His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia (14 page)

S
andy’s right
about how long it takes to get me looking like a reality star as opposed to a sensible doctor working in an understaffed hospital. By the time they’re done, Frannie and Carlos declare themselves true geniuses when they turn me around to face the vanity mirror over the dresser in my room.

But I can only shake my head at the woman in the mirror. Nitra Mello stares back at me now, a black-and-honey blonde lace-front wig cascading in waves over my shoulders where my kinky twist out used to be. The doctor who can barely bother with lip gloss has been replaced by a heavily contoured goddess with the lushest fake eyelashes money can buy. In place of her scrubs, there’s now a bright yellow floor-length Versace evening gown with a plunging neckline that gives way just as the skirt of the gown does.

This is who I really am. Who I still am as far as most of the world is concerned. Seriously, at this point I’ve been playing the part of Nitra Mello for longer than I ever played the part of Anitra Dunhill.

Usually it takes no more than this mirror transformation to turn me into her again. Just looking at myself dressed up like Nitra Mello makes cruel and cutting words magically appear in my head.

But today my mind stutters, and it feels like I’m staring at a complete stranger as I mumble a quiet, “Thank you,” as opposed to a more Nitra-appropriate, “Yeah, I guess you bitches didn’t fuck up your job this time. Congrats.”

“You’re welcome,” Fran answers carefully for the both of them, probably wondering what the hell is going on. Nitra Mello hasn’t so much as said please a day in her life, much less thank you to anyone providing her with a service.

I can feel their eyes on me as I leave my suite and head back downstairs in stilettos to find Woods. Only to be waylaid by Sandy in the hallway.

“Great, you’re out of hair and make-up. Let’s talk about you making your boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he is to you, get on board with this new scenario. Every time I try to run anything past him, he says he doesn’t have any answers for me until he’s talked to you. And I’ve got producers on stand-by with Terrell’s people to figure out how we’re going to play this.”

“Where is he?” I ask, wanting to pinch the bridge of my nose but restraining myself because the last thing I need is to go through another hour of contouring with Fran and Carlos.

Sandy sullenly points a blood red stiletto nail downstairs and I rush in, ignoring the call of “T-minus ninety minutes to show time!” that she lobs after me like an army general sending her soldier to war.

* * *

E
xplain this
! Fix this!
That’s all I’m thinking as I walk into our large receiving room to finally talk with Woods. However I stop short when I see him standing at the piano, near the wall of floor-to-ceiling picture windows.

My parents paid quite a few million for the spectacular view of the Sunset Strip that the receiving room’s wall of picture windows overlooks. But in that moment, I can easily say Woods is way more gorgeous than the multi-million-dollar view.

Apparently he did agree to one thing Sandy asked. He’s now wearing an on-trend tuxedo with the collar open for that extra bit of music award show cool. His formerly half-shaved head has been evened out on both sides for a more classic cut that hides his scar. The beard is also gone, revealing an even squarer jaw than I’d suspected beneath his hospital turned why-the-hell-not beard. The truth is, he looks like one of the stars who will be receiving awards tonight.

Better than Colin Fairgood even, I think, my mind going to the only other blond I’ve ever found remotely attractive before falling into this relationship with Woods.

But this man isn’t my John Doe. Even as I easily see why Sandy would order the beard, which wasn’t low enough to be cool or big enough to be hipster, completely removed…my heart cries out.

I don’t make a sound when I come into the room, but he turns around as if he senses me there. And my distress must be written on my face because he says, “You don’t like the new look?”

“No, it’s not that,” I assure him. “You look wonderful. So handsome...”

I trail off, because how do you explain to the man you love that you’re sad he no longer looks like the man you love? Woods didn’t just clean up. He’s drop-dead gorgeous, and sexy as hell. Plus, he now has that All-American white boy thing going for him, which puts him in deep contrast to my last “boyfriend,” a young rapper named Terrell on C-Mello’s imprint label.

Even if we’d held auditions, we couldn’t have cast him any better. This Woods now looks exactly like someone Nitra Mello would deign to date. This Woods looks like he belongs in the receiving room of a Hollywood mansion. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would have assumed he, and not my father, owned this place. And though it’s no fault of his that I dragged him into my world, the full erasure of the John Doe I fell in love with makes me kind of sad.

“Hi,” I say. I feel like a stranger, introducing herself to someone who’s never met her before, but who knows every single thing about her. In other words, I introduce myself to him the way I introduce myself to just about everyone who’s ever seen my show.

“Hi,” he answers back, looking down at me with squinted eyes. Like I really am a stranger now.

An awkward second ticks between us.

“Is this why you fought being with me so hard?” he asks, raising both tuxedoed arms to indicate the opulent bedroom with its spectacular view of the Sunset Strip below a darkening sky. “Because you’re rich and I ain’t? You thought I was after your money?”

Somewhere in the distance, I can hear Sandy cursing because he’s saying the perfect lines in one of the show’s favorite filming sites, but he hasn’t signed a release yet.

I lower my voice to tell him, “No! I didn’t think you were after my money! I technically don’t have any money. Most of my royalties and residual checks go toward paying back my student loans, and my mom and dad’s financial advisors locked all but fifteen percent of the money I earned before I turned eighteen into a trust I won’t have access to until this July. So no, that’s not why I was hesitant to get involved with you. And it’s definitely not why I waited to tell you.”

He shakes his head as if my denial has only confused him more. “Then why?”

“Because I didn’t want you to know this part of me,” I answer, too on edge to be anything but brutally frank. “I liked the way you saw me when we met. The way you called me Doc, as if my profession defined me more than this stupid reality show did…does. I didn’t want you to look at me like most other people look at me. Thinking they know me, even though none of this is real.”

Damn pregnancy hormones. I’ve played a hard bitch on TV for more than half my life, but I once again find myself overcome with real life emotion. I hold my head back so the tears won’t fall. Won’t ruin the hair and make-up that makes me Nitra Mello, and therefore unable to authentically feel anything without warning Fran first.

But eventually I pull myself together. Enough to let him know, “I mean, I did make that chicken joke that went viral. But three different producers rewrote it to make sure it was as funny as it could possibly be, and we did four takes to make sure I dropped the mic on my plate exactly right…”

I break off when I see the look on his face. “And I’m confusing you again. I’m sorry. But this is who I have to be when I’m here. I’ve got to talk back to my dad. I have to pretend I actually give two shits about my closeted, gay ex-boyfriend’s new beard. And I’ve got to go with Dad to the VMH music awards tonight. Because here’s a funny story: Dad’s actually been nominated this year for a song he did with your favorite country singer, Colin Fairgood. But you need to understand, it’s not really me. None of this is me. And that’s why I didn’t tell you. Because I didn’t want you to believe I was like this, and I definitely didn’t want you to get roped into any of this craziness.”

I let out a sad breath, the dream of him never having to know about my past long gone.

“But don’t worry,” I tell him, circling a hand around his new sexy tux look. “I’ll tell Sandy you’re not signing any of her releases. Then I’ll go do my duty tonight. I’ve got one more segment where I shop with Dad for their big thirtieth anniversary wedding renewal ceremony tomorrow, and then…”

I grab him by both hands to promise this next thing, “And then we’re going to leave for Seattle and pretend none of this
ever happened
. It’s just one more episode and then my contract on this show is done, okay? It has nothing to do with us, or the life we’re going to live together.”

But he shakes his head. “That ain’t going to work.”

Oh God. My heart clogs my throat. Yes, I realize I’m the one in the wrong. The one who purposefully kept things from him, the one who remained stingy with her love until he forced the truth out of me, the one who didn’t take the time to prepare him properly for a life as the husband of one of the most notorious bitches on reality TV.

But now I finally get what it feels like to have your behavior backfire on you. Every single time I’ve ever misbehaved, the show’s gotten higher ratings, but now the only man I’ve ever loved—for real love, not pretend love—is heading for the door. Walking out of my life for good.

Or at least I think that’s what’s going on, until he stops at the grand piano that sits between where I’m standing and the entryway.

“Now that I know this ex-boyfriend of yours Sandy wants me to make jealous is gay, I’m going for sure, Doc.”

He leans over the piano, which I can now see has one of our show’s standard guest star contracts.

He carefully signs it with the fountain pen Sandy left behind. Then he walks back over to where I’m standing and says, “I guess I really am part of your family now.”

And all I can do is press my knuckles to my lips and laugh when he holds up the last page of the contract for me to see. The signature reads, WOODS MELLO.

He chuckles, too, but then he sobers to say, “I’m your husband now, Doc. Where you go, I go. Even when you’re pretending to be somebody you obviously ain’t.”

I have never in my life loved anyone as much as I do Woods in that moment. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him with more passion than bitchy Nitra Mello is ever supposed to show. I can’t help myself. He’s my husband and he’s accepted my whole package. Bitchy reality show diva and all. I know then that I’ll never be able to wrap my head around how I got so lucky to find a man like him. A man who now knows me like no one else in all of America ever has or ever will.

T
he Dolby Theater
, formerly the Kodak, is one of the best known event venues in the world thanks to hosting the Oscars, the VMH “Vemmies” Award Show, and the season finale competitions for a few popular reality shows. So it’s no surprise that some of the biggest music, movie, and TV stars in the world are already on the red carpet when the limo drops the three of us off.

However as my family, which now includes rapper C-Mello, Woods, and a grandchild I’m not telling anyone about yet, starts making their way across the red carpet, paparazzi and talent wranglers from several news outlets start yelling out to us.

There are bigger stars, I suppose, but none of them got promise married in Vegas yesterday.

“Oh, this right here’s about to get nuts,” my dad all but promises us as we wave at the fans.

Per Sandy’s instructions, we don’t stop for anyone, just keep walking until we get to the four-panel step and repeat emblazoned with VMH’s logo.

Not surprisingly, we find Lane Anderson, the same guy who hosts all of our season reunion specials, waiting for us with a mic.

“Nitra Mello!” Lane squeals, as if I’ve taken him totally by surprise. Even as my father keeps going—as instructed earlier—to the next panel to join Colin Fairgood for an interview with another VMH on-air personality.

“
You got married
??? What are you doing? What are you doing, babe?”

“I don’t know,” I answer with a laugh. “I guess I’m in love. You know, it ain’t just thugs. Bitches need love, too.”

Lane laughs. “So it’s true, you actually got married in Las Vegas?!?!”

Shocking, I know, since my father and mother were, until now, the only couple on
Rap Star Wives
who are actually formally married.

“True, true, it’s all true,” I answer. “I mean, Vegas! How else you going to do?”

“Well, I know this is certainly a shock to all of us here at VMH. I wonder how Terrell’s handling the news.”

I roll my eyes and suck my teeth, the very picture of an unrepentant woman in Versace. “You know, I ain’t even thinking about that little boy and his…”

I trail off, unable to say all the phrases that used to fall out of Nitra’s mouth when it came to talking about Grenada, the other
RSW College Mic Drop
castmate who supposedly “stole” my boyfriend and upset me so bad, I left the coast. My usual go-to words are hussy, side-piece, ghetto ho—even though she, like me, had been privately tutored around shooting hours, and neither of us would ever really use words like that outside the show in our real-life interactions.

Tonight, standing next to Woods with his hand wrapped around mine, reminding me who I really am…well, I just can’t.

“You know what? I’m here with Woods, and that’s all that matters to me,” I say to Lane. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we should go find our seats before the show starts.”

“Okay…” Lane says agreeably enough. But he looks over my shoulder at the red carpet talent wrangler, while flashing two fingers at me below the camera’s field of vision. I’m supposed to do a full two minutes with Lane, and he’s got to be pissed that I’m trying to leave before he’s had the chance to properly turn the microphone on Woods.

In fact, the talent wrangler he signaled is already texting, so I’m more than certain I’ll be hearing from Sandy about this.

But like a true pro, Lane maintains his bright smile as he switches the direction of his mic toward Woods. “And Woods, how does it feel to be married to the Mic Drop Princess? Any concerns Terrell might try to steal her back tonight?”

“It feels like I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he answers with a lazy smile. “And the answer to your second question is no.”

As it turns out, Woods is a lot better at the reality show game than I would have thought. His utter confidence plays well into the conceit of my ongoing drama with Terrell without him actually having to play along with it.

“Good job staying true to yourself,” I murmur as we walk away from Lane after our mandatory two minutes.

As we move past all the step and repeats, I glance back at Colin and Dad who are still talking with the female half of VMH’s red carpet team. Only to mind stutter a little bit when I find Colin looking straight at me.

Strange, he seems more interested in our departure than his on-carpet interview. Old habit makes me seek out his songwriter wife, Kyra Fairgood, standing dutifully on the other side of the carpet, a good six or seven months pregnant if her baby bump is any indication. She’s not famous enough and probably not interested enough to stand with him in the spotlight, and like most of the non-famous celebrity spouses, she’s texting while she waits for her famous half to be done with all this red carpet nonsense. She either doesn’t notice or care that Colin’s looking hard at another woman right now.

“Nitra!!!!”

The squeal of my “best friend” Dyana—at least on TV—cuts into my confused observation of Colin Fairgood and his wife. She comes running up, checking to make sure at least a few of the standing red carpet cameras see us, before stopping right in front of me for as affectionate a hug as two women who are trying to avoid all face contact can give.

“Did you see what that bitch is wearing?” she asks, taking me by the arm. “The same dress as you! You know she did it on purpose!”

I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Instead I hold on to Wood’s hand as tightly as I can. Letting him anchor me in the real on one side, while Dyana drags me into fake drama on the other.

Unlike the Mellos, Dyana’s family was kicked off the show years ago. So now she rarely gets any camera time unless we’re at the same event. It’s never bothered me before, but holding Woods’ hand while listening to her throw outsized shade at Grenada…it makes me queasy with shame.

And of course Grenada and Terrell are seated right next to us when we’re directed to our seats.

“It’s not real,” I promise Woods, right before I do what I have to do.

“I know,” he whispers back.

He squeezes my hand before letting it go, so I can charge up to Grenada and demand, “Are you serious with this shit?”

For once, I don’t call her a bitch, but we both do a good job of getting up in each other’s face as we argue about which one of us actually chose the dresses our stylists picked out in real life along with the show’s costume designer.

So good, I can practically feel Woods’ twinkling blue eyes on me as he watches his formerly overly constrained doctor act a straight fool in public.

With perfect timing, he and Terrell pull us away from each other, and after checking that the million cameras that panned over to shoot the almost-fight got their footage, we all sit down. Each couple—both the fake and the real one—on either side of Dyana.

“That’s it for our part of the night,” I whisper to Woods with a mean smile on my lips, so it looks like I’m talking about Grenada as opposed to expressing my relief at not having to ever talk to her again. “Now they just need some reaction shots from us after Dad and Colin perform and have their awards announced. Then we’re out of here.”

“Good,” he answers with a sincere smile. “I’m missing my wife. My
real
wife.”

Thank God the duet award is scheduled early, as is Dad and Colin’s performance. I’m exhausted and can’t imagine making it through another hour, much less the entire three-hour ceremony.

But Colin and Dad are the first to perform, and they kill it onstage. The fact that a country singer would enlist C-Mello for his album speaks volumes to the iconic status Dad has managed to achieve in all parts of the music world. But the tall and lanky blond singer matches Dad swagger for swagger, strutting across the stage with the neck of his fiddle in one hand and performing hype man duties as my dad spits out his verse.

I come to my feet, goosebumps rising on my arms, when they take on the last chorus together, their well-known voices caterwauling and crooning in perfect harmony until auto-tune takes over the last note, echoing their voices out across the crowd as the song finishes.

Fatigue forgotten, I clap and wolf-whistle along with the rest of the
Rap Star Wives
cast as Colin and Dad wave and touch hands with the cheering crowd of concert goers below their feet.

Dad looks so happy on stage, being adored by fans. And even though I don’t want anything else to do with this circus my family calls a life, I hope he gets what he wants. That the drama I provided is enough to get the contract renewal he’s hoping for.

As if sensing my good wishes, he finds me in the seats and points to me. I blow back kisses I know he can’t see, but will treasure later on camera.

Yeah, we’re a very strange and crazy family, I think after sinking back into my seat. But there’s one thing
Rap Stars Wives
got right about us from the beginning: we truly love each other and I could not be more proud of my dad.

“That wasn’t half bad, Doc.” Woods murmurs in my ear before kissing my temple.

Flashes go off, and I can tell the photogs are eating this up, along with the two close-up cameras that panned across the audience to get our reaction shots to Dad and Colin’s performance. Sandy will definitely be pulling this footage from the network’s camera feed. And if the show plays their contacts right, the pic of Woods kissing me in his patented way will appear between the covers of at least a few gossip rags on Tuesday. I can almost see the headline now, “Secretly Married to a Mysterious Hottie!”

And though I thought I’d become used to being watched in this way, my muscles tense under all the camera attention. I love the way Woods treasures me, but I hate sharing the real us so openly. A feeling of wanting to get out of here and on the road to Seattle overtakes me. And my heart aches with the wish that we could hide together. Somewhere where no photogs or backwoods motorcycle gangs or reality show producers will ever look for us.

So it comes as a huge relief when I’m back on my feet ten minutes later. This time jumping up and down as I cheer Dad and Colin’s Best Duet win.

As soon as they walk off stage with their golden microphones, I tell Woods, “I’m tired. Mind if we go home?”

This much is true. I’m barely standing in my heels at this point, but thanks to all my TV training, I know to keep the smile on my face to prevent the possibility of a picture being taken that could be used for an “On the Edge of a Nervous Breakdown?” story.

“Not at all, Doc.” He doesn’t have any camera training, so he looks down at me with sincere worry which I’m pretty sure will be construed by at least one blog as “Trouble in Paradise?”

No longer caring about my makeup, I grab ahold of his Prada and close the distance between our mouths to give him a kiss.

“I’m sorry for dragging you into all this craziness,” I whisper as I wipe off all the purple I left behind on his lips with my thumb.

But before he can answer, my special phone rings directly to the smart watch I’m wearing as part of a branding agreement with the show.

It’s Sandy.

“
Showtime
,”
her message says.
“Colin Fairgood wants you and your man to come up to his suite for celebration drinks.”

I sigh, not really wanting to go, but I did promise Woods I’d introduce him to Colin. And it is my last show…

“Okay,” I say, rallying. “First we need to go up to the hotel and then you need to take me home and put me underneath you. Is that okay?”

He frowns. “There’s a whole theater
and
a hotel in this mall?”

I can only grin at his befuddlement and say for the second time that day, “Welcome to L.A.”