Page 9 of House of Deceit

“Huh. Why would someone intentionally deprive themselves of food or sleep?”

“Maybe he’s a parent?”

“I’m going to have Lore add that to the ‘con’ column for being a parent,” Tank says.

“But you love kids,” I point out, reading through the application again.

“Yeah, but I love sleep, too.”

“There’s another guy named Paul who sounds like he could be perfect. He’s ex-military, so you know he can take any of the punishments we throw at him. And he’s probably used to not being around his family for long stretches of time,” I say, lifting the third application I’m seriously considering.

“In my experience, perfect rarely is. There’s a reason you haven’t picked him. Who is your gut telling you to pick?”

“I don’t know.” I fist my hands in my hair in frustration. This could be my only shot to get into directing.

My mother was a movie buff. We would watch any genre from the tent in the living room she would make for me, my sister, and her. As time passed, eventually it was just her and me, but I loved those tents. Her voice was a constant soundtrack explaining cinematography and sound mixing. But her favorite person of any movie was the director.

“They are the storytellers,” she’d say while telling me about all the choices that had to be made for one scene.

She always said that many people can recite lines, evoke emotions from their audiences, but not everyone could be the creator of a story, making their vision reality.

Her passion lit the flame of my own, but my first time directing fanned it into an uncontrollable inferno. Knowing this might be my only shot at having an open door to such a competitive field has made me almost sick with indecision. I have applied for just about every job on set to get my foot in the door, but to no avail.

“Man, this indecisive thing isn’t you. You’ve watched ten years of winners. Who is it?”

“Charles. There’s something about his answers. He’ll be able to win over the audience, which is what matters the most when it comes to avoiding elimination.” I pick up the middle application again, a feeling in my gut pulling me toward the person.

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind. Now, grab me a beer, will you?”

Rolling my eyes, I get up from my stool and grab beers for both of us. The sounds of a football game start back up. With my decision made, I pull out my phone and shoot a text off to Sheila confirming my choice, praying that someone else hasn’t snapped him up during my deliberation. She responds almost immediately that she’s got my choice locked and I unclench my jaw, trying to let the stress melt away. Easier said than done.

Slipping my phone back in my pocket, I hand Tank a beer as he moves some papers without taking his eyes off the game so I can sit down. I watch the game as he continues to take copious notes. Finally, it ends, and he turns off the TV.

“So, Lorelei wanted me to ask you a question,” Tank says, serious.

“I feel like you’re about to ask me for a kidney.” My foot rests on the coffee table in front of me, my beer resting on my thigh.

“Close. She has a friend that she thinks you’d really get along with and she wants to go on a double date.”

“Dude, I love you. I would jump in front of a car for you, but no. Also, why didn’t my sister ask me herself?”

“Because she knows you’ll say no and she also knows that I’ll do anything to please her, and that includes kidnapping your dumb ass and forcing you to go on this date. You were just saying you’d jump in front of a car for me. Consider her a blonde, sexy car,” he says.

I sigh dramatically, resigned to spending an evening on a date that I don’t want to be on. I point at him with my beer bottle.

“You owe me so much more than you’re thinking right now. I want suite tickets or some shit.”

“You got it, brother.”

Soap bubbles run down my abs as I wash myself off. Dread is all I feel at the prospect of the night. The only reason I agreed is because Tank would never let me be set up with someone that I couldn’t get along with for a night. And sex.

I try to remember the last time I went on a date as I shut off the water, steam floating around me.

I’m not against dating, I just prefer to do it on my own timeline. Lorelei believes that I’m going to be an eternal bachelor, but by the end of the twelve-week shooting schedule, and dealing with all the emotions of my contestant, I am exhausted. Being attached to a single person day in and day out, always at their beck and call, drives me into the ground like nothing I’ve ever experienced. The last day of shooting is the last time I talk to my contestant. Some guilt will normally hit a week or two later when I can see the tired lines on their faces during their after-show press tour.

I’ve tried to date a few times during filming, but between my late nights and being away for months on end, it wears on the woman until she, inevitably, ends things.

I wipe the condensation from the mirror and begin putting product in my black hair, enhancing the slight wave before checking my stubble beard, confirming it’s not too long. Many women have commented that the light dusting of hair enhances my sharp jawline. I’m not a conceited asshole, but I can definitely get most any woman, or a man if I was so inclined, that I want.

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