Reality Jane (24 page)

“Thanks, guys! You’re awesome,” I toasted back, remembering to check “dream dude” off my list too.

“My night is complete,” I said to Grant as he made his way toward my perch on the balcony. The tea lights radiated a fuzzy yellow glow against the white wooden panels separating us from miles of sandy beach. “Did you just get here?”

“Yeah. Long shoot day. Just pulled up a few seconds ago.” He kissed me on the cheek. “What’s all the toasting about?”

“Oh, you know,” I said flirtatiously, admiring the fact that without a second of thought put into his wardrobe, Grant looked gorgeous in jeans, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that pulled just so across his sculpted chest. “I missed you,” I said, leaning into him. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he said, a funny furrow in his brow, “but your roommate is a little. . .” He made the cuckoo sign beside his head.

“What do you mean?”

“Well. . . she’s a little wasted.”

“What else is new?” I laughed.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t say so,” Grant said carefully, chuckling to himself.

“What?” I said.

“It’s not a big deal—”

“
What?
” I said, now curious.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “She grabbed my ass.”

“What a spaz!” I laughed it off.

Grant did one of those awkward half-smiles that spoke volumes.

“
What
?” I pushed. “What else did she do?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Grant!”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Tell me.”

“She, uh, sort of, uh, kissed my neck.”

My jaw dropped.

“You know, she kind of pasted her body to me,” he said half-laughing. “I had to peel her off.” Another chuckle. “Then Donut asked me which one of you I’m ’doing.’ ”

I nearly choked on my 40-proof slushy. “Donut?”

“My camera assist from France.”

“I know who he is. I just can’t believe he’d say that,” I said.

“Ah,” Grant said, “Donut probably didn’t mean it, and I’m sure Toni’s macking on all the guys. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

The kitchen was jammed. I found Toni contorting herself like a second skin, smothering Grant’s audio guy from France. Her gangly arms were looped around his neck, practically strangling him, and she was whispering into his ear as her drink inadvertently trickled down his back.

“Jane!” she bellowed when she saw me enter the kitchen, then quickly became side-tracked by a fresh jug of margaritas.

Meanwhile, I was boxed into a conversation with an editor, asking me why I’d quit the wedding show and wanting leads so he could get himself on
Fix Your Life
. When I peeked over my shoulder, I noticed Grant sandwiched between Toni and a
group of guys doing tequila shooters.

“Grant, honey,” Toni slurred, “I heard you’ve got an
in
on an adventure show.”

She hiccupped and slipped her hand across his chest, giggling, unaware of my gaze. Grant smiled nervously.

“So, can you get me on the show? I’d give Jane a run for her money.
Tee hee
.” Toni drooled into Grant’s ear. “I’ll make it worth your while.” She winked.

“Excuse me?” I said, making my presence known.

“Hey, sweetie.” Toni leaned over to give me a kiss. “We were just talking about you.”

Grant did the “uncomfortable guy” shrug that said “
I
didn’t do it!”

“Toni, what’s up?” I attempted to remain calm. “This is not cool—”

Toni interrupted, each word smeared clumsily against the next. “Grant, isn’t Jane the best? You know, she’s the greatest producer, like the greatest. We’re exactly alike. Same school of producing, I swear. Right, Janey?” Toni wrapped her bare arm around my shoulder and kissed me sloppily on the cheek as her halter-top gaped, revealing her fleshy breasts.

“That’s enough, Toni,” I said, clenching my teeth.

“And Grant, Jane is so in love with you. Which means a lot because she’s had a few men. Know what I mean? In fact, a lot of men—”

“Okay!” I interrupted, “Toni, I can’t believe you.”

I wanted to kill Toni. I’m “in love”? I never use the L-word first.

“Jane and I are roomies,” Toni gurgled. “We’re a team now.” Toni pulled Grant and me in tightly and began a doggy-style hump between us. “Can’t have one without the other. Right, sweetie?”

By now, half the kitchen was watching. I’d never seen Toni so base.

“Okay, stop!” I yanked myself away from her and pushed through the crowd.

Grant found me stewing outside on the sidewalk with a Big Gulp-sized lime margarita in hand.

“Why didn’t you just take the whole pitcher?” he joked.

“I did,” I sighed. “Does the
entire
party think I do threesomes?”

Grant laughed. “Just the pervs,” he said, caressing my back. “Jane, it’s not that bad. Obviously, she’s drunk.”

“I thought she was. . . one of my best friends.”

“Maybe she’s jealous or just insecure. Talk to her in the morning when she’s sober. You’ll work it out.”

His eyes had a way of softening me, of melting my shell, as if he always could and would protect me. Even Toni’s ridiculousness didn’t affect him. He had not the smallest speck of suspicion about his little Janey. This guy really liked me. Everything would be okay.

Grant was still asleep. There were melted candles, a condom wrapper, and two wine glasses sitting on my nightstand. The sun beamed a harsh white light through cracks in the blinds. The sound of crowds on the beach suddenly came alive—they hadn’t been audible a minute ago, when my eyes were closed. I crawled out of bed, fumbled for my baby-blue terrycloth housecoat, and ran to the beckoning phone.

As I reached for “hello,” the blood drained abruptly from my crown. Sparkly white flashes spun like tinsel around my periphery—the dreaded hangover head-rush. I stumbled to catch my balance, propping myself against the table in an attempt to compose myself for whoever was at the other end, and silently promised myself I’d get on the wagon. . . immediately afterward.

“Hey, is this Jane?”

“Yeah, who’s this?” I didn’t recognize the voice.

“Alex. Forget me already?”

“Oh my God. Alex,” I whispered his name so Grant wouldn’t hear. We hadn’t actually talked voice-to-voice since France. “Of course not. Nice to hear from you! How are you?”

I tried to sound enthusiastic while I buckled onto the hardwood floor, kneeling, my arms wrapped around my stomach, waiting for the pain to go away, and wondering why
I’d answered the phone in the first place.

“Were you still sleeping? I thought you’d have gone for a swim to the pier and back by now, little Miss Sporty Spice.”

“Yeah, right. It was a late night. We had a bit of a celebration. You’ll never guess why.”

“You’re on
Fix Your Life
?”

“Yup. Their new field producer. I’m the only one. That’s it. It’s big.”

“Congratulations! Meg told me she had hundreds of resumés.”

“Thank you so much for the hook-up.”

“Of course. Hey, we’ve got to celebrate,” Alex said. “What are you doing tonight, now that I’m finally back in town?”

My mind spiraled as I conjured up a million excuses.
I’ve got to tell Alex about Grant! Like now!

“Um, maybe later in the week?” I said sheepishly, avoiding the inevitable.

“Don’t make me wait,” Alex whined. “It’s been long enough.”

“Well, I start Tuesday.”

“Let’s meet Tuesday night then. I’ll take you for a celebratory dinner.”

“Um, oh, okay. That’ll be fun,” I said, but not entirely sure it would be fun at all.

“Done.”

“One thing,” I said, the guilt burbling up. “I have something to tell you—”

A belt clanged from the bedroom.

“What’s up?” Alex said cheerfully.

“Never mind. It can wait,” I said. “See you Tuesday. Text me where to meet and when.”

A shirtless Grant stepped out in his jeans, looking positively sexy with his angled pecs, bed-head, and squinty eyes. He looked at me sideways.

My heart knocked against my chest. I worried he’d heard me. I felt putrid. I wanted to tell him about Alex and what had happened between us in France, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It felt wrong: too late, too soon, too something. Instead, my plan was to see Alex face-to-face, come clean with him, explain that Grant and I were together, then ask if we could “just
be friends.” No one need be the wiser.

Grant was silent. “I overheard you.”

“What?” My heart thumped.

“You start Tuesday?” Grant looked surprised. “On
Fix Your Life
?”

“Huh?” I was relieved it wasn’t about Alex. “Oh, yes, isn’t it great?”

“I don’t know.” Grant’s face turned somber.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t think you should do it.”

“Are you joking?” I said, amazed. I’d been raving about the show for only the last three months.

“Just yesterday I shot a promo for the debut.”

“And?” I could hardly take the suspense.

“The guy is a snake.”

“What?” I was perplexed.

“Seriously. I wouldn’t touch that guy or his show with a ten-foot pole. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“This is totally out of left field! What’s going on?” I heard myself getting snappy, the hangover kicking in.

“Jane, Rick Dean is a total phony.”

“How would you know?” I was still crouching on the floor.

“We were in the middle of the shoot, he was doing his spiel, and the batteries went down on his microphone. My sound guy asked to change them. Standard issue. All of a sudden, Rick Dean loses it. On us! Totally went off. ‘I don’t work around TV! TV works around me! Get it right or you’re through!’ I was like, ‘What? You joking? We’re changing batteries here!’ Then he threatened to have us fired. Complete asshole. Then my camera assist sat at his table for lunch and Rick Dean got up and left. He left his plate there and everything—had his assistant bring it to him in a private booth. God forbid he sit with the great unwashed.”

“He was probably having a bad day. Who knows what he’s going through right now?” I said, feeling protective, not just of Ricky Dean, but of my dream. “You know, Mr. Dean’s dedicated his life to helping people.”

“Oh, yeah? At the end of the day, he shook hands with the
senior producers and said to us: ‘You guys are lucky to have a job.’ This just before he sped away in his red Ferrari. Like he owns us. We’re freelance. What a jerk!”

“Well, it’s not easy being a host,” I said snottily.

“Jane, I’ve filmed Tom Hanks, Steven Spielberg, Mel Gibson—some of Hollywood’s biggest stars and directors—for movie promos, and I’ve never seen anyone as rude as him. Unless you can prop him up or make him money, he’s not interested.” Grant was visibly upset. “He’s a megalomaniac! And it will only get worse.”

“Why did you wait until now to tell me—to burst my bubble?”

“Because I just met him and I didn’t see you until last night, which was a bit of a shit show, in case you didn’t notice. Your roommate’s passed out with some random dude. Anyway, I didn’t even know you’d been offered the job—or that you’d accepted!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. You knew how badly I wanted this!” I sat totally stunned—my dream boy disapproving of my dream job. “Well, I’m not going to base a major career move on something so trivial, a one-off incident.”

“I’m just telling you, I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t
care
. You had one day with him. You guys should have had your gear prepped properly. Batteries, Grant? That’s pretty bad.”

“Give me a break, Jane!”

“You know what this is?” I said, my eyes squinting, suddenly struck with an unexplainable thirst for vengeance. “You’re jealous. You’re afraid of getting upstaged!”

“Excuse me?” he said, taken aback. “Jane, we’re not in competition.”

“Oh yeah?” I huffed.

“I just want you to know the truth, especially if you’re signing one of those two-year deals. Those studio contracts are impossible to get out of.”

I sat quietly, my lips pursed.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” Grant continued.

“You know, Grant,
Fix Your Life
is big league stuff. His radio
ratings are unheard of. Half of America tunes into him every single day. It
is
a two-year deal! It gives me a whole lot more security than I’ve ever had. And it will not just put me on the map, but let me climb higher. Don’t wreck this for me before I even start!”

He waited, staring at me, looking hurt. “Listen, Jane, I care about you,” he said sweetly and soothingly, wiping away any hint of smugness. “I’m just telling you what I saw. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” I snapped, not knowing what had come over me. “He’s brilliant and this is going to be a great show!”

“So take the job!” he snapped. “I’m happy for you! Jesus!”

“I will!” I said sternly. “It’s my life!”

Grant waited again, unsure of his next move, then whispered coldly, “Maybe I should go.”

“What?” I hadn’t heard him.

“I think I’ll go.”

“There’s the door.” I pointed.

Grant looked stunned. I didn’t know what else to say. I felt a “sorry” bubbling up from my throat, but I couldn’t bring myself to voice it. It was easier to tell him to leave.