I dragged the fruit-filled bedsheet up the stairs, hoping not to break any of the melons. After I reached the landing, I tugged the twenty pounds of fruit down the hallway and into my room.

After removing them and placing them along the top of my dresser, I sat on the edge of the bed and sent Franky a text.

Sad day at the house. Eric’s going ‘to the airport’.

He’d been at the house for roughly a week, and I wondered what he was going to do with the rest of his time after the departing scene was shot. I really didn’t like having him around, because he was boring as fuck. Hopefully, he’d spend his remaining time with Ballerina legs, or at the beach.

My phone beeped.

I looked at the text.

Sad day indeed. What’s next?

I typed my response.

I have no idea. I’m so over this show. I want to spend time with you, not them.

His reply was immediate.

Can’t wait to see this one when it airs.

I think you’ll enjoy it, I replied.

I looked at his response and grinned.

Busy AF. See you when you get here.

I tossed my phone aside, pulled my chair to the wall, and opened the window. Staring into the starry sky, I thought of my childhood on the farm. Having brothers and growing up on a ranch, pranks were commonplace. There was no doubt what I was going to do wasn’t necessary, but it would sure drive the drama on the show to a ratings peak.

I gazed across the street, toward Franky’s house. I recalled the night I stayed there, and how nice he was to me. I desperately wanted to stay there again, but under completely different circumstances.

I realized there were three men to go, and I hoped all of them had personalities similar to Eric’s, leaving me with no interest in getting to know them. Franky was the only one I was interested in, and I wanted things to stay that way.

The filthy rich boat captain was next from what Kelli said, and I hoped he was a douche, because good looks and money seemed to have a way of luring me toward them even if I tried to turn away.

I got lost in my thoughts for some time, and before I knew it, the sound of Ballerina leg’s Jaguar coming up the street jostled me from my slight slumber. I ran to the door and yanked it door open.

“Get ready,” I shouted down the hallway.

A cameraman came out of the production room and got into place.

I ran to the window, gazed into the yard, and noticed the extra cameraman at the end of the drive.

Perfect.

Her car was parked directly below me. I watched silently as she walked to the door. After a few minutes wait, she turned toward the car. The trunk popped open. Eric rolled his suitcase to the car, lifted it into the trunk, and then put his arm around her.

I went to the dresser, grabbed a cantaloupe and held it out the window. “Hey douchebag,” I yelled. “You can catch a football; can you catch this?”

He looked up. I released the melon.

It fell to his side and splatted all over the sidewalk, showering them both with melon matter.

I grabbed another. “This one’s for you, you whore.”

I tossed another, this time toward her.

She screeched and ran toward the fountain.

I scrambled to the dresser, got two more, and rushed to the window. “Bitch!” I shouted.

I tossed another melon toward her.

She pointed toward me, screamed something, and jumped to the side just before the melon hit the drive.

Splat!

Without warning, I tossed another.

It landed in front of her.

Splat!

Pieces rained onto her bare legs.

I ran to the dresser, grabbed two small watermelons, and carried them to the chair. I stuck my head out the window and gazed down at the cameramen. Ballerina legs had moved from the fountain to the porch. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her talking to Eric. Eric, in all of his idiotic glory, was standing beside her car as if he was going to protect it from any random fruit that was tossed in its direction.

I was simply trying to get my ratings up, I wouldn’t hit her car with anything. She didn’t need to know it, though.

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m fruitless. You can leave now. Douchebag.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe you did that.”

I pointed toward the porch. “I can’t believe you did that. Go home, asshole.”

As I wondered if asshole was able to be said on television, she came out from under the porch’s overhang.

I grabbed one of the melons and dropped it several feet in front of her. I cupped my hands to the side of my mouth. “Skank!”

She screeched and ran toward the courtyard.

Splat!

The watermelon shattered in a hundred pieces, splattering the sweet fruit all over her back of her dress.

I grabbed the other, and tossed it toward Eric.

He dodged left, and then right. The melon fell straight down, landing no more than two feet in front of him.

The residue showered his bare thighs.

I raised my hands to the sky. “That’s all, folks!”

And, it was.

I was done.