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“Thanks.” Flattery and unease war inside me as I step onto the treadmill. I participated in those videos to help Sully show off his gym, so he could attract more clients. It never occurred to me that helping out a friend might lead to my own opportunities.
A reality show, though? My face contorts with disgust. I hate those shitty drama circuses. I’ve had enough drama in my real life without making it my chosen form of escapist entertainment.
They’d pay me to be on the show, right? Probably not enough to live down the humiliation of taking part in an idiotic cheese fest that would be available on some streaming service for the world to laugh at for the rest of eternity.
Then again, if it’s enough money I could use it to help Molly with her college tuition. Making sure her education’s financially secure would be worth any potential embarrassment I’d have to encounter.
The front door opens, letting in noise from the busy street. Overhead chimes tinkle a short warning. A short, chunky woman with bright pink, spiky hair, and pink sunglasses strides into the gym. Aubrey stops in her tracks and glances at me. Tilting her head toward the woman, she mouths, That’s her.
What should I do? Run over and introduce myself? Nah, fuck that. I stop the treadmill, hop off, and walk over to the long mirror against the back wall. I choose a dumbbell from the rack and face the mirror. Over my shoulder, I have a good view of the pink-haired lady talking to Aubrey. Both of them glance my way and I drop my gaze to my biceps, concentrating on my form as I slowly curl the weight up and down.
“Stonewall?” a scratchy voice rasps behind me.
I flick my gaze up and meet the determined eyes of the pink-haired woman who’s maybe a few years older than me. Her lips stretch into a tight smile that seems more like a challenge than a friendly introduction.
“That’s me,” I answer slowly.
She sticks her hand out. “Diane Yurko.” Her tone matches her confident demeanor. “Sidespeed Salmon Productions.”
Side what? I roll the unfamiliar name around in my head, then toss it off. I take her hand and shake it. “Griffin Royal, classic car restorer, motorcycle enthusiast, and occasional brawler.” Damn, this woman’s grip leaves no doubt about her determination.
She lifts her eyebrows—also pink—with interest. “Nice hobbies. Perfect.” Still holding onto my hand, she runs her gaze up and down my body—not in a sexually interested way. More like she’s assessing how much money a thoroughbred she’s planning to buy could earn her at the racetrack. “You’re even more perfect than I thought.”
I release her hand. “Uh, okay. For what?”
My heart thunders as I wait for her response. Shit, was Aubrey wrong? Is the woman casting a porno, not a reality show? Remy would be the better choice for that sort of entertainment. My fingers itch to whip out my phone and tap in a quick Google search.
She steps closer, her sneakers squeaking against the padded floor. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Griff.” Her smile’s sharp, calculating. The hair and glasses might make her seem young, but her cutthroat business attitude suggests she’s a lot older than I’d originally assumed. “I’ve watched all your videos on Strike Back’s channel, and I just had to meet you. You’d be perfect for this new project I’m casting. Your moves are very impressive.”
“Ah, thanks.” I shrug, downplaying the compliment. “Just tryin’ to help out a friend.” I gesture vaguely toward the front desk.
Diane chuckles, the movement ruffling the fine pink hair framing her face. “You’ve got the moves of Volkanovski and the face of Alex Pettyfer, and yet you’re so modest. Viewers will go crazy for you.”
Heat crawls over my face. I glance toward the front desk. Aubrey seems to have disappeared, leaving me alone with Diane. It’s not the first time a woman’s complimented me, but this feels different. She’s not trying to earn a ride on my dick. That situation I can handle with a quick “not interested.” This one, I’m not sure what to say.
“Listen, Griffin.” Her keen expression morphs into rapid-fire business talk. “I work for a company that’s putting together a new reality show. It’s going to be Survivor meets Fight Club.”
I raise an eyebrow at the basic concept. “Brawling on a desert island?”
She cocks her head like I just gave her a great idea. “No. But I like that concept. Maybe Big Brother meets Fight Club would’ve been more accurate.” She waves her hand in the air as if she’s out of analogies. “Twelve skilled fighters—amateur, underground, bare-knuckle, street fighters—will live and train together. You’ll compete against each other in various challenges, both physical and mental. There will be matches twice a week and the loser goes home. Last one standing wins a very substantial amount of money. However…” She lowers her voice, forcing me to lean in. “The three finalists also win a large cash prize.”
Substantial. Large. Cash. Prize. Four winners are better odds than one. Molly’s dreams of paying for college without the burden of crippling debt after graduation flash through my brain.
“How substantial are these prizes?” I ask. “Are we talking compact car money, down payment on a house money, or four years of tuition at an Ivy League School type of money?”
She snorts at the last one. “That’s not exactly something you’re worried about, is it?”
Ignoring the dig, I shrug. “Just trying to get a clearer picture of the stakes.”
“It’d be enough to make a significant impact on your life. And maybe in the lives of your loved ones.”
I don’t want to seem too eager, and I feel like a monster towering over this lady, so I nod to one of the benches. “You want to sit down?” I ask.
“Sure.”
She follows me over to the bench where I’d left my water bottle earlier. I grab it and take a deep swig, then sit next to her.
“So, what’s the catch?” The money is certainly a big motivator but the reality of putting myself on television, allowing my skills and reputation to be judged by a bunch of arrogant fuckwads, leaves a bad feeling burrowing in my chest.
