He’s not going to turn something I care about into a joke.
“I’ll go first,” Rochelle said, stepping forward so she was the most visible in line. Why Grant looked so surprised she couldn’t possibly have guessed. He’d been the perfect sidekick in college. The perfect helper. He, of all people, would know how she felt about this group date. Of course she would be interested in self-defense. Of course she would be interested in helping to prevent the abuse of victims. Statistically, they both knew that at least two of the women here could already have been victims themselves. Or had he forgotten even the most basic parts of their relationship? Had she really been so blind to his insensitivity? Apparently so. He’d taken something she had been passionate about and exploited it for a living, after all.
“Rochelle, you can be my first student,” Grant said. She wanted to strangle him for looking so pleased.
Careful to arrange her expression into one of curiosity and uncertainty, she approached him slowly. “Is this going to hurt?” she asked good-naturedly. Of course it was going to hurt. It just wasn’t going to hurt her.
His smile wavered. “I would never hurt you.”
The flame of temper licked her insides. I would never hurt you. Words they both knew were not true.
She stood in front him, and they exchanged a look. His was quizzical, she decided. Why the sudden cooperation? he asked with his eyes.
Because of this, she answered with a small smile.
And she promptly kneed him in the groin as hard as she could.
Chapter Twelve
Grant groaned, carefully pulling the ice pack from the crotch of his boxers and placing it on the nightstand beside his bed. If he left it on any longer, his testicles would have been two ice cubes clinking around in his pants. Besides, the limo would be there in half an hour to pick him up and take him to the Friendship Ceremony, and though he still couldn’t move without feeling his last meal slide up his throat, he was determined to show up and exercise his right to eliminate a woman he’d never marry.
Forget Rochelle.
Forget her distracting smile and her bony knee and her accurate aim. Forget her false concern as he fell to the gym floor. Forget her innocent expression as she chattered worriedly with the other contestants while the medics fell upon him, ascertaining that his balls were, in fact, still intact. It had been her voice he’d heard over everyone else. Her voice that he couldn’t drown out even over the scurry of the camera crew trying to get ratings-worthy shots of his agony. “I thought he would protect himself,” she’d protested. “It’s the oldest trick in the book,” she’d added. “I thought for sure he would see that coming. He did say he was an expert, didn’t he?” she’d asked.
“Well, you were probably supposed to wait for his instruction,” someone had argued. Amber, maybe?
“Yeah, like, for him to count to three or something,” another had said.
“But he didn’t tell us that,” Rochelle maintained. “I thought I was supposed to be fighting for my life.” Between the hoard of people surrounding him, Grant could see her biting her bottom lip, looking horrified to the untrained eye. But none of it reconciled with the victory that had been swarming in her gaze.
“I’m sure everything will be okay.” That had been Maya in her soothing nurse’s voice. “He’ll just need a few days of rest.”
“Oh no,” said Sonia, her sophisticated Hispanic accent dripping with counterfeit sympathy. “That means the one-on-one date you won at the festival will have to be postponed, Rochelle. You really screwed yourself there.” And then she gave a small laugh, as if Rochelle were an idiot.
As if Rochelle Ransom hadn’t just achieved exactly what she’d hoped for.
So, now he had more proof that she wasn’t above humiliating him on camera. Only she’d graduated to inflicting physical pain instead of just playing incessant mind games. Was there anything she wouldn’t do to get eliminated from the show? What else should he be prepared to endure? And was it worth it?
His mind kept wandering back to their kiss at the festival—to the few seconds they’d shared where they were alone, just Grant and Chelle, kissing because that was the most natural thing in the world for the two of them. He thought of the way she’d kissed him back. The way she pressed herself into him, without letting the past poison the moment. The way she’d become Chelle again, and not some vicious beast with obvious disregard for the health of their future children together.
Was there anything he wouldn’t endure to have that Chelle back again? To have her in his arms, in his bed, in his life?
He couldn’t think of a single thing he’d let get in the way of having her, despite what he’d learned of the woman she’d become. He snorted. Maybe another kick to the balls would actually do him good. Because right now, he was still a pathetic, irrationally lovesick puppy who would probably follow her anywhere.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t protect himself from her. She was bent on making war; at the very least he needed to be on the offensive until she simmered down. With that thought in mind, he gently pulled on his slacks and slid on his button up shirt in preparation for the evening’s Friendship Ceremony.
The women were all lined up and waiting for him by the time he arrived at the mansion. Walking with slow, deliberate movements in order not to jostle his swollen testes, he made his way to his position for filming on the veranda. Nearby, the bouquet of sweet peas sat on a short stone pedestal, and it was this, rather than Grant, that the contestants seemed to focus on.
Chris Legend gave him a welcoming slap on the back, which made Grant grit his teeth.
“Still feeling tender?” Chris said.
“A bit,” Grant answered, glaring at Rochelle. She was oblivious though, chatting happily with Maya who, for her part, kept throwing concerned glances at Grant. Glances with questions in them. She wants to know if I’m okay. Why can’t I be chasing after a woman like that?
“A lesser man wouldn’t have survived. You’re a good sport to shoot the ceremony tonight. Richie said we could give you a day or two to rest.”
“Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine.”
Chris leaned in. “I hope this little, uh, incident has offered you a bit of perspective, then?”
Chris obviously didn’t approve of his new plan to win Rochelle instead of get back at her. He’d been a good friend when Rochelle had broken his heart all those years ago. He’d always made sure to get him out of the house, made sure he was eating, made sure he had his pick of women even if his heart wasn’t in it. But if he didn’t approve of wooing Rochelle…Well, then, it was none of Chris’s business. “It certainly altered the way I feel about safety cups. And inviting women to attack me.”
Chris snorted. “You could end this tonight, you know. Then enjoy a smooth sail and getting laid for the rest of the show.”
“Richie would fire you on the spot if he heard you say that. What kind of show host wants a smooth sail?”
Chris shrugged. “Just looking out for you, man.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Chris made a show of eyeing his crotch and lifting a brow. “You need a freaking bodyguard.”
“You volunteering?”’
Chris shrugged. “Bro’s before ho’s right?”
The punch was reflexive and powerful, catching Chris in the nose with a hook he never could have anticipated. His friend stumbled back a few steps, until his calf hit the edge of the fountain. He teetered, and then sprawled into the water with a pathetic little cry of surprise. A few of the crew dashed to help him. Behind Grant, the women reacted in a collective gasp. Two of them—Sakiya and Cassandra hurried to his side.
“My God, Grant, are you okay?” Sakiya said.
Cassandra ran her hand along his forearm, pushing her breasts in his face. “What happened?”
Grant smiled at them, then looked at Chris, who was being helped to his feet, coughing and sputtering, his suit dripping wet and his nose solidly broken, tiny rivulets
of blood leaking their way down past his lips and chin. “Just giving our gracious host a little perspective.”
He was in no mood for the Friendship Ceremony tonight as it was, and his balls still ached with a vengeance that could only be soothed by time and a regularly-applied cold compress. But Chris had overstepped his bounds, calling Rochelle a ho. It had to be done. His friend would come to realize that, and this would blow over. But for now, he just wanted this night, this entire day, to join the other bad memories he’d have of his experience on Luring Love. Sighing through clenched teeth, Grant motioned to the half of the camera crew still grounded in place by apparent shock. “Do we need our host to continue, or are we ready to get this ceremony over with?”
A small, fragile-looking man wearing a Nascar hat stepped out from behind one of the cameras, his expression grave. He removed his hat with reverence, as if someone had died. “Sir, I was already filming it.”
Richie leaned forward and steepled his fingers together, his glare shifting from Grant to Chris, then back at Grant. Chris stared at the ceiling, either to keep fresh blood from seeping through the cotton balls stuffed into his nostrils or because he’d already grown tired of the principal’s office feel of this conversation.
Grant couldn’t agree more.
“I’ve reviewed the film. Up until this point, I thought you two got along swimmingly. Chris, you referred Grant to the show!”
Grant focused on the rows and rows of bookshelves behind Richie’s grand desk chair, trying to remember the last time he heard someone actually use the word “swimmingly”.
“Some of the crew would have even called you friends,” Richie continued.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chris shift in his chair then sniff, never looking up at Richie.
“Neither of you has anything to say? No explanation for the playground fight on studio time?” Richie said. When he was still met with silence, he leaned back in his chair. “Christopher, you’re sure you don’t want an apology from Grant? By all means, we can prove that his attack was not provoked. It’s all caught on tape, so to speak.”
Grant raised a brow but said nothing. He hadn’t noticed any sound guy hovering close to them at the time of the incident; he seriously doubted Richie could prove anything at this point. If Richie had known the words that were actually exchanged, Chris would have been in trouble for different reasons, such as suggesting Grant vote Rochelle off the show. And they certainly wouldn’t have been stuck in Richie’s office right now getting prodded with questions. Probably just trying to make sure the studio itself won’t be sued.
“Nope,” Chris said, popping the ‘p’. But his stuffy nose made the word sound like “Dope.”
Richie turned to Grant, chastising him with a scowl. “Grant, would you like to explain your behavior?”
Grant tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair, stubbornly pursing his lips. The more questions Richie asked, the more certain he was that the producer didn’t have a clue at all what had transpired on the veranda. But Grant and Chris had always had a code: Snitches get stitches. This was no different.
“Fine,” Richie said, finally throwing his hands in the air. “Don’t tell me what happened. But let me tell you something. Both of you. If it happens again, you’re both off the show. All bets are off. No pay, no prize money, no bride, no happily ever after. Understood?”
Grant nodded and assumed Chris did, too, because Richie waved at them in dismissal, an overreaching, condescending gesture that showed more of his annoyance than he probably intended. “Now get out of my office.”
Grant allowed Chris to lead, mostly because walking was still painful for him and his legs were stiff from keeping his manly parts arranged comfortably in the chair. As he was leaving, Richie called after him. “Grant, stay and shut the door, please?”
Chris had already made it into the hallway. He looked at Grant. “What do you think he wants now?” he whispered. But what he was really asking was if Grant was going to tell on him after all. The unspoken question lingered in the air between them, and Grant didn’t mind letting Chris torture himself with the answer.
Grant shrugged. “I’ll let you know. Good night.”
Chris’s face fell. “I’m sorry, man. I know Rochelle’s not a ho.”
Grant cocked a grin. “I’m sorry, too. I knew that would break your nose.”
“Bastard.”
Grant shut the door and turned to Richie, who by now had seated himself on the edge of his desk, a hideous smile curving at his lips. “Did it have to do with Rochelle?”
Grant shoved his hands in his pockets. What didn’t have to do with Rochelle? “What, are you going to call our parents?”
Undeterred, Richie’s smile widened. “Who were you going to vote off tonight?”
“Wouldn’t you rather wait and be surprised?” The ceremony was put off until tomorrow. Until all injuries were at an acceptable level of swelling.
“Just tell me it’s not Rochelle. She’s your other half, you know. Opposites attract—”
“Spare me the pep talk. It’s not Rochelle.”
Richie was still cackling when Grant shut the door behind him seconds later.
Chapter Thirteen
When Grant handed Amber the bouquet of sweet peas at the Friendship Ceremony, Rochelle had to quash the urge to fling herself at him and finish the job she’d started in the gym. Her knee twitched to connect with his groin again. Over and over.
“I appreciate that you know how to defend yourself,” he was telling Amber, the gorgeous fitness instructor. “But when the substitute tried to assist you in learning a new move, you completely brushed him off. To me, that says you may not be open to trying new things.”
What absolute BS, Rochelle thought, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. She’d even worn an evening gown again so she could be voted off tonight in style. But nooooo. Of course not. Why would he vote me off? I only bludgeoned any hope he had of ever reproducing!
She glared at him, willing him to look in her direction. But he apparently knew better. He knew not to make that mistake. Especially while the cameras were rolling. There wouldn’t be an intervention for him if he provoked her tonight. Not now that Amber held the bouquet Rochelle had been so sure she’d receive. The bouquet she so desperately wanted.
“If I wasn’t willing to try new things, I wouldn’t have auditioned for this show,” a teary-eyed Amber said. “Please. Give me another chance. I’ll prove you wrong on that. I swear I will.”
Oh for the love of…Had all these women lost their minds? Grant? They were groveling at the unworthy feet of Grant-Freaking-Drake? Now I’ve seen it all. He might look like something worth salivating over, but just wait until after the show and they got to know the real him.
As soon as Amber’s dramatic departure from Luring Love ended and “Cut” was yelled, Rochelle stalked off the set and to her room, as had become her custom. Practically tearing the gown from her body, she eyed with venom the woman staring back at her in the bathroom mirror. “You’re failing,” she informed her reflection. The disappointment echoed around her but not as loudly as it reverberated inside her.
What would it take to get Grant to vote her off? Mind games didn’t work. Physical assault didn’t work. Murder, perhaps? Public strangulation with his own necktie? Technically, that would still win her the money for Helping Hands…
“You’re still here,” Maya said from behind her. “I wouldn’t call that failing.”
Rochelle wrenched around to face her, giving her a frantic smile while she stalled for something non-incriminating to say. “I’m not exactly winning, either,” she finally countered. “I’m not as…sociable as the other girls, and I think that’s hurting my chances. I mean, sure, I didn’t get voted off tonight, but I have a feeling it’s coming. I mean, I kneed him in the rocks for God’s sake.” She could hardly suppress her smile at the thought. Still, doubt pirouetted in her mind. She was definitely running out of things to sabotage.
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Maya crossed her arms. “Sociable.”
“Right. You know. Talkative.”
“You were sociable enough when you opened a kissing booth, don’t you think? And when you volunteered to go first for our self-defense class and for skydiving. I’d say you were plenty sociable then.”
An unfamiliar disdain rang in Maya’s voice and a measure of disgust spread across her face. Was Maya jealous? Or worse, had she figured out what was going on? Out of all the other women, Maya was by far the most observant. The most self-aware, yet the most selfless. Had she been playing the game all along? Was she playing it now?
“I know what you’re doing,” Maya continued.
Oh God, Maya knows? I’m screwed! Rochelle imagined Richie tearing up a check in front of her face. Not getting voted off the show tonight was bad enough. But not getting paid for all my hard work? Unacceptable.
“Um. You do?” If Richie had to bribe Maya to stay on the show now that their cover was blown, then so be it, even if some of it had to come out of her own prize money. Just as long as she could retain most of it.
Rochelle wondered if someone as good and noble as Maya actually had a price, a bribing threshold. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d accept part of the prize money if she knew where the funds were going. A woman like Maya would probably even forfeit her own prize money for a cause as worthwhile as Helping Hands.
“I’ve heard of people like you,” Maya spat, bringing Rochelle’s concentration front and center. “People who audition for these shows just for the attention. The exposure. Let me guess, you’re trying to be an actress. Or is it a model? Whatever it is, if you had any shred of decency left, you’d bow out and let those of us who actually care about this competition, about the man in the competition, have their shot.”
So this is what everyone thinks about me. And only Maya was brave enough to step forward and officially say it, probably because Maya was the only one too honorable to talk about her behind her back. All the rest of them would just sneer and whisper, but Maya would say her peace and have done with it.