Love in Reality: A Contemporary Romance (The Blackjack Quartet) Read online

  The Blackjack Quartet: Book 1

  Love in Reality

  A Contemporary Romance

  by

  Magdalen Braden

  Copyright © 2012, Magdalen Braden. All Rights Reserved.

  Published by Harmony Road Press

  www.harmonyroad.com

  Version created Fri Dec 14 16:27:28 2012

  ISBN-10: 098490977X

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9849097-7-3

  Cover by Laura Morrigan

  http://www.lauramorrigan.com/

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to harmonyroad.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author welcomes comments:

  [email protected]

  www.magdalenbraden.com

  Contents

  About This Story

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Author’s Acknowledgements

  About This Story

  TV producer Rand Jennings solves two problems—his boss-from-hell, Marcy, and his overachieving dad—when he sees a way to mess with Marcy’s reality TV show, The Fishbowl. It’ll drive Marcy crazy if he selects genuinely talented “Fish” who’ll treat the game as more than trash-talking in skimpy swimwear. At the end of the season, Rand will have written a winning screenplay he’ll pitch as “The Devil Wears Prada gets Gaslighted.”

  He casts his first ringer, a confident bartender from South Philadelphia, not realizing that Lissa-the-bartender is actually her twin, Libby-the-law-student. When Libby’s summer law job evaporates in the bad economy, and a certain cute producer kisses her, she agrees to spend the summer locked in a stage set decorated like a fish tank.

  As their relationship deepens despite the show, Libby’s lies and Rand’s deceptions threaten any chance they have to be a real couple. Set against the humorous backdrop of a tasteless reality TV show, Love in Reality (Book 1 of Magdalen Braden’s Blackjack Quartet) is the sexy story of how falling in love forces Rand and Libby to be honest with themselves and each other.

  www.BlackjackQuartet.com

  Chapter One

  Rand Jennings enjoyed killing his boss, Marcy Edelstein.

  He enjoyed it so much, he sometimes killed her twice in a single meeting.

  They weren’t hurried affairs, either. Sure, he once capped her twice in the back of the head, Mafia-execution-style, before walking away. Usually, though, he took his time, pairing up cinematic murders with Marcy’s too-thin, too-caffeinated, too-Botoxed body. In fact, he’d researched whether he could kill her with Botox. Unfortunately, as apt as that would be, it took too much of the toxin to be practical.

  So Rand settled for the classics. He shot her and let her fall into a Hollywood Hills swimming pool (Sunset Boulevard). He stabbed her in the shower (Psycho)—an awkward, blindly-slashing affair as he really didn’t want to see her naked. He dipped her in gold paint so her skin smothered (Goldfinger). During one of Marcy’s particularly nasty harangues, Rand slipped up behind her and garroted her with her own Hermès scarf (The Godfather, modified).

  “Jesus, people, wake up!” Marcy screeched. “I need better ideas. Opposites attract this year, so we have to cast interesting people—of course no fatties—who the audience will understand in a very specific way.”

  Rand leaned sideways toward Debbie and whispered, “How about Narcissistic Actor as a type?”

  “They’d all qualify,” she muttered.

  Marcy glared at them. “You two are like third-graders passing notes. Grow up! The Fishbowl isn’t going to produce itself. I’ve come up with the grand theme. The least you can do is help me amplify my vision.”

  “C’mon, Marcy, it’s reality TV,” Rand said. “Let’s not lose sight of the fundamentals. Good-looking people in bathing suits jump around during the day and backstab at night while trying to win a million dollars. It’s not hard to figure out the themes. Greed and competition. This isn’t Hamlet.”

  Marcy’s head stilled, the conference room lights deepening the shadows of her angular features. “Hamlet,” she said slowly. “The Lost Boy? No. I don’t think so. Too depressing. Could we do other Shakespearean characters? Puck versus Lear? Romeo versus Juliet? Othello versus Iago?”

  Debbie piped up, “How about Lady Macbeth? Instead of fishing out the competition, she could just stab them all in their sleep.”

  For a moment, it looked like Marcy might go for the heightened drama and increased conflict. Then her face hardened into scorn. “That’s ridiculous. Legal would never allow us to cast a homicidal maniac.”

  “I guess it would drive up our insurance premiums,” Rand said as he mentally duct-taped Marcy to her chair, poured honey over her thousand-dollar hair weave and put her in a box with fire ants.

  * * *

  Ah, those were the days, when this season of The Fishbowl was still limited to Marcy’s hen-scratching on a whiteboard. Now Rand was crisscrossing the country, looking for her elusive types among the young, sexy and bird-brained people who’d applied to be on the show.

  His cab was speeding away from the Philadelphia airport when text messages from Marcy started to make Rand’s phone ping. One called him an “utter waste of time” and then claimed that his work was essential. The next berated him for his uselessness but commanded him to call her immediately and give her an update on his search.

  One made Rand laugh.

  Why do I even put up with this shit? You couldn’t cast this show, let alone produce it, if I didn’t hold your hand the entire time. Nepotism will only get you so far, dickwad, so don’t think you can trade on your father’s fame for the whole of your career. Now get me a Ditz. I want tape on my desk today!!

  Rand checked his watch. Nearly seven. He’d managed to fly from Des Moines a day early by doubling up cities. True, he hadn’t found a Sophisticate among the money-grubbers and fame-whores who applied to be on reality TV, nor a Codger who would look good in a Speedo. Meanwhile, his fellow producer Debbie had a Vixen and a Band Geek already in the can.

  The cab pulled up to a South Philly bar and Rand got out. An icy wind helped him slam the cab’s door.

  He turned, taking in the bar’s windows, bright with neon. Not the worst place to be on a chilly March night. Inside, The County Cork was warm and redolent of fresh beer over a clean scent. Standard layout—horseshoe bar in the center, tables and booths around the perimeter. The few patrons w
ere clustered close to the bar as though huddled together for warmth and community. It looked like the type of local bar where they really did know your name.

  He wanted to enjoy the atmosphere—nothing in L.A. came close to this East Coast feeling of a longtime neighborhood bar running on habit and old friendships—but the lunacy of his job for The Fishbowl made it difficult to relax. His current assignment to find a zany “Fish” felt impossible—like a scavenger hunt for the only Orson-Welles-autographed War of the Worlds script when everyone knows Spielberg already owns it.

  Rand hung up his coat and leaned down to use an antique pub mirror to fix his windblown hair. He needed a haircut. Oh, well. Time to get to work. Five minutes—or less—would tell him if he’d found the Ditz Marcy wanted for the show this summer.

  Rand scanned the room for his target, spotting the bartender pulling one of the fancy wood-handled beer taps. Long brown hair, cute figure in jeans and a close-fitting top, nice smile. She passed the bikini test at least. Rand settled on a seat at one end of the bar and listened to her talking with an old guy a few feet away.

  “Hey, Lissa,” the white-haired man said. “What’s the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”

  She didn’t look away from the tap. “I don’t know, what?” She had a nice voice, not squeaky or nasal at all. Second hurdle cleared.

  “One’s a scum-sucking, bottom-feeding scavenger, the other’s just a fish.”

  She laughed. “That joke never gets old, does it? Okay, I’ve got one for you. When you see a lawyer on a bicycle, why don’t you run him over?” She pulled another beer.

  The old guy shook his head.

  “It might be your bicycle.”

  Rand smiled. He hadn’t heard that one. He texted it to his college roommate, who was always up for a good lawyer joke.

  “Hi. What can I get for you?” the bartender asked him. He looked up. She had beautiful eyes and an interesting nose. She’d look good on TV. But did she fit Marcy’s idea for the Ditz? Rand suspected he knew the answer. She’d think the bartender too cool and confident, and Rand would get another screaming text on the subject. Marcy was like that old TV ad: She hates everything.

  “What microbrews do you have on tap?” he asked.

  She smiled at him, which made her eyes light up. “Not many. But we have quite a few bottle-conditioned beers, and some seasonal brews. What kind of beer are you looking for—IPA, black-and-tan, Belgian, a stout?”

  “I like a hoppy pale ale,” Rand said.

  “I’ve got just the thing. Aprihop. Local brewery, they only brew it in the spring.”

  “Sounds good.” Unfortunately, while the beer sounded good, the candidate didn’t. He needed someone flighty and a bit scatterbrained. She was very attractive but too knowledgeable and competent. On to number five…

  He was chuckling at Phil’s response to the lawyer joke—Please. What self-respecting attorney rides a bicycle, stolen or otherwise?—when he got another long tirade from Marcy. Rand read it and thought seriously about throwing the phone against the wall.

  “Hey, the beer’s not that bad,” the bartender joked as she set the bottle and a chilled glass in front of him. She poured it perfectly, allowing just the right amount of head to form.

  Rand took a sip. “No, the beer’s great. It’s my boss. I’m here on business and she’s sent me half a dozen messages in the past hour, yelling at me for not being in the office.”

  She tipped her head, letting her hair slip over her shoulder. “It’s like they want us to fail and they’re not happy until we do,” she said.

  Rand sat up straight and pointed a finger at her. “Exactly. That’s just what she’s like, Mar—” Even though the bartender wouldn’t be on the show, Rand stopped himself. “It’s like we’re in some slow-motion duel. My boss won’t fire me and I never quite get around to quitting.”

  The bartender nodded, her eyes sympathetic.

  That was all the encouragement Rand needed. Isn’t that what bartenders are for, letting you unburden yourself? “I wouldn’t care if it were just me, but she’s so nasty. My officemate, Debbie, has a teenage son, Tony. Good kid, you know? Last year, he broke his arm in gym class, but our boss wouldn’t let Debbie leave to go to the hospital to be with him. Threatened to fire her if she went.”

  Lisa—was that her name?—let her jaw drop. “But that’s against the law, isn’t it? The Family and Medical Leave Act, I think.”

  Cheered by her vehemence, Rand nodded. “Exactly. I had to threaten to call my fath—well, someone my boss looks up to—before she’d let Debbie go. And it wasn’t like there was actual work to be done, just some routine stuff that I could cover.”

  “Wait—you mean your boss, a woman, actually told a female member of her staff that she couldn’t go to the hospital when her son broke his arm because…because why, precisely?”

  Rand slapped his hand on the counter. “That’s just it. I don’t know why my boss does the things she does. Like the time she needed to trim the budget for her uh, department, and her solution was to fire the most experienced guy there so she could hire someone cheaper. You know, get rid of the one person who actually knows how everything works?”

  “And did she? Fire him, I mean.”

  Rand took a slow sip of his beer. “No. I suggested another way to balance the budget, and she backed off.” Basically, Rand had arranged to take a pay cut so Charlie, who was the senior sound guy, wouldn’t get canned. It wasn’t a lot of money from Rand’s perspective, and well worth it when the season had started and everyone could actually hear what the Fish said.

  The bartender leaned slightly on the inside rim of the bar. She deftly smoothed her hair over her left shoulder so it didn’t touch the countertop. “I don’t understand this. How can someone get to be a manager if they’re so capricious?”

  “Capricious,” Rand chuckled. “That’s a great word for it. Well, maybe it misses her Cruella de Vil qualities, but it nails the lack of rhyme or reason.”

  The brunette shook her head. “People surprise me all the time. I think sometimes I’m too naive.” Then she looked him in the eye. “But I don’t have to deal with the insanity you’re describing. Your boss sounds seriously irresponsible.”

  “Hey, Lissa!” a voice called. “C’mere.”

  The bartender left, heading for the old guy. She froze when the door to the bar opened and a tall, dark-haired man walked in. Something about him caught Rand’s eye, he was that sort of man. He looked like a character from TV or film. Black hair, strong jaw line, natural confidence. The Hero, straight out of Central Casting. Whereas Rand was a Ryan Reynolds type—the boy-next-door with a charming grin. Hey—not everyone can look like Superman.

  “Jacko,” the old guy called out.

  “Hey, Barney. How’s Sheila doing?”

  “Well enough after the last round of chemo, I suppose. We’re awfully grateful Lissa’s still here. We thought we’d lose her after the holidays.”

  The dark-haired man shrugged out of his overcoat. He wore a well-tailored suit, white shirt and red power tie. He looked around, aware of the people in the room but without a politician’s eagerness to please everyone. He even checked Rand out, resulting in a moment of cool eye contact and a faint smile. Rand bent over his phone but continued to monitor the newcomer. “Jacko” had become magnetic north in the bar, pulling Rand’s focus away from the brunette.

  The bartender’s head jerked up as the man approached her. Her body language said deer-in-the-headlights, but when she greeted the new guy—“Hey, Uncle Jack. You want the usual?”—her voice sounded surprisingly chirpy and breathy, even—dare he think it?—a bit ditzy.

  Intriguing. That wasn’t the voice she’d used talking to Rand. He tried to appear absorbed in his smartphone as he watched the action unfold.

  “Uncle Jack” paused near the bar, staring at the bartender. Finally, he turned toward the old guy. “Barney, I need to speak with Alice for a minute. Can you cover for her?”

&nbsp
; “Of course, Jack. Take all the time you need.” Barney moved around the back to join the girl behind the bar.

  The bartender—Alice?—stiffened at this development, then dutifully came around and gave Superman a quick hug. Her hair was brown where his was black but they had similarly shaped faces. Rand could believe they came from the same family, even if “Uncle Jack” hardly seemed old enough to be her uncle. She couldn’t be older than twenty-five and the man mid-thirties, but there was a resemblance. Maybe “uncle” was an honorary title and they were really cousins or family friends. Yet the hug was just awkward enough to suggest a relationship of birth not choice.

  They moved to a table a few feet from the bar for a conversation that looked, at least from a distance, like a cross-examination by the man and urgent pleading by the bartender. Rand had to glance down when his phone buzzed with a new text. From Marcy. Of course.

  Watched your tapes of the Sophisticate and the Girl Next Door. Are you f’ing insane? I need conflict in the Bowl this year, not dim bulbs giggling about their mani/pedis. Get your head in the game asshole. If it weren’t for your father I’d can your ass & get a real producer. Find me some serious candidates!!!!

  Christ. Marcy could give him a full-blown headache faster than it took to air a ten-second promo.

  He hit Phil’s number.

  “Hey there,” Phil said. “Where are you getting these lame lawyer jokes from?”

  “What? Oh, I’m at a bar in South Philly.”

  “Scouting for the show? Let me guess, Marcy-the-Monster wants regional accents on this year’s Fishbowl?” Phil laughed.

  “Can’t talk about it, but you’re not far off,” Rand conceded. “Look, I’m this close to quitting. Talk me off the ledge.”

  “No can do. You should quit. Go get a real job.”

  “Go to law school, you mean?”

  “And add a JD on top of your MFA in film from USC? Hardly.” Phil sighed. “No, I’m talking about a job with someone who isn’t six inches away from homicidal rage.”