Wild Card

Chapter 2

The Wild Card contest was a last-minute idea, something the producers thought would make the show stand out by opening it up to a random contestant who didn't have to go through the same rigorous screening process as the rest of the women. Sure, they'd make sure that she was a legal U.S. resident, had no criminal record, was over eighteen and all the other legalese stuff, but they didn't have to go through three sets of casting agents just to get on what's supposed to be reality TV.

Only, there's nothing real about it.

That's because most, if not all, contestants on reality TV shows are screened—first to make sure they're photogenic, and two, that they've got some sort of personality that will either gel with me or in the case of the women, create some conflict that would be great on camera. At least, that's what I heard from my assistant, Sean, whom the studio assigned to follow me around for the duration of the show.

The bigger the personality, the bigger the drama potential.

Great. The last thing I need in my life is drama, but I've signed the contract so there's no turning back. The only reason I agreed to do the show was to raise awareness for one of my favorite charities.

And already, there is drama for the Wild Card contestant is a week late, and the seven women she was supposed to join has been whittled down to four. According to Les, they're already at at each others' throats although you can never tell through their broad smiles, each one doing whatever they can to make me choose them—except for one, Marilyn. She actually doesn't care whether she wins or loses, and I have a suspicion she's more into my resort manager, Archer. But she makes me laugh and so I don't mind her quirks. She tells the crudest jokes off-camera and has the mouth of a sailor. Too bad Les Wiltern, the show's host, told me yesterday that Marilyn's time is up and he insists she's got to be the next one I send home during the next flower crown ceremony in three days, hopefully along with the Wild Card contestant, Daniela Simmons.

If only she'd made it here on time, then she'd have had a two-week run before you send her home, Les told me the other day after talking to one of the studio executives in Los Angeles. As it stands, she'll only have four days, tops, and then you have to send her home. That way, we can focus on the frontrunners for the last week and a half.

Les said that the production had to make some accommodations to get her to the island all the way from Seattle, Washington. It makes me nervous because I wonder what accommodations she must have demanded from them. No one's telling me anything, probably waiting to see my reaction when she arrives. Is something wrong with her? A prima donna, perhaps? I remember how she sounded bored when I spoke to her on the phone although there was someone squealing excitedly in the background.

"So what do you think of Bianca?" Les asks, breaking through my thoughts. We're on the patio of my family's resort hotel, the Aida in Saint Lucia and in front of us, the views are breathtaking. Cameras are rolling and I have to remind myself not to frown, the way I do whenever I'm trying to remember something—or someone—like Bianca.

Bianca must have been the last woman I'd just talked to on one of the gazebos in my resort. Blonde, leggy, absolutely stunning... and so not my type. She hates the outdoors and only emerges outside if it involves taking a selfie before running back in to talk about shoes and the latest fashions.

But then, how do I even know my type these days? Since the show started, I wouldn't know my type if she came up to me and smacked me upside the head. With cameras recording our every move, no one is who they really are. Everyone is wearing a mask—even me—and I hate it.

It's gotten so confusing that I can't even tell if the women are really interested in me or my money, or whether they're really interested in everything I do—like mountain climbing. Even I'm not sure who I am anymore, especially when everything I say and do is edited to suit the show's view of what they want me to be, some guy who's dashing and perfect. I'm really just a regular guy who likes being outdoors and managed to make that work for him in the business world. Thank God, this will only last for two more weeks before everyone packs up and leaves. Honestly, I'd rather make a bid to climb Mount Everest than be here. Then I remember that I made a promise to Mother never to do that again. One brush with death was enough for her heart.