Page 11 of Forever is the Sweetest Con
“So? They have a ‘no questions asked’ return policy.”
He tuts. “You’re such a little scammer.”
I laugh, shoving the bottle into my tote bag. “I prefer the term ‘hustler.’”
Chapter Four
The audition is at the Bellagio, which is cool, but what’s not so cool is that it’s in the producer, Tyler’s, room. I feel slightly panicked on the elevator. I’ve heard the horror stories, and I’ve always been not-so-quietly judgemental at the level of desperation it must take to justify such a glaring red flag. And now I know it’s the “I might have made my mom homeless” level of desperation, the psychic space where I currently reside.
As long as he’s not in a bathrobe when I arrive, I’ll have to go through with it.
I pause outside his room, double-checking the number against the text message he sent me. Holding my breath, I knock.
The door swings open, and a man appears. Fully clothed, thankfully.
“Cleo, hey,” he says, in a surfer’s drawl. “I’m Tyler.” He’s older than I expected, mid-30s maybe, with a face full of sharp angles. His hair hangs in dank locks around his face, a shade darker than his scraggly goatee, which looks like it’s trying—but failing—to be a beard. “Come in, come in.” He ushers me in, and to my relief, there is a woman sitting at the desk.
“This is my associate and co-producer, Gabriela Elishi.” He nods to the woman, a petite brunette with a blunt bob and heavy bangs. Her face is an exaggerated heart shape.
She waves. “Call me Gabby.” Her voice is like a chipmunk who is also a Kindergarten teacher.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say in a voice slightly more syrupy than my own. The Girl Next Door would probably hug them both, but I want to keep my distance, for now.
“Have a seat,” Tyler says, indicating the bed. He must clock my hesitation, because he says, “Relax, we don’t bite.”
Which is exactly what a sex trafficker would say, isn’t it?
I tentatively lower myself down on the corner of the bed, tugging at the hem of my skirt.
“Something to drink?” Gabby asks, her face fixed in a smile so rigid it looks like a mask. I’m parched but I decline, lest this be the last thing I remember before waking up on some billionaire’s private island.
“So, Cleo,” Tyler says, half sitting on the edge of the desk. “Normally we’d do a more formal audition, but time is getting tight and we’re still looking for a few people to join our cast. So, we’ll keep it casual today, alright?” I nod, tugging up the corners of my smile. “Great, so we just want to know more about you—who you are, what makes you tick, what you’re looking for in a guy, stuff like that.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest.
I realize that my nerves—about the debt, about my mom, about potentially being the new face on the back of the bathroom stall doors at airports—are getting the best of me, as I’m slumping over, with my arms wrapped protectively around my chest. Which simply won’t do. Because they’re not auditioning me, with all of my problems. They’re auditioning someone confident and fun, someone who is going to be irresistible to both the audience and the guys on the show.
“I’m just gonna—” Gabby hops up and leans her phone against a coffee mug on the table, training its tiny lens in my direction. “Go ahead,” she says, her eyes fixed on the screen.
I throw my shoulders back and tilt my chin slightly, looking up at them. Flirty and fun, that’s who she is. “My name is Cleo Des Rochelles.I’m twenty-five, and I’m from Las Vegas, Nevada!” I giggle, like it’s just so damn fun to be me.
“Beautiful. What do you like to do for fun?”
Fun? Never heard of it, but I can’t tell them how pathetic my life truly is. Spin it, polish it, make it something more palatable. “I’ve been more focused on work these days.” I notice one of Tyler’s eyebrows raise to a pointed arch. “So I’m ready for a good time!” I say, switching gears.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Gabby chimes in. I shake my head. “Seeing anyone?” I shake my head again, this time letting my smile slip a little, like she’s hit a sore spot. “What are you looking for in a guy?”
“Hmm,” I say, smiling dreamily, as if I’m imagining my very own Reality TV Prince Charming. “I want someone who respects me for who I am.” Show my sense of self-worth—check. “Someone who sees me as their equal.” Show that I’m a feminist—check. “Someone with good, traditional family values.” But nottoofeminist—check. “And tall, dark, and handsome wouldn’t hurt either.” Cheeky sense of humour—check.
Tyler and Gabby glance at one another. They’re both smiling.
“Tell us about your last relationship.”
I could conjure a lie in a split second, some sad story about bad timing or long distance or diverging dreams, but here I think that honesty—or at least, some version of it—is my best bet.
“That didn’t end well.”
They both lean forward. “Why’s that?” Tyler asks, stroking his goatee. “I guess—” I feel a trickle of sweat snake between my shoulder blades “—he wasn’t who he said he was.” Understatement of the century. “And now I wonder if falling in love is even worth it. I mean, how do you even know if you can trust someone?”
The beauty of it is that every word is true, and Tyler and Gabby are eating it up. They look at one another, barely concealing their sanguine smiles. They can see my character arc playing out on screen—the girl who can’t trust, finding her person against all odds. Reality TV gold.
