“And you? What kind of partner did you have last year?”
“I got paired up with a guy that played a dad on TV. Older. Very sweet. If I get paired up with an older guy again, I’m guessing that’s my demographic. Feel-good.” Emma shrugged, but she didn’t seem upset by that.
“And Tatiana?”
“Tati is…” she trailed off, then looked over at me. “Well, looks like we’ll see very soon. I see the limos pulling up. Come on.”
The group moved into action. Cameramen surged forward, and I followed Emma as a line of black sedans pulled in. They stopped, and the first driver got out, tricked out to the nines in a black suit and hat. He adjusted white gloves on his hands for maximum effect, and then went to open the back car door.
A woman got out. Tall, beautiful, slender. She was dressed in a white pantsuit that left her entire back bare, oversized designer sunglasses, and too-bright red lipstick. It was immediately obvious who it was—Annamarie Evans, who’d been on the cover of every fashion magazine for the last five years or so, until she’d been usurped by a bustier, younger model. It happened a lot in her business, and my guess was that she was here to try and get herself a bit of attention.
The cameras loved her, though. She smiled and nodded and gave a swing of her lovely hair, stepping gracefully toward a chalk-marked X that had been drawn on the asphalt for her to go stand on when she’d exited the car.
I was guessing I’d just spotted Serge’s partner. She was gorgeous.
The next limo contained another familiar figure—Michael Michaels. His black hair was cut into a mohawk, and spikes stuck out from both of his ears. Tattoos covered his neck, and he wore a black t-shirt that had the arm holes cut all the way down to his waistband, which was also covered in spikes. He wore a pair of tight leather jeans and big, buckle-laden boots. He also looked incredibly skinny and pale. I had his CD in my car at home.
Next was a woman I didn’t recognize. She had blonde, wavy hair and wore a dark polo shirt and jeans. She wasn’t exactly dressed like Annamarie the model. I wondered what she did.
Emma obviously knew. She leaned over to me. “Julia Mckillip. She’s a racecar driver. One of the few female ones.”
O-kay. That was an interesting choice. “And she ice skates? Huh.”
The next car held an older man with a plaid shirt, a cowboy hat, and a beard. I could almost hear Emma’s sigh of disappointment. “Louie Earl. Country singer. I bet he’s mine.”
I bet he was, too.
The next car held a younger girl, no more than sixteen or so. I recognized her, too. Victoria Kiss, a teen star with a few kid’s movies under her belt and an equal number of accompanying kid’s CDs. Not surprising, either. I wasn’t really seeing A-listers. I was seeing washed up, washing up, or looking to move up on the rather tough ladder in Hollywood.
I considered Michael Michaels. If Louie Earl was Emma’s partner, either the rocker was mine or the next guy. I didn’t have anything against Michael Michaels (other than his dumb name), so he wouldn’t be so bad.
“Last one,” Emma murmured, and I turned back to the end car, watching as the door opened.
I didn’t have to fake my gasp of surprise. Neither did anyone else. We were all genuinely shocked at the man that came out of the sedan.
Ty Randall, a.k.a. “Ty the MMA Biter.”
Oh, Jesus. That was an…interesting choice.
Michael Michaels had been lean and skinny. This guy was neither. Tall, but he seemed more muscles than anything else. His shoulders were broad, but he wasn’t bulky, and he moved like, well, a warrior. He had a big, thick neck, big thick legs, and a shaved head that held a five o’clock shadow. His face was impassive, not clearly defined, and one of his brows had a scar through it. His nose had clearly been broken more than once.
Ty Fucking Randall.
I didn’t watch Mixed Martial Arts, but I sure knew who he was. Everyone did. He’d made headlines about a month or two ago when he’d been headlining a fight in Vegas, and he’d bitten his opponent. Bitten. As in, chomp chomp. As in, tore a hunk out of his nose. People had been scandalized, and he’d been put on hiatus. No one wanted to fight him. It wasn’t exactly that you were expected to fight clean in MMA, but you didn’t tear your opponent’s face apart. I mean, Jesus. He’d made public apologies through his reps, but the incident was still too new and fresh on everyone’s minds for this to be anything besides a shock.
And I was filled with a cold ripple of dread, thinking of all the beer in the fridge. Something told me that Michael Michaels wasn’t going to be my partner. Oh no. Oh, nonono.
I didn’t want to be with Ty the Biter.
It was clear he didn’t want to be here. He leaned against the sedan and crossed his legs, and then crossed his arms over his brawny chest. He looked bored. Pissed.
He wouldn’t want to win. I had a feeling he was just here for some good PR. He sorely needed it. But my guess was that he’d also be just fine with last place. Not me. I needed to win.
If he were my partner, I was screwed. Goodbye, second chance at a career. Hello, skate monitor at the mall once more. Or skating as Hildy the Pink Dinosaur in the local production of Dino Friends on Ice. Again.
A woman with a big poof of feathered blonde hair came out from the other side of the cameras. “All right. It’s time for the team assignments! Are you ready?”
It seemed to be a rhetorical question since no one was answering. I waited, tense as hell, for the assignments.
“Tatiana will be paired with Michael Michaels.”
The two moved forward and joined hands. Tatiana did a cute little twirl and beamed at the cameras. Michael Michaels just looked kind of bored. Okay then.
“Victoria Kiss will be paired with Toby.”
She grinned and moved forward, putting both of her hands into Toby’s, and then leaned forward to kiss him, her foot popping up. Cute.
“Julia McKillip will be paired with Jon Jon.”
Julia wasn’t a showy type. She moved forward and shook his hand, and then they stood next to each other awkwardly.
“Annamarie Evans will be paired with Serge.”
Annamarie didn’t walk—she glided forward, and Serge pulled her into his arms and dipped her. Hams, every last one of them.
The only two left unclaimed were Louie Earl and Ty Randall. I looked at the two, and then had a new appreciation for Louie Earl’s stouter figure and his bushy beard. I could work with that. I knew I could. Being on a heartwarming team wouldn’t be so bad, and if the public loved us, we could do well even if we didn’t win. I could still be called back.