Page 9 of Most Eligible
From what I remember before that fiasco, the sleepaway camp didn’t come decked out with nearly as many photos of shirtless men (rather, one man) on the walls. Roland stares down at me from a few dozen glossy prints, racket in hand, cuddling puppies, reading a thick but nondescript book. You name it, he’s doing it. Shirtless. Like he’s in a goddamn deodorant commercial.
I drag my suitcase to a bottom bunk in the corner, trying to ignore the inanimate eyes staring at me. When Rhett was the lead two years ago, did the producers plaster his face all over this room? The thought makes me queasy. Though that might just be the exhaustion. I rummage through my torso-sized bathroom kit and pull out an antacid pill, but since the problem is a man and not my stomach, it doesn’t help much.
I take a deep breath and try to focus. I don’t need Tums, I need leverage.
Glancing at the cameras, I feel around in my bag until I find the white eyeliner that I told Serena would make me look like Bambi on steroids. I hardly thought I’d need it on my first night. I swipe it around my eyes, then reach deeper into the bag andpull out my burner phone, which is hiding between several maxi pads.
2D Roland watching the whole time, I rip off my body mic, shove it under the bunk bed, and scurry to the ensuite bathroom with my plethora of menstrual products.
“Shut up,” I mutter at his glossy, tulip-sniffing face.
Having one shower for fifteen women is a disaster waiting to happen. Even beyond scheduling, plumbing issues are inevitable with the amount of hair going down the drain. I glance up into the corner above the hers and hers and hers vanity and sinks: camera, check. Peeking into the small shower though, I don’t see one.
I scurry in, turn on the faucet, and strip off my dress. Then I dial Serena, carefully holding the phone out of the water spray.
She picks up on the first ring. “Georgia? What happened? Are you okay?”
Despite the panic in her voice, I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m fine, I’ve just—”
“We said you’d only call in an emergency, is this—?”
“No,” I cut in. “It’s not an emergency.” The whole situation seems almost too ridiculous to say aloud, so I hedge. “How’s Presley? Are you checking the color of his litter every two hours?” I can’t help the anxious whine that creeps into my voice. Presley may be my baby, but really, he’s an old man—delicate and prone to playing dead until he gets his favorite flavor of Fancy Feast. “And if he doesn’t take his heart pills, you have to use the anal—”
“You’re calling me about yourcat?” she interrupts. “I thought something was seriously wrong.”
“No,” I assure her. “Nothing’s wrong. I didn’t get eliminated or anything.”
“Are you nervous?” she asks. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll do great. The producers snapped you up like a kid in a candy shop. I mean, come on, we both know what you look like.”
“Well…” I try to steer the conversation in a direction that doesn’t sound like Serena’s pre-frat-party pep talks from college. “Let’s hope Roland feels the same.” Roland, whose smoldering promotional headshot is taped above the sink just a few feet away with theLove Shacklogo and the caption “Marchetti is Playing for Love.”
She’s not wrong—I do look, at least in part, like a stereotypicalLove Shackcontestant. My long honey-colored hair reaches almost to my waist, I’ve got good cheekbones, and even I’ll admit that my calves look killer in heels. Serena made me tamp down the amount of florals and paisleys in my wardrobe, made me trade out my fringed suede purse for a clutch in my intro video. It was all solid colors and loose hair and minimalist eye makeup, like I was a Barbie we wanted the producers to get excited about dressing up.
“Stay focused on Lainey, okay?” Serena says. “If there really are cover-ups, she’ll be the mastermind. This exposéhasto be new. It has to be”—she pauses dramatically—“mind-boggling. Something of this level plus the fact that you were able to fool the producers and get on the show—it’s going to save us.”
“What do you mean?”
She coughs so quietly I almost don’t hear it over the sound of the shower. “Corporate did another round of cuts a few days ago. Really gutted the budget for freelance. But don’t worry, you’ll get paid for this job.”
“And my job when it’s over?”
She pauses. “Yeah… Yeah, it’ll be fine.”
My frown gets deeper, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now.
“Listen,” I say. “I need you to do something.”
“Anything.” In the background, I hear Presley meowing, but I ignore him.
“Do you know who Rhett Auburn is?”
To my surprise, she laughs. “Of course I know who Rhett Auburn is—his season was totally my favorite. I was so devastated when he and Cassidy broke up that I called out sick. Why?”
“He’s the host this season.”
“Ohshit,” she says. “Has he—”
“I need you to find some dirt on him,” I interrupt. “Just something I can use for… leverage. If I need it—not that I need it now, but you know… down the line.”
