Chapter 3
Blake
I ache to grab her. It’s my first and most natural response, but I know that I can’t…
We stroll the gardens, and Candace asks me soft questions about my family and our finances, how I became a ‘billionaire bachelor.’ This is a talk I’ve had a thousand times. They were members of the royal treasury during the reign of Bloody Mary. It’s the scandal of my family, but it’s also the wellspring of our fortune. She wants to talk about the charity work. We talk about the charity work. She wants to talk about the altercation with the photographer, and I thank her for her interest and pass.
They ask for some shots of me with my shirt unbuttoned, and it’s hard to keep a straight face. It takes a few tries, and finally, Candace decides, “You know what? I like the smile better anyway. We got it.”
I watch from the sidelines as they film Candace at the introduction of the show, alone poolside and walking expertly in snakeskin stilettos and a matching snakeskin cocktail gown. It’s too much.
On the patio, the eight pseudo-contestants all congregate in egg-shaped chairs, waiting for their scene. They’re inexplicably bikini-clad.
“We’ve selected eight wonderful women from the United States–hardworking, regular women–and we’re giving them the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to slip into the elegant heels of the date… with a billionaire bachelor.”
She strolls toward their side of the pool. I haven’t spoken to any of these women yet, and I doubt that I will, with the exception of our ‘episode’ together. It’s just not that kind of show. It’s meant to be goofy and pointless.
Right now, Candace is giving a short interview to a waitress from Florida. I suppose she’ll be one of my dates.
I hear the crunch of grass behind me, and then: “I have to ask you something,” a husky female voice murmurs.
Roxanne settles alongside me, and when I look at her, I have to pause.
That’s why she looked so different when I first saw her again–all the makeup.
Her face is clean and fresh now, dark hair pulled back in a loose clasp, and she seems ten years younger; she looks just like the girl I met on that yacht, but stronger. Much stronger. Her hair is wet from a shower and smells of pear blossom. She’s not wearing the show shirt anymore. She wears cloying black leggings and a sheer black camisole. I can’t see anything, and I won’t give her the satisfaction of crawling all over her with my eyes, but I am somehow preternaturally aware that she isn’t wearing a bra. I’m sure of it.
Her captivating eyes snap to me and crinkle with intensity, derailing my train of thought. “Where does my key go?”
I can see the key now, winking up at me from her chest, as if beckoning me to take it back from her.
I open my mouth and flounder for a second, as it occurs to me that the truth sounds wildly dramatic and childish. I can’t tell her the truth. “I don’t remember, really. A post office box, I think. Padlock, maybe. Ah, yes, that was it. Remember the story?”
“A prison can become a home if only you have the key,” she repeats my words perfectly. I’m a little impressed. That moment must have meant more to her than she’s letting on.
“Yes, yes,” I say. “That’s the key to the dungeon padlock. I remember now.”
I grin, happy to push her buttons, but Roxanne’s expression sours. She continues to toy with the key. “Come down to me,” she commands suddenly, guiding me first toward one of the lamps on the property and positioning me beneath it. Then she draws my face closer to hers and strategically dabs it with some cream-colored concealer and a blush brush.
While she works on me, I study her face.
There’s something so intent about her, something dogged and relentless. She refuses to even see me as anything but a part of her job, because her job keeps her alive. Her survival instinct is so strong now, especially compared to a girl once poised to throw herself into the ocean. That night, when I collected her off the stern of that ship, she looked like she could shatter at any moment. But this phoenix is a creature from another entire species, the way a butterfly couldn’t possibly emerge from the same cocoon that a caterpillar built. Yet they do.
“You’ve changed,” I tell her. “I didn’t even recognize you at first.”
She smiles a little as she gently flicks her blush brush along my cheekbones, my chin, and my nose. “You look a little different, too,” she says.
I grin down at her, tracking her movements closely with my eyes. She’s looking away, surprising me with her bashfulness, tucking a wavy lock of black hair behind her ear.
From the other side of the pool, Candace yells, “Let’s talk about our sixth season billionaire bachelor, America! He’s Britain’s bad boy: Sir Blake Berringer!”
“Time to go,” Roxanne whispers up to me, stepping back. I ache to grab her. It’s my first and most natural response, but I know that I can’t. “Bad boy,” she adds with a smirk, settling on her hip. I cringe at the way her ass pops in those pants. I cringe at the way she calls me “bad boy.”
“Heir to seventeen billion pounds in a banking fortune!” Candace calls, and I start thinking we might be in the middle of an entirely different take now. “Heir to a fortune which dates back to Queen Elizabeth the First!”
I bolt over to her and grasp her hand warmly. We make small talk, and I’m introduced to the girls. I think this is pure cake until she turns on me. “So, when are we going to talk about the fight, Blake?” Candace asks with a conspiratorial giggle, her voice low and almost commanding. “Everybody’s dying to get your side of the story.”
“I’m not as bad as they say I am,” I tell the camera, smiling into its lens. I know how these things go. I’m not going to fight with Candace, even if that is, deep down, exactly what she wants to film. “The media is insane, and it will do anything to a celebrity, whatever gets the most ratings. Let’s talk about the things that matter in my life, Candace. For example, I spend most of my time following several different passions. I spent a few years studying fighting in the East, mastering bagua and aikido, as well as other martial art styles.”
Candace’s eyes gleam. “Oh, I’m shocked! Sir Berringer loves to fight! I’m looking right at that famous Berringer bump right now.”
My jaw sets. She’s got me there. I walked right into it.
“This season’s billionaire bachelor is in the middle of a storm of controversy after seriously wounding a photographer, insistent upon taking his picture as he exited an Essex hospital,” Candace explains to the audience, and I bristle.
“I have no instinct to defend myself from your attacks, Candace,” I inform her smilingly.
“They’re not—”
“Because it’s ridiculous that I would have to.”
“You put him in the hospital with a broken nose and a dislocated jaw!” Candace reminds me hotly.
“What gives you the right to dole out my privacy?” I snap.
“He was only nineteen!”
“He was old enough to intrude on one of the hardest moments in a man’s life.”
Candace withdraws, considering me, and then lunges again. “Do you mean your opioid withdrawal?”
I bark out a laugh and pull off my mic, flicking it to the ground at my feet. “Just because the public wants it, Candace?” I ask her, shaking my head. “You know me.”
“Do I?” she wonders, and I blink.
“Maybe not.” I turn and march back toward my house. “I’m calling cut,” I yell over my shoulder.
“You can’t do that!” Candace yells after me.
“Cut!” I call.
A few seconds of silence lapse, and then Candace echoes my command, and all the worker bees cart away the equipment and withdraw into their trailers for the night.
***
“I’m starting to have second thoughts about all this,” I confess to Miles as I unbutton my shirt and turn, allowing him to strip it from my back and fold it perfectly over his forearm. I half-smile at how every muscle on my chest pops after Roxanne’s work on them. “I didn’t think this would be about me,” I explain. And that’s true. I don’t lie to Miles. “I thought the whole point of this show was to have fun and pretend to be rich.” I move stiffly and heavily as I shirk my pants, distracted and hampered by my own rage. “We’re supposed to go to the opera, and horseback riding, and things like that! That’s all! Easy!” I kick my pants off, and Miles plucks them from the air, dutifully folding them over his forearm.
“You’re a special case,” he comforts me. “You haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened. People are inquisitive.”
“It’s no one’s business,” I grumble, stalking to the bathroom in my boxers and a light shirt. I splash my face with hot water, and Miles has already produced a damp towel for me. He knows I’m going to wash my face and shave, then brush my teeth. This has been our routine for almost twenty years, and of course I can fill a dish with shaving cream by myself, but I choose not to. I like having Miles around. Things are a little less lonely.
I drape the towel over my face for a moment and let my pores open up.
“You handled it expertly,” Miles promises me. I hear the tinkle of my toiletries being arranged on the tray, and then: “I noticed you with a dark-haired staff member several times today.” A beat of silence. “A pretty young girl,” Miles adds.
“She’s not that young,” I say, peeling the towel from my face. He dips and stirs a silver boar bristle brush into a tin of cream and offers it to me. I paint my chin and cheeks with it, and he passes me the straightedge. “We, uh, met a few years ago at a charity event before Candace got this show picked up,” I explain. My razor slides gracefully along the angles of my face as I speak.
For some reason, I feel an urge to guard the story of Roxanne from Miles, just as I wish to guard the story of Arthur from the world.
“I like her,” I add lightly. “She treats me like a regular person.”
“Well,” Miles says, beat. I wash my face and rake fingers through my hair, examining myself in the mirror. The fresh shave leaves me looking predatory and angular, like a big jungle cat. My lip quirks. I like it. Roxanne better look out. “Just be careful of her. You know women.”
“Not all of them,” I remind him with a wink, turning from the sink and striding out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. “We’re filming in France tomorrow. I’m going to see a play with some school teacher, and we get to meet the cast of the show afterward, so. That will be…nice.” I sigh, and my shoulders sag slightly as I really think about the next day.
What have I gotten myself into?
A split-second decision to sign away two months of my life for this insipid reality television show, all because I thought I recognized a staffer.
Who, it turns out, has no desire to know me. She said it herself. I’m Bachelor #6. I’m Sir Berringer. Not Blake.
I glance at the double glass doors leading out onto my balcony, and wonder if I can see her trailer from here.
“Blake…” Miles says behind my back.
I clear my throat, remembering his presence. I don’t know why I thought he left… “Yes?”
“Why are you doing this? You hate this sort of thing.” I stride to the glass doors and push them open, letting the dark night come seeping in. The chirp of crickets serenades from the shadows below. “The Blake I know would have seen Madden escorted through those gates as soon as he spotted the vans.”
I stroll out onto my balcony and survey my kingdom as Miles speaks–the hedge maze to the south, the wide, open lawn to the north. Past the hedge maze are the lake, the butterfly pavilion, and the bird sanctuary, which my mother insisted upon. Fountains. Rock gardens. It goes on and on until I can’t see it anymore. There’s a golf course somewhere out there. Stables. Everything.
But my eye gravitates instead toward the little huddle of trailers in the distance.
Roxanne’s is the size of a pebble, a small light propped on a fold-out table in front of it.
I see her, hunched, blurred by shadow, sitting alone.
“The girl,” I answer him, spreading my hands on the rough stone balcony railing. I wonder what she’s doing right now. Writing a letter home? To a boyfriend?
Miles leans beside me on the railing and shakes his head. “May I have permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Always, Miles. What are you thinking?”
“She’s just a girl.” Miles shrugs and leans back off the railing. “There are a million of them.”
“This one is different,” I assure him. “She hates me.”
Then I hear it in the wind, so soft and small: guitar strings. Then, even more faintly: a husky, sultry song.
Amazingly, my dick stirs, and I bid Miles goodnight so I can watch her unknowingly serenade me in peace.
I eventually go in, frustrated with staring at this girl in the distance, struggling to hear her song.
I’m going to have her. She just doesn’t know it yet.