Eileen was an aspiring pop star who had self-produced one single that had gotten traction only because she was topless during the entire music video. Her tits were massive and looked to be hard as a brick, but some guys liked that shit. Johno had made a half-dozen comments about them yesterday and had rallied hard for a storyline that involved him motorboating them. The producers had seemed open to the idea.
Encouraged, I floated the killing of the Emma/Cash lovefest and got a resounding NO. Casma, they said patiently, was going to happen. Apparently, our entire season was focused on making it happen.
Casma was definitely NOT going to happen. Maybe on screen it was, but I was pretty certain my dislike of Emma was a two-way street and one that would only be strengthened by increasing proximity.
I rolled onto my side and reached along the floor until I found my phone. Unlocking it, I scrolled through my notifications, then gave in to temptation and pulled up Emma's feed.
For months, her profile had had an obnoxious 'follow back' button, which I had studiously ignored. Now, it was gone. She had unfollowed me. Interesting and also, lame. I scrolled to her most recent photo, a clip of her on a paddleboard, looking over one shoulder to the camera and winking. It was a good pic. Brilliant blue water, interesting composition, strong placement and personality. The caption…
Soaking up the last rays of freedom before I’m sequestered in a house with five celebs. Please send donuts and tell @CashMitchell he can’t touch mine. #houseoffame #mtvstudios #suntanlife #beachbum
It did, as always, strange things when she mentioned my name. It wasn't a unique thing. She tagged a lot of people in her posts. It was a good social media practice, and was usually a coordinated effort between accounts. This hadn't been coordinated, and it was bullshit that she was trying to tie us together in this playful way as if we were friends.
I considered commenting but didn’t. Instead, I sent her a private message, the first between us.
Cash: No worries. I won’t touch anything that has to do with you.
I sent it, aware that it would go in her message requests folder, which was a garbage truck worth of crap for people like us. She would never see it, and it would get buried under a thousand other messages by morning, but it didn’t matter. I felt some resolution at sending the message. I had drawn a firm line between us, even if I was the only one who knew it.
My phone hummed, and I looked at it, surprised.
Emma: Promise?
After the word was a praying hand emoji. I rolled my eyes.
Cash: Don’t give me that. You’d be all over me if I wanted you to.
Emma: Nah. Silver spoon pricks bore me.
I stared at the response, then typed and deleted a few different lines. I considered a weak ‘Whatever’ response but bailed out of that one, and now I had thirty seconds of dots on the screen and nothing to say and dammit, I should be better at this. I’d been called a rich prick my entire life. I should have a mountain of comebacks at the ready.
Cash: Just stay out of my way on this show. I don’t want you getting any ideas.
It was a little cruel, my insinuation that she would read truth into our fake relationship, but I was losing the upper hand in this volley, and I needed to exit this conversation on top.
Emma: no worries there. Glad we’re on the same page, and that my body and donuts are safe from groping. <lol face>
I stared at it, again off-put and unsure of how to respond. A laughing-out-loud face? Was she just going to pretend like everything was fine between us?
I locked my phone and the time displayed on the home screen, right above the photo of me and Wesley. I stared at the image, then went into my settings and changed it to a different picture, this one a skyline shot of Malibu at sunset. That would be just what I needed, a zoomed-in camera angle of my phone, followed by a director's cut to a confessional video of someone—probably Emma—waxing on about how I hid my brother in a facility because I was ashamed of him.
I flipped onto my back and closed my eyes, fighting to block out the potential backlash of this show and its exposure. More questions about Wesley. More attention on the Ranch. Paparazzis perched on the hills, long-range lens pointed at the park where he liked to sit in the morning. Bribed employees who would secretly photograph him at his worst moments. Intentional negative stimuli, designed to trigger a panic or anger attack, all in full range of their camera.
He was my responsibility, and if anything happened to him, I'd be to blame.
36
#smileforthecameras
CASH
There was an unspoken line drawn down the center of the house. The gym, media room, and south bedrooms belonged to the guys. The sunroom, upper deck, and north bedrooms belong to the girls. The kitchen and living room were common space which I planned to avoid whenever possible.
They came in like a virus, three girls clad in designer clothes and carrying their own pillows, blankets, and bags. They stepped in and stared blankly at us, then let their gaze drift over the massive open space.
“Nice…” Marissa drawled. “Except for all of the leather.” She glared at the couch I sat on as if the cow’s corpse was still attached.
I stood and extended my hand. “I’m Cash.”
“Oh, I don’t touch.” She smiled thinly and held up her palms in surrender. “But it’s nice to meet you.” From behind her, a camera guy jockeyed into position. I flashed the smile that had won me the Jockey contract and wondered how much a pain in the ass this girl was going to be.
“You don’t TOUCH?” From behind me, Layton approached from the kitchen, a giant energy drink can in hand, the label pointed toward the camera. “What the hell does that mean?”
"Language!" A producer called from the edge of the foyer, and this was ridiculous. Sixteen hours of this a day? I settled back on the couch and angled my face away from the camera, hoping it wouldn't see my grimace. Too late, I saw the second camera, in position and zoomed in for a close-up.
“Limiting non-essential human contact reduces the risk of disease and germ spread by over 400%,” Marissa said tightly, then beamed. “If you insist on touching, I’d suggest you use a liberal amount of hand sanitizer. I recommend the Aloe collection by Clean Design.”
"Oh, do you?" Layton mocked. "The Aloe collection by Clean Design?" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice that was a spot-on impression of Marissa. "Got the website handy? You might want to face the camera when you share it, so they can be sure to hear you clearly."
“Do NOT acknowledge the cameras,” the producer shrilled. “And Marissa, no specific product or brand names.”
Marissa turned away from Layton and faced the producer. “But he’s allowed to wave this Eiffel tower sized energy drink in my face the entire time?”
“I’m THIRSTY.” Layton took a long and exaggerated sip from the can, then smacked his lips together. “Damn, that’s good. Cash, you want me to grab you one?”
"My Bang contract says no conflicting energy drinks," Eileen spoke up from her spot by the door. "That can't be in any shots that I'm in."