Page 14 of Repairing the Wreckage

No words come to me. It would take too long to explain. I shake my head.

“All right,” Jordan snaps. “Paul’s going to meet us.”

I can’t remember which one of the many producers, production assistants, directors or whatever-the-fucks who have been wandering around the set Paul might be, but the tight set of Jordan’s mouth says he’s not happy about the visit.

Good, must be a suit with some juice.

“Let’s go.” Jordan tilts his head toward the hallway. To everyone else he says, “Go back to whatever you were doing.”

I nod at Venom. He frowns and backs away slowly. I wish I could warn him. Would the producers really stoop so low and fuck with his marriage?

No time to worry about Venom. I can’t help anyone if I don’t handle my own business first.

I follow Jordan to the other side of the house where there are fewer cameras and lights stationed in every corner. An area the contestants aren’t supposed to visit.

Apprehension thrums through my veins. This could be the end. The hard work and sacrifices I’ve made over the last few weeks could mean nothing if I get sent home.

Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Jordan stops at a door and knocks, then pushes the door open.

I vaguely recognize the guy behind the desk. A bland and unremarkable face to go with his potato-shaped build. Even his short, curly hair is the color of a russet potato’s skin. His tan suit doesn’t help, either. Arrogance surrounds him like a cloud of Axe body spray.

To the potato’s right, the show’s host, Matt, is awkwardly crammed in behind the desk. Potato didn’t even move over to make room for the star of the show. He must be important.

We usually only see Matt when someone’s getting kicked off the show. Even though there are no extra cameras in the office filming this showdown, it doesn’t mean I’m safe from getting sent home.

“Where’s Diane?” I ask, resting my hands on the back of the chair in front of the desk.

Potato’s lips tilt in an evil villain way I don’t care for. “We had a difference of opinion on the direction of the show.” He flicks his hand toward the closed door. “She’s off scouting new talent for another project. That’s really her area of expertise. Not this.”

Maybe Diane didn’t set me up after all. Or she doesn’t give a fuck.

Potato stands and stretches his hand across the desk. “Paul Simplot.” He rattles off a long title that doesn’t mean a damn thing to me other than he’s the one in charge. “I’m the one you want to speak to, anyway.”

“And me,” Matt adds in such a needy, pathetic tone, I cringe with secondhand embarrassment for the dude.

I lift an eyebrow at Paul. He subtly lifts his shoulders in a lets-humor-him gesture that doesn’t put me at ease. We’re not on the same side here.

“What’s on your mind, Griffin?” Paul points at the chair across from him and takes his seat behind the desk again.

“I found out that the show’s already airing. And it seems to have nothing to do with what’s actually happening here.” I stab my finger toward the floor. “It’s causing havoc for the people I care about at home.”

“How did you…Who let you…” Matt stutters.

Even though I threw Jordan up against a wall less than fifteen minutes ago, I’m less eager to throw him under the bus with his boss. “Don’t worry about that. The point is, the show’s airing lies and it needs to stop.”

“This is unacceptable,” Matt snips. “He should be sent home, now. He’s violated the rules.”

“Easy.” Paul holds up a hand. “We send him home now, we lose a lot of viewers.” He turns his cold, flat brown eyes on me. “And you’ll lose out on a lot of money.”

“No amount of money is worth having my reputation torn to shreds.”

“Reputation?” Matt snorts. “How is fucking that young, hot Barbie look-alike going to ruin your reputation, stud?”

So, they know exactly why I’m here and why I’m pissed.

My hands curl into fists but I don’t so much as flick my gaze in Matt’s direction. I continue as if he hadn’t even spoken.

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