Page 3 of Red

If you believed the story that had been spun and oozed from TV and computer screens all over the country, every person that stood before me would use that money to pursue their culinary dreams. Open a restaurant. Start a catering company. Take their commercial kitchen to the next level. I knew the truth.

Everything was for sale. Everything, from the tears that filled the eyes of the single mom who worked as a cook in some dead end restaurant and needed this money for a new start, to the man who'd been dubbed one of the villains and smiled smugly because he knew he'd be one of the final five. The ugly truth was that everyone behind the scenes already knew the single mom from Arkansas would be crowned ‘America's Chef’. She'd take that check—and be back at that dead end restaurant in 2 years time. Maybe less. The show was entering its seventh season and I'd seen it happen over and over. It's all about the money...and without fail, it's the money that dashes dreams instead of making them come true.

"Um, Des? You can go ahead and put them out of their misery." My earpiece crackled to life, pulling me back to the lights and the cameras and those eyes staring up at me like I was God.

God, I thought bitterly. If only they knew I was the devil. Once the show had been off for a few months, the world will have forgotten most of them and by the time the next season was locked and loaded, no one would remember who won the previous season without the help of Google.

But we all had our roles to play, and I was Desmond O'Connoll, world renown chef and restauranteur, and executive producer of America's Chef and countless other reality TV cooking show competitions. I was the cold, brutal critic who tore them down to build them back up. And while my first instinct was to growl something that was definitely not broadcast friendly, self control took the wheel and I raised my chin and looked out at the contestants before me.

If I went to each station and pressed my finger against every wrist, the pulse beneath my touch would gallop like some wild horse, spooked and terrified. Even the self proclaimed 'villains' of the season, like a stay at home mom who cussed like a sailor and cooked a mean filet mignon, shuddered with apprehension when my eyes settled on her.

She had a personality born for the small screen; reality TV gold from the moment she took the last of her salt and slowly poured it down the drain when a fellow contestant asked to borrow a pinch. When she'd first sauntered in for her audition in her modest flowered dress and her short, curly blonde locks bouncing, she'd wowed me with her eye for plating. It didn’t hurt that her crab cakes made my taste buds explode. We'd discovered she had the personality of the high school queen bee, gossiping and sabotaging the competition with that disarming smile, and just like that, she brought herself a ticket to the final round.

"Cassidy," I began, my voice solemn. "You will be moving onto the next round."

Her sigh of relief came out as a gasp as she raised her hands to the sky like her prayers had been answered. Like she wouldn't damn everyone in this room if given the chance.

I called out the next three cooks that were making it through. I watched the relief flicker across their faces. Guilt used to eat at me, all the behind the scenes machinations that whirred and spun; the manipulations that created good television. Now, I was jaded. Nearly as heartless as all the reviewers called me. Yet, every week, people tuned in religiously, hungry for more.

The last name burned on my tongue, the energy in the room charged with anxiety and tension. The cameras zoomed in on me, and even though the team was behind the scenes, in a completely separate building, I could hear the producer's voice, gently asking me to milk the painful moment where five of the people before me would pack their bags and this would become a story of hope or despair—where they had a moment in the sun, an opportunity to hone their skills and tell their story to the world; or that time they were on TV, so close to that check that they could taste it, and fell short. I was supposed to pour salt in the wound, settle on each hopeful face and sound out every single word, making them believe that maybe their name would be called.

I didn't waste any time on the bullshit. Let them add the dramatic pauses in post production. I put them out of their misery and said the same line I'd said time and again, reminding the contestants that were leaving the show that they'd been chosen out of thousands. I acted like the tears glittering in their eyes meant nothing and when the red light on the camera dimmed, I turned my back to it all. I almost got away, was almost home free until I heard footsteps echo behind me. I turned to face Roger Jones, a father of two who’d lost his wife to cancer three years ago and was the only one that I believed might actually use the money for something good, like college educations for his kids.

“M-Mr. O’Connell...” His voice trailed off and I saw the pain etched in his weary face, his apron stained by a dish that had actually been my favorite of the night. “I don’t understand where I went wrong.”

I knew what I should have said: nothing at all. Most days I was pretty good at going through the motions. Today, not so much.

I looked him in the eye. I owed him that much. “You’re an incredible cook, Roger. You didn’t deserve-” I cut myself off, clearing my throat. “You just weren’t dramatic enough. You don’t make good TV.”

His expression went from blank, to confused, to pissed off. He looked ready to step in the ring with me or anyone else that had anything to do with the call to let him go. “How do you sleep at night?” he spat, not even waiting for me to answer before he stormed away.

My earpiece was going wild, but I plucked it out as the door shuddered closed behind me. The sun streamed down on me, the support staff buzzing like ants, dodging to and fro. Always moving. Clearing out the warehouse in preparation for the next episode being filmed in the morning. I pulled my shades from my inner pocket and slipped them over my eyes, my gaze locked on my trailer.

I'd barely stepped into my home away from home, already tasting the bourbon on my lips when my assistant hustled in behind me.

"Des, I heard what you said to Roger. That was...” She didn’t finish. Stupid, unwise, unfair...any of those words would do. “ And you know that Kara is going to want to reshoot the final reveal. You looked absolutely bored and like-"

"I didn’t give a damn?" I finished. I went to the bar, lifting the bottle from its resting place. "This may come as a surprise, but I don't." I almost brought it to my lips, not giving a damn about appearances and respectability either, but I could feel the worry radiating from her.

"It's not even noon," she murmured behind me. That familiar, deathly pale arm shot into view and gently eased the bottle of bourbon from my clutches.

I glared at her in the mirror, looking into eyes that were the same shade of green as mine. "What did I tell you about mothering me, Mal?"

Mallory glared right back, nestling the bottle in the crook of her arm like a quarterback with the football, ready to make a beeline for the end zone. "What did I tell you about wasting your breath? If you wanted an assistant that kissed your ass, you shouldn't have hired your little sister." I knew that in her perfect world she'd take that bottle and empty it, but she settled for tucking it out of sight near the closet. When she pivoted back to me, hand on hip, her red locks wild and standing on end, she looked so much like our mother that my heart clenched in my chest. "And, billionaire or not, wearing shades indoors is just douchey."

Smiling despite my best efforts to maintain my crappy mood, I pulled off the shades and tossed them on the counter. "As much as I enjoy our quality time together, did you just come in here to keep me away from the booze, or is something up?"

She crossed her arms, the same stance I'd taken a few minutes ago. The 'shit is about to get real' stance. "There's a woman that wants to come to the trailer."

I arched an eyebrow with interest. "I'm guessing there's a reason we're having this conversation and she's not sitting on that couch with a red bow?" I knew I had a reputation on set, groupies who snuck past security. The truth was a lot less salacious than most were privy to. I enjoyed the company of a very particular kind of woman. Women that were drawn to men who took charge.

"You're such a pig," Mallory groaned with an eye roll. "What all those women see in you is beyond me." The joking lilt to her voice wavered. "It's...she's a friend of Caity's."

My blood ran cold. Instantly, the ghosts and demons of my past rushed to me. Through me. The smell of Caity's hair, the curve of her lips, the feel of her hand in mine, with the life we were supposed to live together stretching before us. It had been years since it happened, but all the emotions, the loss, was still as fresh as if it happened yesterday. So I did what I'd been doing since I got that call in the middle of the night.

I ran like hell.

"No," I uttered. It was more like a croak. But it was audible. And from the look on Mallory's face, it was the answer she was expecting.

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