Chapter 2: That's Not My Name
My jaw dropped at the sound of his voice, an action that led a barely-visible gnat to mistakenly believe my mouth would make an adequate rest stop. I spluttered and coughed in an attempt to spit it out, dropping my cell phone in the process.
I immediately scrambled to pick it up off of the hardwood floor, relieved but surprised to see it had survived the fall. It was an iPhone. If I breathed on it too hard, the screen cracked. What the hell?
What I should have done after inspecting my phone for damage was hang up. Instead, I brought the phone back up to my ear and nervously chewed on my lip as I waited for him to say something else.
Honestly, it was illogical. Why would I stay on the line if I didn't want to talk to him?
And I didn't want to talk to him. Truly. I wasn't just pretending to hate the guy to look cool or go against the tide. I didn't care if I was "mainstream" or not." I genuinely didn't want to talk to him, yet there I was with my phone in my hand, waiting for him to say something because my mind couldn't process any other choice.
"Hello?" Christian asked.
What the hell was I supposed to do? Stand there? Reply? Cry? For once, nothing was coming to mind, and I was the kind of person who always had something to say, no matter what.
"Are you there, Mystery Girl?"
I fought the temptation to speak. I really did. I even managed to stop the initial impulse, but in the end, I couldn't help myself. I had to say something. "I have a name, genius."
"Ryder," one of the hosts sang out, except the lady couldn't hold a note to save her life. I was surprised the little glass contraption on her desk hadn't shattered. "I think we found her."
The echo of our conversation on my television made me turn around and let out a loud, angry breath. I couldn't believe this was happening. No, I couldn't believe it was happening and I wasn't even happy about it. While most girls would have killed for an opportunity like this, I couldn't even force myself to act excited. I dreamed of being on television – or a movie screen – sure, but not like this. I didn't want to be remembered this way.
Christian chuckled. "Well, what's your name then, sweetheart?"
Sweetheart? He did not just call me sweetheart. Things were getting worse and worse by the second. I couldn't decide what was more horrific: being called his Mystery Girl by those bimbos or being called sweetheart by Christian himself.
I carefully crafted my response before speaking. I had a feeling cussing him out on live television wasn't socially acceptable, especially if they ever figured out who I actually was. "I don't see how that's any of your business."
Regardless of the way my words might have come across, I actually was making an effort to be nice to this guy. But when your scathing feelings for someone were as strong as mine were for Christian Ryder, it was hard to stop the spiteful words from escaping your lips.
"Fair enough," he said. "But I'm sure everyone here is curious. I know I am. Come on. Don't leave us hanging like that, sweetheart."
"Would you stop calling me that?" If I didn't like it when someone I was dating used pet names, why the hell would I like it when he did it?
He let out a self-satisfied chuckle. I didn't even have to look up to know he probably had a smirk on his face that needed to be smacked off. "I will as soon as you tell me your name, sweetheart."
Murder. All of a sudden, I wanted to commit murder. Too bad prison jumpsuit orange wasn't my color. "Not happening."
"Tell you what. How about I try and guess your name? You have to tell me if I'm right, though, or it won't be fair. Because I'm thinking your real name isn't Amanda Huggenkiss."
Ah. So that was the name I'd written down on my raffle entry. It was a classic. I couldn't blame myself.
"Well, no shit," I said.
So much for trying to be nice and not cussing on national television. Maybe if I kept this up long enough he would become uncomfortable and hang up on me. As long as I did my part and "claimed" my prize, I wasn't technically the one to blame and he'd be the one who looked bad, not me. Plus, they'd have no reason to bother me after this.
"You should probably watch your language," he said. "You're on television."
"And you should probably mind your own business. You're not my mother."
I watched him furrow his eyebrows on-screen, hoping I was starting to get to him. "Why are you being so rude?"
"Why are you being so sensitive?"
He let out an indignant huff and I resisted the urge to laugh. Looks like I'd struck a blow to his ego. Bullseye. "I'll have you know that girls happen to like sensitive guys."
"Is that what your mom told you?"
The two hosts laughed louder than normal, turning the attention back towards them where I'm sure they thought it belonged. A wave of relief swept through me. As much as I liked being the center of attention as an actress, this wasn't the kind of attention I wanted. I preferred it when that attention was limited to a stage or maybe one day a movie or television set. Not whatever the hell this was.
"I'm sure hearing this kind of thing from a fan is a first for you, Ryder," the dark-haired host said, leaning into Christian.
"Well, that would be because I'm not a fan."
I knew the whole raffle-thing made me look like a fan, but every other thing I had said and done contradicted that notion. Were they stupid, deaf, or blind?
The lack of response on their part made me think they didn't believe me. Christian was the one who kept the conversation going. I didn't know why he wouldn't just give it up. "Alright, is your name Emily?"
"Right," I said. "Of course you'd pick the most common name in the world. Great job." I knew like a million different girls named Emily.
The nervous chuckle he let out opened my eyes; it made me see the damage I could inflict on poor little unsuspecting Christian Ryder. I couldn't say I was particularly enjoying this conversation, but if I could get a rise out of him and make him look bad on national television, it would almost be worth it.
Frankly, hanging up wasn't even an option anymore, if it had ever been one in my mind. The thought of publicly embarrassing him was too good to resist – and who was I to resist such a sweet, sweet temptation?
"How about Elizabeth?" he finally said.
I didn't care if that was my middle name. It didn't count. There was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of getting anything right about me.
"Shocker. Another common name. Are you insinuating I'm common?"
His laugh sounded more forced than anything else. "Of course not. Is your name... Jessica?"
"Are your parents siblings?"
That question got me some disbelieving laughter, but hey, it was still laughter. I was probably pushing it with that one, though.
"Of course not," he said with an air of incredulity. Sometimes I was surprised by what came out of my mouth, too, but never as surprised as those who surrounded me, especially not those who were on the receiving end of my occasionally harsh words. "How about... Jennifer?"
"Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you'd gotten enough oxygen at work?"
He visibly faltered on-screen. The sight was almost as nice as the sight of your waiter coming to your table to refill your breadstick basket for the fifth time at Olive Garden. Actually, no, nothing was as nice as that sight. "Er... Dorothy?"
Dorothy? Was he serious? Of all the names in the world, he picked Dorothy? That was even worse than all of his previous guesses combined, not to mention the fact it brought back an unfortunate set of memories. "What do you think this is, the Wizard of Oz?"
He shrugged his shoulders back and shook his dark hair out, using casual movements to try to hide the fact that my clever blows were wearing him down. Unfortunately for him, even the two hosts could see what was going on – and I suspected the wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead when it came to them.
The score: one for Sophia, zilch for Christian Ryder.
"Uh... Kate?"
"Do you have the brain capacity of a fruit fly, or what?"
Finally, he just exploded. I was surprised it had taken him so long to crack. Actually, I was surprised Hollywood Tonight's technical crew hadn't cut to commercial already and ended the phone call for us. Didn't they have more segments to show and more lives to ruin? "Damn it, will you just tell me already?"
How bad this must have looked to the audience, even though I completely deserved it. Christian Ryder snapping at his little contest winner, his "Mystery Girl." How rude.
"Am I making you angry?"
"Well, a bit," he admitted, softening his tone and regaining some of the control he had momentarily lost.
"I'm sorry," I said. Just when he looked like he believed I was really apologizing, I continued. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not trying to make an ass out of you. I can't take all of the credit."
He started to say something but stopped himself just in time, instead taking a deep, calming breath. When he was ready, he spoke again. "Will you please... just... tell me your name?"
I don't think so. "Oh, would you look at that? My time here is up. I'd really love to keep talking to you, Christian, but I have to go walk my goldfish. He gets antsy when he's cooped up for too long. See ya."
With that, I hung up, torn between a smug smile and a frown. A smile for having successfully humiliated him on a show that usually lauded him for his every move, but a frown for having had to endure that conversation with him. The result was probably frightening.
The frown overpowered the smile in the end. Not even Christian's awkward spluttering before the break could change that. The feeling I had in the pit of my stomach resembled food poisoning, or, I don't know, stomach cancer. Whatever it was, it made me sprint to the bathroom just in case I threw up.
Why did it have to be him?