Or, oh, is it okay if you're pictured in the paper with a guy's hand up your skirt? Is that okay? Wait, is it okay if, on top of all that, your car runs out of gas and you have to walk for like two hours in Rory's clothes and cheap-ass flip-flops just to get to a”—I raise my voice—“hole in the wall, where they won't even let you use the phone! Is that
okay
?”

Dave looks at me for a long moment. “That pretty much sucks.”

He says it with such a straight face and in such a sincere tone that I burst out laughing.

“Bartender, another water for the lady.”

I smile at him. “Thanks.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Want a real drink?”

“Better not.”

“Want to hang out and watch pudding wrestling?”

“What?”

He gestures to the area near where the band has taken up residence. “They're having pudding wrestling tonight. You
know, women clawing at each other while sliding around in a tub of pudding. Can't ask for much more than that.”

“No, I guess you can't.”

We sit in silence for a while, me sipping my water, Dave swigging away at his beer. It's not an uncomfortable silence. Not that it's comfortable being with Dave. I'm hyperaware that he's beside me, that he's drinking a Sam Adams, that he's spun the cell phone on the bar eight times now. It's the silence of two people who don't know where they stand with each other and aren't sure if they want to try and puzzle it out again.

Finally, Dave says, “Who were you going to call?”

I shrug. “I don't know. Rory, I guess, but I've already imposed on her too much.”

He glances down at the T-shirt, and I wonder if he notices the shoes and remembers them. Then he says, “I'll take you home.” I nod again. We're silent, and I can feel the tension rising in him. He's trying to decide right now whether he should say anything or not. My head is telling my legs to start walking before he opens his mouth, but they're not listening.

“I saw the television premiere.”

I stare at the ice in my glass.

“And the photo in the paper.”

Three pieces of ice float at the bottom, shrinking in the water surrounding them.

“Your legs looked pretty hot in that skirt.”

I jerk my head up. “What?”

“It was a short skirt. You've got good legs.” He frowns. “Good everything, actually.”

“Not good taste in men.”

Dave ponders this. “Momentary lapse of reason? I mean, before the dickhead, you went out with me.”

“That wasn't good taste. You made it impossible to say no.”

He finishes his beer. “Yeah. I'm still trying to figure that one out.”

“Thanks.” Jesus, I can't win today.

Dave shrugs. “Sorry, but I put a hell of a lot of effort into getting you to go out with me, and you're about the furthest thing from what I want in a girlfriend.”

“Again, thanks.”

“Oh, and I'm your type?”

“Please.”

“That's my point. And yet—” He pauses and I find myself holding my breath.

“And yet?”

He turns to face me, his honey-hazel eyes drinking me in. “And yet we're both sitting here.”

“Hey! I know you!” A large woman wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a spandex halter top steps between Dave and me. She turns to the biker dude beside her. “Jim. That's the girl from the TV.”

Jim narrows his eyes at me, and my heart thuds. They cannot possibly recognize me from one TV show. I was wearing my hair different. I was wearing clothes that fit.

“Hey, I think you've got the wrong—” Dave begins.

“Oh, yeah.” Jim nods. “That's her. The girl who was in the paper, spreading her legs for the prince.”

I jump off the bar stool. “Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dave grabs my elbow, but I jump back all on my own when the woman sticks her face in mine. “Who died and made you queen? Don't you talk to him like that. I'm gonna kick your ass.”

“Okay, hold on,” Dave says. “Why don't we just forget about this? I'll buy you a beer.”

The woman puts her hands on her hips. “Who are you? Her pimp? I don't want your shitty beer.”

“Dave, let's just go.”

“Yeah, tuck tail and run,” the woman sneers.

I shrug. What do I care what this woman thinks? I just want to put on my pajamas, take a bath, and sleep for a week. “Dave, let's go.”

“Not so tough now, are you?” Jim taunts.

“She could beat the shit out of this piece of trailer trash.” Dave flicks a finger at the woman. “Do it with style, too.”

“Oh, fuck you!” the woman screams.

Jim's laughing.

“Dave,” I whisper, “come on.”

Dave's not listening, though. He takes a step toward the woman. “I think you owe my friend an apology.”

She snorts. “I'd lick her feet first.”

“I'd like to see that.”

I grab Dave's arm and tug. “Dave, it's okay. Let's
go.
”

“Yeah, and what happens if Tanya wins,” Jim asks, and I don't like the glint in his eyes.

Dave considers, then says to Jim, “I don't know, what do you want?”

“I want to go home.”

“Hold on a sec.” Dave waves my protest away, eyes locked on Jim. A chuckling Jim.

“Okay, if the little princess here loses, she has to flash us.”

“No nudity,” the bartender says from behind us, and I realize the whole place is listening.

“Just the top,” Jim argues with the bartender.

“No!” I yell.

“No nudity,” the bartender says, shaking his head.

“Aw, come on,” Dave argues.

I round on him. “Dave!”

“Oh, sorry. Knee-jerk reaction.” He looks at Jim. “No can do.”

“I think she should kiss my ass.” Tanya thrusts forward an abundant hip. “Right here.” She turns and points to one bulbous cheek.

“You're on,” Dave says.

“No, you're not. I'm leaving.” I take three steps before someone grabs my arm and yanks me back.

“The wrestling ring is this way,” some guy I don't even know says.

Tanya is already halfway there, and Jim reaches for my arm.

“Don't even touch me.”

“I got her,” Dave says, and the next thing I know, Dave's got his arm around my waist and he's dragging me toward the pudding-filled wrestling ring.

“Dave, no! Stop!” I squirm and struggle until he has to lift me off the ground to keep me moving.

“Shh. We can't go back on the deal now.”

“
We!
I didn't agree to this deal. If you care so much,
you
go fight her.”

“You're not going to fight. Get a lock on her and hold her down for thirty seconds. Then she'll be kissing your feet. Here, better give me your shoes.”

He removes both flip-flops, then hoists me up and over the ropes into the ring. Tanya's already waiting, ankle-deep in butterscotch pudding. As my own feet sink in, I make one last effort to escape, but come up against Dave blocking my way.

“Just calm down. You're going to be great. Pretend she's the dickhead.”

I stop struggling against the ropes and consider this. All
day I've been so angry and ready to murder Nicolo. Maybe I would feel better if I smash Tanya's face into pudding. I glance over my shoulder. She's staring at me, hunched forward, teeth bared.

Fuck! No way! “Let me out,” I tell Dave when he tries to block the ropes again.

“Can't. We made a bet. You've got to hold up your end.”

“
You
made a bet!” I scream, frantic to escape the snorting bull behind me and the quagmire of pudding drawing me down. “You fight the gorilla back there.”

There's the sound of a bell, and the bartender gives me a little wave from a corner of the ring. The red bell next to him is still vibrating. But before I have time to consider the bell and what it implies, Tanya heaves her bulk toward me. I scream and lean/trudge to the right just in time. She hits the ropes, and comes back for more.

I sludge around the perimeter of the wrestling ring, moving as fast as the
thick pudding allows. “Dave!” I cry when Tanya starts to come after me. “Dave, get me out of here.”

“Fight, Red! Kill her!”

Okay, forget Dave. New plan. I reach Tanya's corner, and pause to look for another escape. Unfortunately, Jim is there, grinning up at me. I think I was doing better with Dave, especially when Jim reaches through the ropes and gives me a push.

I scream, falling back into the pool of pudding. A giant butterscotch wave fans out on either side of me. I struggle to my knees, shaking pudding off like a wet dog.

“Red, you okay?” Dave says, and I swear I hear a chuckle
in his tone. He is so dead. I turn to glare at him, and he yells, “Watch out. Duck!”

Tanya is coming for me, but I can't stand in time to avoid her. I'm saved only because she slips and flops into the pudding. Unfortunately the brownish-orange wave from Tanya's fall throws me off-balance, and I go down again, this time with a gurgle. I come up for air, gagging at the thought of nonhomogenized pudding in my mouth, but I don't have the time to contemplate the disease or food poisoning scenarios because Tanya's crawling straight for me. She tries to snatch my shirt, and I flop away.

Tanya grabs my ankle, but I kick back and slip out of her grasp. “Dave!”

“Hold her down!” Dave's voice rings out over the roar of the crowd, who are cheering and catcalling now because Tanya and I are covered with pudding. “Kick her ass, Red.”

“You kick her ass! I want ou-owwww!”

Tanya grabs my shirt and hauls me back. I flail, then she flails, and we fall backward. I land on top of her, and when I get my breath back, I scramble up. She grabs my leg, and I try to wriggle out of her grasp, kicking her in the jaw.

She stares up at me, tears smarting in her eyes.

“Oh, my God! Are you okay?” I lean down and put a hand on her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Dave yells. “Take her out.”

“Shut up! She's hurt. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?”

Tanya's eyes narrow. “You bitch!” she yells and lunges for me. We go down in a splash of butterscotch yellow.

“I said I was sorry,” I mumble before she grabs my hair and slams me facedown in the pudding again. Okay, that's it. Between layers of brownish-orange, I see red.

Tanya must die.

Mustering what must be superhuman strength, I push
Tanya off me and manage to pull free of the sinking morass. I suck in gallons of butterscotch-tasting air, then cough as pudding goes down my windpipe. But this time I ignore the discomfort and hunch over, looking for my foe. When I spot her, I give a little growl and lunge. Tanya's so surprised, she doesn't move fast enough, and I put her in a choke hold and dunk her head in pudding.

She struggles to get out, but Gray has taught me well. No one escapes this hold. From far away, I hear a voice calling my name, and then my arms are pried free of Tanya's neck and a towel is thrust into my hands, then another, and when I wipe away the caramel-colored goop, I look into Dave's smiling eyes. They're sort of a dark butterscotch color. “You won,” he says. “Don't kill her.”

“I'm going to kill you.” I start swinging, and he jumps back.

“Hey, I said you won. Here”—he thrusts his beer in my face—“drink this.”

I take it and down the rest of the bottle, grateful to taste something, anything but butterscotch. Even something as disgusting as beer.

Three or four guys are standing around us, mouths hanging open. Hopefully they're impressed with my beer-guzzling capability, not sickened by my pudding-covered exterior.

The majority of the Bait Shop's patrons did not witness my chugfest. They're still over by the ring, watching Tanya get back on her feet. Or maybe they're excited because her top's down around her waist. She doesn't seem to notice. They clear a path for her as she stomps over to me. She looks horrible, smeared with orangey-yellow slime, globs of it hanging from her nose and hair.

God, if I look half that bad, I'm killing myself. Wait. I'm killing Dave.

“Looks like you're going to have to kiss my feet,” I say.

She sneers. “You kiss my ass first.”

“That wasn't the deal.”

“Screw the deal.” Tanya pushes me back, and I prepare to smack her, but Dave grabs my arm. Finally, I say, “You want me to kiss your ass? Fine. Turn around.”

Tanya smiles triumphantly, turns, and waggles her butt in my face. It's such a large target. Layers of flesh hang out on either side of her shorts' frayed hem, jiggling as she wiggles, butterscotch pudding dripping from the fat.

I give Dave a sidelong glance, then look pointedly in the direction of the restaurant—our exit. He follows my gaze and looks back, frowning. I give him a naughty smile, and the furrow between his brows deepens, he tenses, and then he shakes his head, mouthing,
No.
I give him a little wave, turn back to Tanya, and, planting my hands flat on her behind, send her sailing over a table, knocking two guys over and spilling a tray of beers.

Chaos erupts, most of the bar's patrons cursing me, but I don't wait for them to make good on their promises. Instead I scramble into a run, tipping a table and a pitcher of beer in the process. Dave grabs my hand as I pass him, and we fly through the door into the restaurant. Dave knocks into a waiter holding a tray of food, and the nachos and burgers topple over.

“Sorry!” I yell as we race up the stairs. I can hear Tanya and the rest of the people from the deck behind us, but I don't turn. Dave and I reach the entry hall, shove the door open, and leap into the parking lot. “Where are you?” I scream.

“There!” He points to the Hummer, near the back of the parking lot, and we run for it.

We separate as we near the tank, Dave heading for the
driver's side and me for the passenger's. Dave fumbles for his remote, and the alarm beeps. I reach the tank a second before he makes it around to his side, then I pull open the door and freeze.

Leather and new-car smell. Shit. I'm covered in pudding. I already ruined his Land Rover's interior after the Gatorade Incident. I can't ruin the tank, too.

Dave pulls open the door on his side, and yells, “Get in!”

“But your leather!” I hear the Bait Shop's door open, and I glance over my shoulder as Tanya and Jim burst through. They pause, scanning the lot for us.

“I don't give a shit. Get in!” Dave yells as he starts the Hummer.

“Wait.” I grab Rory's T-shirt and haul it over my head. The underwear I borrowed is wet from pudding that seeped through, but I use the T-shirt to wipe off my arms, then throw it down. Tanya's seen us now, and she's running toward the Hummer.

“Get in!” Dave yells.

I pull Rory's shorts over my hips, not bothering to unbutton them, trying to wipe pudding from my legs as best I can. I toss the shorts on the gravel with the T-shirt, then climb onto the Hummer's running board. From the corner of my eye, I see Tanya slip on the gravel in the lot and go down about two yards away. That's all the motivation Dave needs, because he hits the gas as I'm still crawling in.

We peel out of the parking lot and, spurred by the adrenaline racing through my system, I lower my window, lean out, and scream, “You lost!” And then I do something slightly immature.

I moon them.

Dave turns the Hummer sharply, leaving the Bait Shop and the pudding wrestling friends and fans in our dust.

I duck back into the Hummer and glance at Dave. “Well, that was fun. What now?”

“Custard wrestling?”

“I was thinking mousse. It's smoother.”

He looks at me, shakes his head, and we both burst out laughing. He's laughing so hard that he has to pull over, and it takes a few minutes to get it under control. Finally, between chuckles, Dave says, “I can't believe you pushed her.”

“Why not?” I say. “She deserved it.
I won.
”

“You're a trip, Red. Remind me not to play Monopoly with you.”

“I don't think board games are your main concern right now. What the hell was all that ‘Kick her ass' and ‘Take her out' shit?” I sock his shoulder. Hard.

“Ow.”

“Ow? Ow is having your hair pulled out while your face is buried in pudding.” I hit him again, but he catches my fist before I make contact and hauls me across the seat. He's not laughing now. In fact, he's got that same scary-serious look he had on his face in Rory's bedroom.

It's amazing to me that Dave is looking at me like this. But no matter how many times he sees me at my worst—dripping with blue Gatorade, drunk, covered in pudding—he always makes me feel beautiful, like he sees past the exterior and into the real me.

“You know my favorite part?” he asks, face close to mine, breath tickling my cheek.

I shake my head, feeling my insides wobble.

“When you did the striptease in the parking lot.” He glances down, and I'm suddenly very aware that all I'm wearing are a blue cotton bra and Rory's bikinis with a picture of a chicken and the words “
CHICKS RULE
.”

“It wasn't a striptease. I didn't want to ruin your leather.”

“You can't imagine how much I appreciate that.” He leans forward and, too late, I realize he's going to kiss me. I'm so surprised I don't even kiss him back.

He licks his lips. “You taste like butterscotch.”

“But it's unhomogenized butterscotch. Who knows where it's been?”

“It's been on you,” he says.

His hand cups my jaw, and seeing that look in his eyes again, I say, “Wait. I'm dirty.”

“I like you dirty.”

My skin heats, and my heartbeat kicks up a notch.

“Half the time I worry I'm going to mess your hair up.” He leans back and assesses me. “Not too worried about that right now.”

See what I mean? He likes
me,
not the mask I wear.
Me.

Dave leans forward and kisses me, and I kiss him back. I've kissed Dave maybe ten times, but except that time at Rory's, I've never
really
kissed Dave. Kissing Dave always felt like joking around—fun, playful.

I don't want to play anymore. I'm giving up the role of princess, stuck-up bitch, and fashion maven. Well, maybe not the last one. But I'm sitting on the side of some farm road miles from Chicago, wearing the most unsexy underwear ever, covered with pudding, and Dave still wants to kiss me. This feels real. What did Gray say about me backing away whenever a guy gets too close to the real me? This time I'm not going to hide.

It's a risk, allowing myself to be so vulnerable. This week I was on national TV consorting with a particularly lewd vibrator, I lost my job over a sex scandal, and most recently I won a pudding wrestling match. I think I can do pretty much anything right now.

And so I let Dave kiss me, and when he starts to pull
back, I tug on his hair, pull him close, and kiss him with my whole heart and soul, like I've only ever kissed two other men, one when I was fifteen and one I thought I'd marry.

Dave tenses, sensing my shift. There's a moment of indecision on Dave's part, and I feel that empty chasm in my belly yawn with fear. Then his arms go around me, and he returns the kiss with equal passion. When I draw back, he stares up at me, and I'm the one who looks away first. So many questions in his eyes, and I don't know how to answer them right now.

Dave reaches for his shirt, pulls it off, and hands it to me. “Seems like I'm always giving you T-shirts to cover up with.” His voice is ragged and low.

“That's your job,” I say and pull the T-shirt over my head.

“What's yours?”

I run a finger lightly over his bare chest. “Taking them off.”

He groans, and I smile before scooting back to my side of the tank. He gives me a long look, puts the tank in gear, and steers us back onto the road.

“If we find a gas station and you take me back to my car, I'll leave you in peace.”

Dave slips a CD into the player, and “Santeria” by Sublime comes on. “Maybe I don't want to be left in peace.”

I catch my breath. “But you're always saying that I'm high-maintenance.”

“You listened.”

“I always listen. Hey”—I point to the road—“there's a gas station.”

“Yep,” Dave says, but we don't slow.

“We're not going to the gas station?”

“By the time we get gas and find your car, it's going to be dark. We can come back tomorrow.”

I nod. “Okay, that makes sense, but I left my house keys in the car. All I have are credit cards and—oh, no!—I don't even have those. They're in the pocket of Rory's shorts, back in the Bait Shop parking lot.”

“You can call and cancel them at my place.”

I close my mouth and sit very still. I've never been to Dave's place, and I can't think why he'd take me now unless he intended me to stay the night. And he's not having me stay the night as an act of charity.

He could take me to Rory's. I could also crash at Josh's or Gray's. But Dave's taking me home—to his home. I steal a glance at him, then look quickly away. He's an arm's length away, and that expanse of bronze bare chest felt really good under my fingers a moment ago. I turn the AC on, feeling a bit too warm all of a sudden.

I take a deep breath of Freon. “So, we're having a sleepover?” I say.

“Right.”

“Will there be pizza and ice cream?”

He raises a brow.

“Rory and I always order pizza and get ice cream.”

“This isn't that kind of sleepover.”

This is it. Me and Dave. There's no question what's going to happen tonight. The question is what it means. And what I want it to mean. I look out the window, then back at Dave.

“A sleepover without pizza and ice cream sounds kind of serious, and I seem to remember a discussion about me being high-maintenance and you not being a good mechanic.”