Page 48 of Knot Just for Show

Roxy's lounge is only marginally better than Brittney's. Inside of five minutes, I've decided that investment banker Ian is just another boring rich dude who thinks that his fat wallet can compensate for his total lack of any real personality, but both Karl and Anton—a pretty average dude who owns a successful gym near Venice Beach actually seem pretty cool.

“Alright so,” Anton grins, his perfect white teeth almost glowing in the pale blue reflection of the pool as we all pull beers from the mini fridge. “Who else has keys to other rooms—and who do you got?”

“I’ve got keys for here, Suzi, and Lana.” Karl brandishes two more plastic room cards with little lettered stickers in the corner , holding them high in the air and swishing them like a fan.

“Amateurs,” Ian sighs, waving a total of four Cards in his hands. “Roxy, Jesse, Suzi, and Lana.”

I shake my head.

“Shit dude, that’s like—legit half the chicks on the show,” I laugh, incredulous.

“What can I say?” Ian just shrugs. “Bitches love the smell of money.”

I wanna gag. His response is so tacky. I mean, I know—it’s sort of like palming a big stone in a glass house; since I’m ‘bitches’—I am here for the money opportunities… But shit dude, I wouldn’t say that kind of thing on camera.

Ian and Karl are already doing more shots, talking about what kind of cars Ian owns and how he plans on springing an absolutely bonkers Beverly Hills Mansion on Roxy instead of the show-appointed-nests in the final ‘real life’ portion of the experiment by the time I’m up to share my key-card haul.

“What about you?” Anton sidles up to me, the two of us breaking off from the others pounding jaeger and talking about how the trip to Costa Rica is gonna be the most epic fuck-cation they’ve ever been on.

“I was at Brit’s earlier, and I still have a card to Ursula’s I haven’t swiped yet,” I sigh, taking a sip of my beer as we shuffle toward a pair of pool loungers.

“Oh shit dude, you passed the prissy prude’s tests! Good for you!” Anton huffs a little laugh—unfurling a pack of cigarettes from the sleeve of his white t-shirt.

I’m surprised at how my insides bristle at hearing Anton refer to Ursula as ‘the prissy prude,’ but even more shocked when the camera crew—which had been sticking to us like glue, suddenlytakes 5; turning off their equipment and giving the pair of us a wide berth as Anton lights up.

I must be doing something awful with my face again, because Anton jumps in, “Fuckers get a slap on the wrist from the streaming platform if they do any kind of ‘glamorizing tobacco use’ on their original programming. It’s been the only way I can get these motherfuckers off my ass, short of going into the bathroom to take a shit or rub one out.”

I can’t help but laugh at this. Anton has a point—I’ve felt like a fucking fish in a bowl since I got here. Putting up a literal smoke screen suddenly seems an obvious choice of evasion.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” I laugh, flopping into a lounge chair beside him, looking up to the starry sky above.

“But seriously though, bro.” Anton takes another drag on his cigarette and gives me a playful punch in the shoulder.

“Ursula grilled me like I was a fuckin’ burger, man. Took a hell of a lot to get her to exchange scent cards—and yeah sure, she smells sweet but I bet you she’s a sour old maid—a total double bagger.”

At first I can’t help but chuckle along at his casual, glib assessment—but as soon as he suggests that Ursula’s adouble baggerthe laughter turns to ashes in my mouth.

It’s like looking at a mirror of some of my own less-than-charming behavior, and I’m not a fan of what I see. Even if the cameras aren’t on us, I shift uneasily in my pool lounger—slugging down the latter half of my beer to excuse me from any kind of commentary.

“What was Britt’s like?” he presses. “Bet she’s hot—but her pack is gonna be a bunch of jackass walking hormones,” he laughs, seeing that I’ve come up empty and passes me another beer from the metal bucket of ice he’s towed over to the seating area with us.

“No offense to you, of course!” He offers me a metal bottle opener from his pocket, his cigarette pinched between his rolled lips at the corner of his mouth.

“None taken,” I scoff a laugh, taking the second beer and popping the cap off before tucking it into my pocket. “You basically guessed already. About the guys at least—obviously I haven’t seen Britt yet…but the way she talks…” I shrug taking another swig of the mediocre lager.

“Lemme ask you something, dude.” Anton leans in close, even though the other guys and all the camera crews are on the other side of the pool area.

I keep an eye on the other guys, making sure they maintain their distance, as I listen to Anton’s words, low and conspiratorial, “Are you like, actually for real about this whole thing?” He looks at me skeptically.

Unwilling to give myself away that easily, I hold my silence—allowing Anton to step in and fill the gaps himself.

“Because, no offense dude—you’re going to have to step it up if you want her to buy what you’re sellin’ once you actually see her face to face,” Anton warns me, a playful smile curling his lips as he ashes his cigarette into the empty beer bottle on the table beside us.

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” I dart a glance back toward the others, still a healthy way away.

“Look at that tool, Karl,” Anton instructs, nodding his head gently in the direction of the others; the hulking alpha jock excitedly making a bid to get stuffy Ian—a few shots of Jager deep, into some rounds of Overlook on the gaming system inside.

“Yeah, what about him?” I grunt dismissively, doing my best to play casual.

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