Page 10 of Insta Bride
“So, what do I do?”
“They’re gonna cast you as the bad boy. The womaniser who can’t keep it zipped. Play to that, but not as an asshole. You love all women, and we want all viewing women to want to save you from yourself.”
“Playing to my strengths?”
“Whatever,” Bree laughed. “You can thank me for the narrative that no matter who you are lucky enough to end up with, you’ll find the best in her.”
As the women were introduced to us one at a time, I kept my drinks watered down and my head screwed on. If they wanted me to be the bad-boy, I could do it. I flirted and flattered every woman. All the producers had me pegged from the start. I didn’t have to find women, they found me, and I could love them all—for a night.
I loved the ones with the innocent eyes because they were the ones to change the most after having been fucked.
I loved the ones who thought they were tough enough to walk away after one night or one weekend. Bullshit, baby. I loved to love them until their ex-lovers wouldn’t recognise them and they’d become the clingiest of them all.
I loved curves as much as I enjoyed the androgynous streamlined legs that could wrap around my face.
But my greatest gift was my love of eating pussy. I loved how each woman had a unique taste and cry. I loved finding her spot and bringing her to the edge until she’d be prepared to offer me anything just to finish her off.
Yes, I could make love or fuck my way through all these women and come back again next year to find the elusive love.
I had it planned.
Except, no one had told the suits in charge.
Bree had given me a heads up on the main influencers in the game. Jonathan Parent used to be a respected journalist, until he got caught cheating on his pregnant wife. His only saving grace was cheating with his ex-wife who’d dumped him when he got caught cheating with his second wife.
See his dilemma? Loving two women wasn’t a crime. Being the face of breakfast news watched by housewives turned cheating into career suicide.
The network had decided to hide him amongst loved up couples. Bree had warned me not to get in his way. Not to chest up, or even go alpha on his ass if he was getting out of line with the crew. Apparently, Jonathan, or JP, had tried and failed with most of the female crew and bets were now being placed on which contestants would decide his cock was worth believing his promises of a journalistic career. Any male caught in his crossfire would be edited to fit the JP ego and narrative.
Shit.
I couldn’t make Bree promises I wouldn’t keep. If I saw JP acting out of line, I’d do something about it and my future career be damned.
Yes, I treated women like commodities—but only women who knew the score. I avoided women looking for romance and relationships. But, if they wanted a great time for one night, I’d be their man.
Pretending to be on my good behaviour, I stood back when JP gathered us all around for the Matching Ceremony. Watching where his eyes landed, anticipating which woman would be his first prey and planning to get there first. Consider it my version of social work.
“I hope you have all enjoyed your first day on Lovers Island,” JP announced as if running for prime minister. Of course, we all cheered. Nervously, we followed the cue cards held off to the side and ignored how he’d compressed two days into one. “You’ve all had a chance to get to know the other contestants. You’ve made friends, but have you found love?”
We watched the screen as one by one the women were shown talking about how sexy we all were, and how they were certain to find love. My humble smile hid my ego at the number of women who’d rated me in their top two.
“It’s been brought to my attention that our maths has been off,” JP joked, pausing for canned laughter to be inserted at the appropriate time. “We’ve invited fifteen men and fifteen women onto the island, but there’s only room for twelve couples.”
I held my fake, confident smile in place. The cameras would be looking for any moment of weakness.
“The rules of the game have changed. Our relationship experts have made perfect matches. Tonight, twelve couples will be paired up and the remaining six individuals will be sent home. But we know that the science of dating isn’t always accurate, so tomorrow, two more couples will leave. You’ll all vote, and the couple with the least chance of finding love, can go home with a cool ten thousand dollars. Not bad for one night living in luxury?”
“The other couple?” A female from the front asked the question no one else dared.
“Fifteen seconds of fame.”
Shit. Shit. Double shit.
Trust my luck, I’d be paired up with some bimbo who thought five grand was a fortune. No way, sister. I was here to play until the end.
Except, one by one the couples were announced. Before each announcement, footage was shown of what she wanted in a partner and how he was the opposite. Then, his first impression. Usually, a candid and unflattering comment.
Former international model, Robbie G faked interest in former Olympic swimmer, Luna. He’d been after single mum Sami at the mixer. Except, Sami had her eyes on rich-boy philanthropist Benjamin but ended up being paired with Italian construction worker, Sebastian. I could almost count down their relationship in minutes rather than days.