Kicking Reality

A video comes through that shows it’s fifteen seconds long. I’m about to watch it when the door swings open, making me jump. In her nine-inch heels and gold dripping all over her body, Farrah walks in and positions herself next to me, pulling a compact out of her purse. She dabs her nose without any effort to disguise her fake smile.

“You’re not fooling anyone by pretending you’re together. I know Wesley hasn’t been on his best behavior.”

Her catty comment doesn’t warrant a response, so I’m surprised when I open my mouth.

“You and your games. Worry about your own life instead of ours,” I point out, throwing the towel into the basket.

She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, gliding her red lipstick on then pouts her lips while admiring herself in the mirror.

“I’m the real star of this show. Everyone knows that. Let’s see if you make it to the next season,” she threatens.

“If by star you mean whore . . . yes. Title is all yours, Farrah.”

I move past her, closing the door behind me and stopping just down the hall. I mute the sound on my cell, clicking play on the video. Fifteen seconds of Logan pulling his cock until he explodes all over his palm.

Fuck.

He got me.

I quickly respond, wanting to delete any trace of our naughty afternoon.

We’re even. Well played Carrington. Hopefully I’ll get to see the LIVE version when you’re in “town.”

I hit delete and hide my cell in the base of my purse hoping he doesn’t respond. If Wes knew what went on, he would be livid. Despite our arrangement, he tried every day to make a move on me. I’d just been lucky with being able to palm him off or make excuses.

Back outside, I sit down and get comfortable as dessert is served. It looks scrumptious; some flan dish with a syrup substance laying on top. As I dig my spoon into the dish, Farrah returns and acts as if nothing happened between us.

“So girls, London? Shopping, British men . . . are we in?”

Kelly smiles, not pleasing Kyle. Poppy claps her hands, excited to visit home and spend time with her family.

“Count me in.”

“I hope you meant for the shopping?” Wes asks seriously in front of everyone.

“What’s wrong with a little harmless flirting with a tall British man?” I tease, knocking his shoulder playfully.

In a decidedly odd tone he says, “My woman doesn’t harmlessly flirt with anyone.”

“Oh Wes, baby!” Poppy cries. “Stop being cheeky. She’s not an object.”

“Poppy,” Wes grits. “You know I love you but stay out of this.”

One of the cameras zooms into Wes’s face, irritating him even more.

“Wesley Rich. Get off your high horse and treat the woman with respect. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah Wesley Rich,” I say, not taking this argument serious. “I have brains too you know. It’s not all about the looks.”

Everyone laughs, all except Wesley. He sulks in his seat while we finish our conversation about London. The cameras stop rolling and Cliff is quick to interject.

“Your itineraries will be emailed across tomorrow. We’ve known about this for months but only got the all clear yesterday. A week from today—we’ll be leaving for five days.”

A few of us ask some questions but no one really says anything else. We wrap up lunch by saying goodbye to each other and making our own way home. On the drive back, Wes is unusually quiet.

“Why did you take so long in the restroom?”

“You want a number?” I question, keeping the conversation light and my nerves at bay.