CHAPTER 23
REID
Brooke got one thing right: river whores.
I’m talking about the guys and me, of course. The past two days have consisted of watching for hours as groups of girls float nearby with their tubes hooked together, clad in bikinis and frayed denim shorts with straw cowboy hats or baseball caps shielding their faces. Last night was after-hours partying and inviting a few girls (and a couple of guys—Tadd’s no more angelic than the rest of us) back to the cottages. Being on this river the past couple of days, I remember what made Brooke so fascinating.
I grew up in LA, and thanks to a multitude of factors including Dad’s career trajectory, Mom’s ancestry, and their collective net worth, I’ve run in exclusive circles my whole life. The majority of women in those circles of southern California, and their daughters, have a look. An untouchable beauty, a not-quite-real quality, everything pampered and flawless. My mother has this look, as do her friends. The socialites, the actresses, the wannabes, they all have it.
When I met Brooke, she was fifteen and new to California. She’d been discovered in Texas—in Austin, in fact, and she was so raw and fresh and different, she took my breath away. She was beautiful, but natural. Her hair wasn’t highlighted, and she wore no makeup off set. She had tan lines from laying out at the community pool and muscles from playing soccer since she was five. Since she’d grown up in a relatively large city, her accent was mild, but definitely there.
She’d confessed that her manager was sending her to speech classes to lose her “horrible drawl.” I remember telling her that was the most idiotic thing I’d ever heard, but when I begged her not to go, she’d laughed and said, “You don’t want me to sound like some brainless hick, do you?” That was just the first thing LA changed about her. Now she’s as perfect and soulless as the others there. Not that I can talk.
The girls here all have her former accent, in various concentrations. In some, every other word is y’all. Others just soften syllables and liaise words. All of them tend to drop any g at the end of any word.
A few of them figured out who we are. Not difficult when we’re all together like this, which is what had Bob freaked out. When I’m outside LA by myself or with John, I sometimes get away with saying, “Yeah, I get that all the time,” if someone discovers who I am. With Quinton and Tadd along, it’s nearly impossible. Hats and sunglasses help, but a few people know our identities despite the camouflage.
The last thing I need in my campaign to win Emma over all the way is photos of me with other girls popping up tomorrow on the Internet. Wherever there are cameras, or wherever cameras might be, I’m doing no more than hanging out with the guys, maybe a little drinking, a little dancing. Anyone following me into the cottage is subject to leaving all personal items with Jeff and Ricky. One girl objected, which was no big deal—Ricky just escorted her back to her friends’ campsite. Her friend, on the other hand, surrendered her bag and phone to Jeff and asked if she needed to give him her clothes, too. I told her no, she and I would take care of that ourselves.
*** *** ***
Emma
“So what, exactly, are the boys doing?” MiShaun asks over dinner Friday night.
“They went tubing.” Brooke answers.
“Pardon me?” MiShaun says, one eyebrow raised.
“A shallow, slow-moving river, inner tubes—like from tires—and a day of doing nothing but floating downstream. Add beer and girls in bikinis and it’s a guy’s wet dream. Ha, ha.”
“Sounds like a guaranteed sunburn to me,” Jenna says.
MiShaun agrees. “Richter will have their hides if they come back looking like well-done lobsters.”
“Excuse me, are you Brooke Cameron? From Life’s a Beach?” Two girls stand hesitantly by our table, apprehensive but determined.
Brooke turns, a wide smile replacing her blasé expression. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, we love you!” the second girl says while the first nods. “You’re so bitchy and awesome!” Both girls blanch. “I mean, I know Kirsten is just your character, that you aren’t really, uh—.”
“Don’t worry—I strive for bitchy and awesome.” She laughs and they relax. “Would you like to take a picture or something?” A whirlwind of activity occurs as the two fans dig their phones out of their bags.
The rest of us slide looks towards each other that say Who is this person?
While Jenna takes a photo of Brooke with one of her fans, the other girl glances around the table. “Ohmigod, MiShaun Grant! Wow, you guys are friends? That’s so cool!”
“We’re in Austin filming a movie,” Brooke says, motioning for the second girl to get into the photo Jenna is about to take.
“You are?” That’s when they recognize me. I don’t know if they think they’re being subtle, or if they don’t care. They stare and whisper behind their hands. “Wait. Hold on. Are you talking about the movie with Reid Alexander?” Both girls scan the restaurant.
“Yes,” Brooke says, a new edge to her voice. “And he’s not here.” Meredith and I exchange another look.
Their disappointment is palpable. “Can we at least get a photo with you, too?” one of them asks MiShaun, who flashes Meredith and me a smirk.
“Sure thing. Always happy to do impromptu photo ops with my adoring fans.” Her sarcastic tone is gently veiled by the words. Meredith bites the inside of her cheek and examines her silverware as I cough-laugh into my napkin. MiShaun leans towards the fans, smiling, while Jenna snaps the photos. The photo requests are repeated with me, and suddenly I can hardly wait to get back to the hotel.
“You girls have a nice evening,” Brooke dismisses the two girls and turns back to Jenna as though they’d been interrupted in the middle of a scintillating conversation.
“God,” Brooke says as they walk away, “Reid’s a pain in the ass even when he isn’t around.”