Turning It On

By Elizabeth Harmon

Book editor Hannah Levinson couldn't be happier. This "Nice Jewish Girl" is ready to marry the man she's longed after for half her life. When her fiancé suggests they audition for Last Fling, a steamy new reality show for engaged couples, she lets herself be swayed. Maybe she'll learn a thing or two.

Vlad Shustov's fall from a once-bright career as a competitive figure skater was swift. Now trapped by a shameful past and an uncertain future, "Vlad the Bad" strips for cash. Joining the cast of Last Fling could earn him a fortune—or at least enough to finally leave stripping. But to win the show's prize, he must seduce an engaged woman, something he can't even bear the thought of.

Hannah's not like any woman Vlad's met before. Betrayed by the man she thought she loved and relegated to the ugly-duckling role she'd worked so hard to shed, can she trust there's more to Vlad than meets the eye? With sleazy TV tactics shattering the last shreds of the contestants' confidence, they'll have to believe true happiness is not only possible...it may be looking right at them.

For more Red Hot Russians, don't miss Pairing Off—available now!

97,760 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carina Press
• Release date: Jun 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781459290549

Book preview

Chapter One

Smile!

The command cut through the rumble of the subway car and Hannah Levinson hunched her shoulders, knowing it was meant for her.

She glanced up from her tablet. Across the aisle sat a man in a New York Giants jacket and too-tight polyester pants. Balanced in his lap was a gray hard-shell briefcase, like the ones copier repair guys carried. Hannah stared, dismayed as always by the nerve of complete strangers. I beg your pardon?

Undeterred, he met her gaze. I said, smile. You’d look a whole lot prettier.

Though this sort of thing was just part of life in New York City, Hannah never knew how to respond. Just because she didn’t walk around grinning like an idiot did not give others the right to comment. Do I really look that dark and gloomy? Maybe I should be more engaging, rather than the girl with her nose always stuck in a book. Today, however, the normal doubts came and went, like a bad smell on a passing stranger. Life was too good. Being the girl with her nose always in a book seemed to be serving her quite well, thank you very much, and as for being more engaging? She had that base covered, too. As she felt the bulk of gold and gem through her glove, happiness tugged at the corner of her mouth. Instead of a scathing comeback, she would share a little bit of her sunshine. It’s a good thing I’m on my way to the dentist, she replied, flashing a bright grin.

Flummoxed, the Smile Cop turned back to his smartphone. Hannah returned to her tablet, happy thoughts turning in her mind. A few moments later, the conductor’s voice crackled over the broken speakers and she joined the commuters scurrying out of the station.

Late afternoon Park Slope, Brooklyn, was quiet, as most of the stroller moms were home from coffee dates and toddler enrichment classes, and most of the professionals who worked in Manhattan hadn’t returned yet. The windows of neighborhood restaurants cast an inviting glow onto the icy sidewalks, as inside workers bustled among rows of empty tables, preparing for the Thursday-night dinner crowd. The sight made Hannah long to be at one, surrounded by friends, laughter and celebration. Unfortunately, Jack wouldn’t be home until late.

Dr. Martinez’s office was at the end of the block. As Hannah stepped out of the cold into the warm waiting room, the receptionist looked up. There you are! We called your cell, but you didn’t pick up.

I was on the train. Hannah tugged off her gloves and stuffed them into her coat pocket. She glanced at the smiling molar clock above the reception desk, which read a few minutes before five. But I’m early.

You’re late. The appointment was at four.

It was? She never forgot appointments. Ever. Good thing it wasn’t something work- or Jack-related. I’m so sorry. Can you still fit me in?

The receptionist rolled her desk chair over to a computer and tapped the keyboard with her long pink fingernails. Looks like Robynne is available to do a cleaning at five fifteen, and I’m sure Doc can stop in and have a look. Have a seat.

Ouch, Robynne. She’d seen the blonde hygienist at her last appointment, and the experience hadn’t been pleasant, though Jack seemed to like her well enough. Such was the price for being disorganized.

She took a seat in the waiting room and dug out her tablet, returning to the manuscript she’d been reading on the train. The debut novel by a top 1970s movie director was a juicy Hollywood tell-all, full of thinly disguised famous faces. It was a plum project, with bestseller written all over it. She had received it this afternoon when she was invited to interview for a position in the prestigious literary fiction division. If Hannah impressed her prospective boss, it was sure to be the first of many bestsellers coming her way.

Ready?

A squeaky little-girl voice yanked Hannah out of decadent Hollywood. Robynne, the hygienist, stood at the door to the inner office, pearly whites gleaming.

Yeah, sure. Hannah rose, but found it difficult to tear her eyes away from a particularly skillful turn of phrase.

Something good online? Robynne asked, as Hannah crossed the waiting room. I love the personality quizzes on Facebook. Have you seen the one that tells which Disney princess you are? I’m Snow White.

Hannah switched off her tablet. No, it’s a new book written by Curtis Monroe.

Who?

"Curtis Monroe. He directed Platoon Six. Mafia Girl? Robynne’s brow settled over blank eyes. He was one of the biggest directors in the seventies."

The hygienist shrugged. I’m not really a fan of old black-and-white movies. How come you’re reading that?

Excitement bubbled forth again. The hygienist was an unlikely person with whom to share her great news, but Hannah was bursting to tell someone. It’s my job. I work at Bettendorf Publishing and this afternoon, I was invited to interview for an editor position in the literary fiction division.

Robynne turned back, her face puckered. Huh. Who’s got time to read? She led Hannah into an exam room and gestured toward the vacant chair. So? How’s Jack?

It was an odd question, but it wasn’t the first time Hannah had sensed Robynne was a little too interested in her boyfriend. Make that fiancé. He couldn’t be better. We just got engaged.

Immediately, Robynne’s gaze fell on the third finger of Hannah’s left hand. Wow, that’s some rock you’re wearing.

Hannah held out her ink-dotted and nail-bitten fingers, admiring how the diamond sparkled in the fluorescent light. Rings like this belonged on the manicured hands of glamorous creatures like her sister Rachel, and even after two weeks, it still felt strange to own a piece of jewelry others found impressive. Thank you. He surprised me New Year’s Eve.

He did? Robynne seemed distracted by the instruments on the tray beside the chair, picking them up and setting them down. I mean, that’s great. I didn’t realize you were so serious... She gave a short laugh. Have a seat, please.

The exam began with a jab to Hannah’s upper gum and got worse from there. Robynne wasn’t particularly gentle on the best of days, but this afternoon, she seemed to attack her work with a measure of sadistic glee. Hannah fixed her gaze on the Norman Rockwell print hanging on the opposite wall, and prayed the ordeal would end quickly. Twenty long minutes later, Robynne handed her a cup of rinse. Have you set a wedding date?

Hannah swished and spat the mint-flavored rinse into the little basin beside her chair. October 20. We have the hotel and banquet room booked. I’m shopping for a dress. The hard part is finding one that isn’t strapless.

What’s wrong with strapless?

Hannah glanced down at her double Ds, concealed with a paper dental bib and layers of scarves. The one strapless gown she’d tried made her look like an inflatable sex doll, the Nice Jewish Girl edition. Perky little Robynne obviously never dealt with such problems. Nothing in particular.

Is he taking you to Cozumel for your honeymoon? He loves it there.

Hannah blinked, unnerved at Robynne’s familiarity with Jack’s vacation preferences. Then she relaxed. He’d gone down to Mexico in the fall with some of his fraternity brothers, and must have talked about the trip at his last appointment. I don’t know. We haven’t made plans yet.

Probably smart. A lot can happen between now and October. Robynne snapped off her blue rubber gloves. You can schedule your six-month on the way out. Though before the wedding? She offered a tight smile. Take my advice and book a whitening treatment.

Maybe it was best Hannah didn’t go around smiling.

Hannah walked home from her appointment, thinking. The hygienist obviously had a thing for Jack, but did she have to be so obvious? Not that Hannah blamed her. She’d had a thing for Jack Gordon since she was twelve years old.

They’d grown up in the same neighborhood and their families were longtime friends. In high school, his golden aura inspired every overwrought poem Hannah wrote for the school literary mag. They had gone to different colleges, and though she dated other guys, when she and Jack got together three years ago at her sister Rachel’s wedding, it was as if the stars were at last aligned.

The families were almost as ecstatic over Jack’s proposal as Hannah. Mom had lined up the rabbi and reception hall with startling speed. Jack’s mom promised an enormous bridal shower. Rachel offered to throw a bachelorette party. What Hannah had longed for half her life was now less than a year away.

A block from her apartment, she stopped at the corner sushi place and picked up dinner to go. Jack wouldn’t be home for hours yet, but she could finish the Monroe book and put together comprehensive and insightful notes for her potential new boss. Then when Jack did arrive home, they could celebrate her good news together.

She and Jack lived in an 1880s gray stone, set in a row of identical buildings. The gargoyles that flanked the front steps leered as she stepped around patches of frozen snow and fished out her keys. In the foyer, she unlocked the mailbox to find a few bills, coupons from the dry cleaner down the block and a glossy catalog. She tugged it free, and a hot flush rose in her winter-chilled face.

It was from a lingerie chain store where she never shopped. Not even online. One visit in college had been enough. A rail-thin salesgirl had looked at Hannah’s ginormous chest and loudly announced, "We don’t sell anything that would fit you."

Had Jack ordered it? Her hands trembled as she pictured him admiring the beautiful, perfectly proportioned models. She flipped the catalog over, and breathed a relieved sigh. There was her full name, Hannah Leah Levinson, just as it appeared on her credit cards. This was nothing more than a poorly targeted mass mailing. She tossed the catalog in the trash.

Juggling bag, purse, mail and sushi, she climbed the stairs, and at their door, realized that the music and laughter she heard on the way up was coming from the apartment. Was Jack actually home before midnight? Her heart soared, as she entered and found him sprawled on the living room couch, feet up, tie loose, cocktail in hand.

Hi, honey, you’re home. His goofy grin suggested this martini was not his first.

Hannah set her bag down, thrilled she would be able to share her news after all. So are you. What happened? Did Windsor and St. Clair close its doors?

Jack laughed. Don’t I fucking wish? No, the meat grinder is still in business. And though it looks like I’m just kicking back, I’m actually entertaining a very important client. He shouted toward the kitchen. Dude! Hannah’s home. Get your ass in here.

A tall slender guy with a spiked hairstyle and a well-tailored Italian sport coat stepped into the living room and spread his arms wide. It took a second before she recognized him, then she gasped and rushed forward to embrace their childhood friend, Eric Conrad.

Hannah Banana, so good to see you.

She stepped back, taking in the sight of the once-scrawny, pimpled boy who had been her literary magazine coeditor, transformed into a geek-cool, Hollywood up-and-comer. You look fantastic! LA treating you well?

Couldn’t be better. Eric grinned. How about you, Hannah? Keeping our boy in line? He grabbed her left hand and admired the ring. He must be doing all right for himself.

Only the best for my bride-to-be.

Hannah laughed. Isn’t he wonderful? She smiled up at Eric, whom she hadn’t seen for more than a year. What brings you back to the city? Family or business?

Jack rose from the sofa. Actually, Eric is the newest client of Windsor and St. Clair’s entertainment law division, thanks to yours truly.

Eric bobbed his head, feigning modesty. Grab a drink and join us. I’ve got lots to tell you guys.

Hannah stashed her bags in the alcove she used as a home office, put her sushi in the fridge for tomorrow’s lunch and poured a glass of wine, happy to celebrate their old friend’s success, and hers.

They went for dinner at the new organic pizzeria down the street, and Hannah relaxed in the comfortable glow of a night out and good wine. Though there had been no chance to share her news yet, this was exactly what she had been in the mood for. Jack was unusually cheerful, as well. Out from under the oppressive thumbs of Windsors Junior, Senior, and the venerable Emil St. Clair, he was actually smiling. This was so worth the midnight oil she would have to burn to finish the Curtis Monroe manuscript.

They reminisced about the Monty Python routines Eric and Jack performed in high school talent shows, and about the dances Eric had asked Hannah to, only to be turned down. She smiled and took Jack’s hand. Even then I was madly in love. You were just too cool to notice.

I noticed, Jack answered. I was just too much of an idiot to appreciate it.

It’s too bad you didn’t come to UMass with Jack and me, said Eric. You would have had some good, good times.

What makes you think I didn’t have good, good times at Cornell?

Jack and Eric glanced at each other with perfect comedic timing and burst out laughing. Okay, party-central it wasn’t, but it gave me what I needed to launch a career that I love. Speaking of which... She paused and took a deep breath. Today I was invited to interview for an editor job with Bettendorf’s literary fiction group.

Jack’s cold stare made her regret opening her big mouth. Yay, you, he muttered under his breath.

Momentarily deflated, she should have guessed he would react this way. It happened whenever she mentioned anything positive about her career. Even Jack’s hefty paycheck didn’t make up for the fact that he was envious—not that she was an overworked and underpaid assistant editor, but that she was doing something she loved. Though she was annoyed he’d rained on tonight’s parade, he needed to understand this was good news for him, too.

Hey, she squeezed his hand. The job comes with a raise. Not a huge one, but maybe enough to turn our five-year plan into a four-and-a-half-year plan. Meanwhile, you have a lot to be proud of.

Oh, yeah. Kissin’ ass with the best of them. He knocked back the last of his beer, and sat for a moment, staring at nothing, as an awkward silence descended. Then he draped his arm across the back of her chair and smiled. She smiled, too, as the tense moment passed. Hey, Eric, why don’t you tell Hannah about your new project.

Something you’re writing? She took a sip of wine, always happy to hear about someone’s work in progress.

"Better. Eric is the creator and coproducer of this year’s hottest new reality show, Last Fling."

Interesting title, she said.

Incredible concept, Jack added, in disconcerting Hollywood-speak. Wait ’til you hear it.

Eric grinned and turned to Hannah. What if...there was a surefire way to know that the person you were about to marry was 100 percent ready to make that lifetime commitment, and forsake all others unto you. As a bride-to-be, would you want that?

Absolutely, Hannah replied.

Who wouldn’t? Eric asked, spreading his hands. "Well, Last Fling can prove that."

Okay. She glanced from Jack to Eric who seemed to be in on some secret she wasn’t.

Picture this. Eric framed a space in the air with his hands. "Two engaged couples at a luxurious private resort. Just him, her...and the gorgeous men and women they’ve chosen for a possible last fling before they walk down the aisle. They go on dates with each one, take part in exciting challenges and then in the final episode, eliminate all but one. Do they have that last fling, or...stay faithful and prove they’re ready to say I do?"

As it sunk in, Hannah gaped at Eric. "You’ve created a TV show where the idea is for the contestants to cheat on the person they’re about to marry?"

No, no, Eric said, shaking his head. "You’re missing the point. They affirm their love by not cheating."

And it’s just a fling. Not cheating, per se, Jack offered.

But the people, the flings, whatever you call them...the reason they’re there is to try and come between the engaged couple. And the couple has actually invited them? That’s awful! What kind of sick people would do that?

Jack glared. Jeez, Hannah. You don’t have to be so negative. It’s a TV show.

Eric held up a hand. It’s all right, Jack. I’ve heard it all before. His voice had an oily quality she didn’t associate with the sweet guy she’d known in high school. "Hannah. Look at it this way. If a couple isn’t happy, isn’t it better that they find out before they spend thousands of dollars on a wedding, invite hundreds of people...only to be abandoned at the altar? Or worse...divorced a year later?"

Hannah stilled. Eric had just voiced her worst nightmare.

He smiled. We’re actually doing our couples a favor by saving them from a huge mistake.

I guess, she muttered, toying with piece of whole grain pizza crust on her plate.

"And the couples who resist the flings? They can move forward with rock-solid assurance that their marriage will last. Which is what we all want, right? That happily-ever-after, fairy-tale ending."

Hannah nodded, though the whole idea left a bad taste in her mouth.

"Not to mention, both couples will receive designer wardrobes, including a wedding gown created especially for each bride, fabulous prizes and enjoy ten glorious weeks, all expenses paid, being pampered at the luxurious Resorte Siete Mares in Puerto Rico."

Ten weeks, Jack echoed, grinning.

Ever been to Puerto Rico, Hannah Banana?

No, but I hear it’s nice. So this show...

"Last Fling," Jack supplied.

Hannah nodded. "Last Fling. It’s really going to be on the air?"

Yes, indeed, Eric said. Monday nights on the Xposé Network. We start filming in mid-February and the show debuts the first week of March. Couple number one, Chris and Tammy of Daytona Beach, are already on board. Couldn’t be more excited. I’m signing up their flings as we speak.

What about the other couple?

So glad you asked. Eric winked and turned to Jack. Do you want to tell her or should I?

Jack looked over and tenderly touched Hannah’s hand. Eric’s hoping it will be us, sweetheart.

Hannah burst out laughing, and then realized she was laughing alone. Her gaze shifted from Jack to Eric and back. "Are you insane?"

Jack snorted and pulled his hand away. I knew you’d react like this.

Then why did you even ask?

Because Eric’s our friend and he needs our help.

Help?

Long-faced, Eric nodded. The truth is, we had another couple lined up but— He gave a hollow laugh. The bride-to-be caught the groom in bed with the wedding planner, so believe it or not, they’ve called it off.

Then find another engaged couple. There are plenty around.

It’s not that easy, Hannah. There is a lot that goes into it, and our schedule has us on the ground, ready to shoot in just three weeks. That isn’t enough time to locate a couple, run all the background checks and do all the preliminaries. I know you and Jack. You’re stable, sane people with no skeletons in the closet. Plus, you’re successful young professionals.

Not exactly the types for reality TV.

Eric wagged a finger. Not true, Hannah. Not true at all. The reality TV viewer is actually quite upscale. By going on the show, you’ll broaden our demographic appeal. Chris and Tammy are hardworking, salt-of-the-earth Southerners. You and Jack? Well-educated, affluent professionals from New York City. Everyone in America will have someone they can relate to.

How am I supposed to take ten weeks off work? She turned to Jack. "How are you supposed to take ten weeks off work? Big and Little Windsor barely let you out for lunch."

Eric’s a client, so I’m sure they’ll see the advantage of having me there on-site. And you can work remotely. Doesn’t Bettendorf use freelance editors from all over the country?

What about my promotion?

Jack groaned. Eric leaned forward. We’ll arrange your shooting schedule around your workday, Hannah. You’ll have all the time you need.

No one would be happy about her being gone for so long, but she might be able to make arrangements, provided she stayed on top of her work. And really, what better place to edit beach books than at the beach? But even with her employer’s blessing this felt wrong. Jack...reality TV? Last flings? This all seems so...sleazy.

It doesn’t have to be. We get a free vacation in a gorgeous place. You get a wedding dress designed just for you. Weren’t you saying that you hate how every dress is strapless? Now you can have exactly what you want. We don’t have to take it seriously. Let’s just go have some fun for once, and help out an old friend.

She drummed her fingers, and then turned to Eric. You won’t make us eat spiders or anything, will you?

Eric laughed. No spiders, I swear.

She swallowed and asked the real question weighing on her mind. We don’t have to go through with the last flings, do we?

He held up one hand. Absolutely not. The choice is completely up to you.

For her there was no choice, but the eager look on Jack’s face only fueled her doubt. Can I sleep on it?

Jack heaved an exasperated sigh. Eric patted her hand. Sure, sure. Take all the time you need. He took out a business card and slid it across the table. Call my cell in the morning, and let me know your decision.

They said good-night shortly afterward, and Eric caught a cab to his hotel. As they walked home, Jack was sullen. So much for her celebratory night out. Why couldn’t you have just said yes? he asked.

Because it might blow her chances at a job she wanted very badly? Not to mention a few other reasons. Do you really want to do this, Jack? Frankly, it bothers me that you’re so eager to go on a show where other women are trying to seduce you.

Hannah, we’re engaged. This has nothing to do with other women.

Then why does it mean so much to you?

He thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat. Short breaths puffed from his nostrils and formed clouds in the cold air. Because Eric is living the life I wanted, that’s why.

She paused, then drew in a breath, remembering. Billy Bigelow, she said, softly. He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.

Jack’s senior year star turn as the doomed lover in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel brought every female in Port Pleasant—Hannah included—to tears. He had sent a video to the UMass Theater Department and landed an audition, only to have his parents refuse to pay for college if he majored in theater. That had been the end of his dream.

Since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to be in show business. Instead, I’m an entertainment lawyer watching a guy with half the talent I had succeed, while I... He clenched his jaw, and then raked one hand through his wavy blond hair. You’re lucky, Hannah. You work hard, but at something you love. Me? I spend ninety hours a week sucking up to assholes, and doing something I hate.

I know, she said, gently. But it’s not forever. Five years and then you’ll have enough experience to leave and open your own firm. By then, I’ll be making enough to support us while you’re getting it off the ground. It’s going to work out. I know it is.

He rubbed the back of his neck, and stared down at the street, his breath forming a cloud in the air. But sometimes I’m so miserable I don’t think I can stand it another day. It’s as if I’m living someone else’s life. Can you understand how that feels?

Truthfully, she couldn’t. Her life was perfect just as it was. But for his sake, she nodded. Of course I do.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed. Then let’s do something totally crazy. Something other people would kill to do. We get our fifteen minutes of fame. Jack chuckled. We’ll piss off our parents. You’ll even get a wedding gown designed just for you. How cool is that?

Kinda cool, Hannah admitted. But what about—

The promotion will be there. If not this time, then next time.

That wasn’t what I was going to ask. What about the flings?

What about them? No one said we have to take this seriously or go through with it. You heard Eric, it’s just for fun. Come on, honey. Say you’ll do it. Please?

Hannah wanted nothing more than for Jack to be happy, and if going on Eric’s stupid reality show would accomplish that, she was willing. Even if there was a cost. She smiled up at him and gave a decisive nod. I’ll talk with work tomorrow.

Jack’s face brightened. Hannah Levinson, I love you!

I love you, too, Jack. I love you so much.

He scooped her into his arms and whirled her in a circle, right in the middle of the sidewalk. People paused to stare, and then applaud, as snowflakes sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight. For a thrilling moment she would always remember life felt like a movie and she was the star.

Chapter Two

Vladimir Shustov crossed his arms over his bare, oiled chest and glared at the scrawny Hollywood producer straddling the locker room bench. Eric Conrad’s black clothes and pasty skin made him look woefully out of place in steamy, sweaty Miami. And the $150,000? What do I have to do to get that?

Not what you think. Conrad’s voice had a high-pitched, defensive edge. Just be nice to her.

Just nice? Vlad echoed, in disbelief.

That’s right. Nice. Become her favorite. If she complains about something her fiancé does, do the opposite. Create some drama. You seem like a guy who understands how the world works. Help us make good TV and everyone benefits. Not only do you become rich, you’ll be famous, too.

Famous as what? Vlad pushed the thought away. He had made compromises before and didn’t believe for a minute the bullshit line that he could go on a show called Last Fling and be rewarded for not having one.

Tammy said she was here last summer. August, I think. For her sister’s bachelorette party. Do you remember her? the producer asked.

I don’t. There are so many.

Conrad chuckled. I’m sure there are. Well, she definitely remembered Vlad the Bad. He tapped his tablet and held it out. Does she look familiar?

The photo showed four girls in matching blue dresses, all bleached blondes with dark roots and tanned, shiny faces. Three were attractive. The fourth had chubby, well-inked arms, coarse features and wore an overly wide smile that only emphasized how unhappy she was.

Tammy’s the one on the end.

Vlad had already guessed that. He’d probably given her some special attention that night. Usually that meant nothing more than a few extra dollars stuffed in his thong, but sometimes the girls misinterpreted. That seemed to be the case with Tammy Bradford, who had apparently chosen him as someone she’d like to have a last fling with. He handed the tablet back. What does her husband think about this?

Not her husband, fiancé. Conrad held up a hand and Vlad noticed the man’s oversize watch. Black face, crown insignia. Rolex. The guy was doing well, or wanted to give that impression. He’s all in, too. In fact, I’m flying to Chicago straight from here to sign up one of his. He grinned. "Remember the old Somerset High TV series?"

Vlad shook his head. I didn’t grow up in America.

I think it was popular in Europe, too.

Where I lived we didn’t get much TV. I read mostly.

Conrad raked Vlad up and down from behind his glasses. He didn’t need to say anything; it was obvious what he was thinking. The fact that a guy who took off his clothes for money had a brain seemed to surprise people.

Well, then. Speaking of reading. He slid a stapled packet of pages across the bench and clicked open a pen. Look this over, sign at the bottom of page twenty-eight and we’ll have a deal.

Vlad scanned the first page, which was dense with legalese. He’d been in this country more than five years and his English was very good, but even native speakers probably couldn’t make sense of this. Maybe he ought to show it to a lawyer. He didn’t have one, though a friend who used to dance at The Male Room attended law school for a while. Tony might be of some help. Vlad read on. Physical exam, psychological screening, drug test, credit checks. Nondisclosure? He glanced up from the page at the baby-faced producer.

It means you can’t discuss the outcome of the show, or the terms of your contract with anyone. If you do, you won’t see a dime.

Could they really do that? He’d have to ask Tony. Scanning the paragraphs, he spotted what interested him most—the $100,000 he would be paid for ten weeks’ work. If he was selected as a Final Fling and ...satisfactorily fulfilled the requirements, stipulations and contractual conditions outlined herein...blah, blah, blah...producers’ discretion, so on and so forth, he could pocket another $150,000.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Money like that could change his life.

He flipped to the last page, and held the pen over the blank line with his name printed beneath.

Vladimir Ivanovich Shustov.

The sight