Chapter 9 #2
With a made-for-TV smile, Roman flips to the next question. “Kendall, what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”
She shrugs. “It’s not the craziest, but it’s the craziest I’ll admit to on a TV show my parents will watch.”
She slides her feet apart and points to a spot on her left thigh, way up where it meets her body.
“Cy,” she says, “you probably don’t remember me. But we met after a Boys Next Door concert. You signed my leg here—” She taps the pale skin there.
On the end like this, I have to lean forward to make out the scrawled signature at the line of her swimsuit.
“I immortalized it with a tattoo. Like you told Heartthrob magazine—you always loved it when fans made your autograph permanent. So your name is on my body. Forever.” She grins.
There it is.
From nice guy to cocky prick in less than sixty seconds. Of course he would have said that. It’s a little tidbit I didn’t know until now, which means it must have been after that fateful night. After I stopped paying attention to anything related to him or Boys Next Door.
As I’m silently cursing my younger self for the millionth time, it hits me like a damn record scratch, and my breath catches.
Holy shit. She’s Scarlett?
Kendall is a wildcard, but I would not have believed she possessed the same kind of mindset as Scarlett. Kendall is a party girl. Scarlett is obsessed.
But the tattoo proves it. The pictures I’ve seen—and will need to figure out how to erase from my memory—include a couple of the tattoo on Scarlett’s inner thigh. Cy’s signature. Permanently inked.
Cy rubs at the back of his neck, breaking into a self-deprecating grin.
“I, uh, yeah, I did say that. To be honest, Kendall, I-I don’t remember.
There were a lot of nights when I was with the band that I don’t remember.
Did we—” He stops his question, shakes his head.
“Don’t answer that. I do remember telling the magazine that.
And I remember that I specifically said I liked to sign—”
“Inner thighs,” she finishes for him.
If she’s hurt that he doesn’t remember her, it doesn’t show. She looks hungover, but she’s not upset.
Has Cy made the connection yet? That she’s Scarlett? If so, he’s hiding his reaction well.
Somebody say something.
Or better yet, someone put a stop to this stupid event so I can call Sawyer and tell him I’ve found Scarlett.
“I have a confession.” Josie stands up next to me. “W-w-we also met at a concert, Cy. My tattoo is under the hem of my swim shorts.”
She points to her inner left thigh.
My head spins as I blink up at the one person here I actually liked. What the fuck is happening? Does everyone have a tattoo but me?
Is Kendall Scarlett? Or is Josie?
Fuck.
Fortunately, no one else stands up or confesses to hidden tattoos, and after several awkward seconds, Josie sits down, her cheeks bright red.
“That, um, thank you, Kendall. Your secret is safe…with all of us,” Roman says with a wink at the camera. “Let’s move to our next question, shall we?”
For once, Cy’s cocky smirk is nowhere to be seen. To my shock, he looks…embarrassed. Why? Is it because he can’t remember whether he slept with them?
Yesterday, he told me he remembered me. Was he lying? Or confused? Is the night we met one of the many he doesn’t remember?
“Sydney.” Roman turns his attention to me.
With a deep inhale, I force the swirling questions from my mind. “I’m ready. Hit me.”
“What is your body count?” he asks with a lecherous look that turns my stomach.
Ew.
I replay the question in my mind, sure I misheard him. When I realize I didn’t, I blink.
Once.
Twice.
And bite my tongue so hard I’m amazed I don’t taste blood.
Excuse the fuck out of me?
I highly doubt a fan asked that question.
I glare at Cy, though he appears as shocked by the question as I am.
“I like sex, and I’m not ashamed of that.
” I shoot to my feet as anger causes my adrenaline to spike.
“Sue me. I like orgasms. Show me a woman who doesn’t.
But how many people I’ve had sex with is none of your fucking business.
I’m not embarrassed by it. But before you go trying to slut shame me, how about you tell me your number, Roman.
Or let’s ask Cy. What’s your body count?
” I ask, pointing at the star of this show.
Cy’s shocked expression morphs to rage.
Good. Fuck him. If turning the tables on him makes him angry, he can fuck right off.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” he roars as he shoves to his feet, his chair flying backward.
Rather than direct the question at me, he towers over Roman.
Wait. What?
If Cy wanted to know the answer, then why does he look ready to pound Roman’s perfect veneers in?
Roman’s smile dims, as if he’s only now understanding that his last question was out of line. “I-I-I—”
“Cy, Roman didn’t create these questions. Fans are always curious about our contestants.” Mara steps between the two men.
“That’s nobody’s fucking business except for Sydney’s,” Cy says, practically breathing fire.
Who said chivalry was dead?
No. Dammit. Who said I needed chivalry?
“Exactly. If it’s not a question Cy answers, why should we?” I gesture to the rest of the women.
Figurative mic dropped, I stalk past the crew and away from the group. If I stay, I don’t know that I can resist really laying into them for that question.
What the fuck? Why that question for me? Why not Kendall’s question? Or Josie’s?
I drop to the concrete beside the pool and dangle my legs in the cool water, spinning them in figure eights, causing ripples to form on the surface.
Any minute now, someone from production will come over and ask me to leave.
They’ll edit it to make me look like I’m the psycho for objecting to the question.
That it was best for the safety of the people here that I leave because clearly, I’m not mentally stable.
The vision comes to me so clearly, it’s like I’m watching it in the ripples of the pool.
Whatever. I don’t care.
You do.
My heart clenches. Fine, I do. But only because I really want that dedicated cyber arm. Maybe the studio will be happy with what we’ve discovered so far. At least we’ve narrowed our suspects down to two.
I peer over at the crowd, checking on the situation. Cy is still seriously pissed, although he’s sitting again.
“I want to see the rest of the questions,” he shouts.
Roman hands the cards to Mara, and Cy snatches them from her hands. He flips through them almost violently, tossing several of them behind him.
“Those need to be rewritten.” He hitches his thumb over his shoulder.
One of the lackeys on set scurries over and collects them.
“But the fans—” Mara starts.
“I don’t give a fuck about the fa—those questions,” Cy says, wincing. “Either change the questions or the activity. I don’t care about the answers to those questions.”
What are the questions? Who are they for—
“Sydney?”
I jump at the sound of my name, nearly falling in the pool.
Shit. I didn’t realize Alicia was walking over.
I tip my head back, using one hand to block out the glaring sun.
“Yeah?”
“We’re ready to start filming again.”
Good for you.
By some miracle, I keep that snarky response to myself.
Instead, I ask, “How many more of those questions are for me?”
“Just a few more. Nothing like that first one. Cy—”
“I saw,” I tell her.
She grimaces. “If it makes you feel any better, you weren’t the only one with a question like that.”
“That should make me feel better?” I can’t stop the question before it’s out.
Alicia sighs, looking uncomfortable.
With a grunt, I pull my feet out of the water and stand. “Let’s just get this fucking over with.”
As I approach the group, Roman doesn’t look up, but I get a glare from Jade.
“Well, well, well,” she says, “the drama queen has rejoined us. Can we put the attention back on Cy now?”
I swallow the retort raging to escape me.
I don’t think calling her a cuntosaurus bitch will go over well.
While I do manage to resist, I don’t filter my expression, letting my resting bitch face do the talking.
Maybe she’s smarter than I give her credit for because she snaps her mouth shut quickly, her teeth clicking together, and averts her gaze.
Good.
“Are you okay?” Cy murmurs.
I turn, finding him assessing me, eyes soft with compassion.
No, don’t do that. Don’t be a human being.
I don’t need Cyrus Fucking Darby turning from a frog into a prince.
“I’m fine.” I leave it at that and shift my attention back to the producer.
He’s setting the scene again and explaining how we’re going to edit my response—and Cy’s—so that everything appears seamless.
I concentrate on his words like my life depends on it.
No, not my life.
My sanity.
Because allowing the attraction I have for Cy any oxygen is insanity.
I’ve already gone down that road once. I refuse to do so again.