Chapter 11
SYDNEY
“She freaked out. You know he’s not keeping her.”
I don’t recognize the voice on the other side of the dining room wall, but I pause and listen. Are they talking about me?
Of course they are. Who else freaked out at the pool party?
I spent the afternoon in my room, reviewing file after file with no luck.
Brielle. Nothing.
Ms. Fashionista was a stripper a few years ago. Not really my thing, but it pays pretty well. So good for her.
“Who cares?” another voice says. “She’s a freak. I’d rather focus on Cy. Didn’t he look amazing in those trunks?”
This one I recognize.
Kendall.
Surprise fucking surprise.
“That’s not fair,” Josie says. “I don’t think any of us would have appreciated being asked about…” Her voice fades, and I can almost picture her mouthing body count.
Pulling myself up a little straighter, I step into the dining room.
Josie’s eyes dart to mine, growing wide.
Dinner tonight is a buffet, a long table covered with various aluminum foil containers. Salad, chicken, vegetables, and a makeshift charcuterie board.
God, what I wouldn’t do for a taco, a cheeseburger, or corn dog about now.
“Don’t let me interrupt your conversation about me.” I snag a plate and start loading it up. Has no one here ever heard of French fries?
Simone and Jade, who are sitting with Josie, both spare me a glance but quickly hover over their plates. At least Simone should be happy with the food. Looks like there are choices from each group in the food pyramid.
“Sorry, Sydney.” There’s genuine regret in Josie’s voice, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, even though she wasn’t the one talking shit.
I sit beside her and stab a tomato with my fork.
“There’s no reason to apologize. You’re right. I didn’t appreciate that question. None of you thought it was weird that everyone else got softball questions and I got something like that?”
“Is your number that high?” Brielle appears with a glass of wine in her hand.
With a snort, I shove the tomato into my mouth. That should keep from calling her a hypocrite and revealing that I know she used to be a stripper. By the time I swallow, I’ve thought of a different comeback.
“Is yours?” I counter.
She wisely drops into her seat without another word.
“You don’t have to be such a bitch,” Kendall sneers.
Pot, meet kettle.
“I’m not being any bitchier than anyone else. I came down for dinner and overheard you talking about me. Not the other way around. And quite honestly, I’ve lost my appetite.”
I push my plate away and stand.
“Sydney.” Josie darts a look at me, then at Kendall.
She wants to try to find a way to mediate. It’s sweet, but there’s no point.
“It’s fine.” I shoot her a quick smile.
I’m not here to make friends anyway. I’m here for a job.
One I need to get back to.
Two hours later, my eyes are nearly crossing and my stomach could audition for the leading role in a monster movie with as loud as it’s growling.
But I’ve learned more from the files than I would have if I’d stayed in the dining room.
Simone has had a couple of speeding tickets, but her name is also on a lease for a condo alongside that of a player from San Diego’s pro-football team. An active lease.
Is she actually single?
I write a note in the margin, reminding myself to have Cole explore further.
Josie is squeaky clean. Not even a parking ticket.
But looks can be deceiving. Cole’s wife, Hannah Grace, learned that the hard way when her best friend turned out to be her stalker. And Josie did have the tattoo that was prominent on so many of the photos Scarlett sent to Cy.
Cassidy. Arrested at a protest on her college campus. Linked to a college professor before she dropped out of school.
Kendall. Drunk and disorderly. Fighting with another woman at a club. Trespassing.
Jesus Christ. Exactly how many times had she gotten arrested?
I continue scrolling, scanning as I go, then quickly scroll back up. “Hello, what’s this?”
Arrested two years ago
For stalking her ex-boyfriend.
Didn’t the show do background checks on these women before casting them?
I make a big star on the top of her file. She has the record and the tattoo. She’s looking more and more like our Scarlett.
Jade’s file is nonexistent, though not in the same way Josie’s is. Her life is nonexistent. It’s like she appeared out of thin air four years ago. There’s no record of high school or college, nothing from law school, though her diplomas are legitimate.
“What the fuck?” I scribble three large question marks at the top of her file.
My stomach growls again, sounding a lot like Godzilla rising from the deep. Fuck. If I don’t eat, there is no way I can concentrate on these files. Without any activities scheduled after dinner, I should be safe to creep down to the kitchen to forage for food.
I stuff the iPad and cell phone under my mattress and pull a sweater on over my tank top and shorts. Then, slowly, I ease the door open. Another benefit to being in a fancy-pants mansion? The hinges don’t make a sound.
The bathroom across from me is open and dark, and Jade’s bedroom door that is closed, though a light shines from under it. Every bedroom door is closed, lights on. What sounds like two women laugh inside Brielle’s room.
I’m directly in front of it when my stomach erupts in another loud grumble.
I freeze, holding my breath. Fuck.
I’d rather not draw attention to myself and get into another confrontation, so I keep moving, tiptoeing down the stairs. At the bottom, I do a quick scan. Multiple cameras have been set up in the corner of the hallway, but there’s no sign of anyone.
Good.
I don’t even want to talk to production right now. I’m sure the only message they have for me is that I’m going home.
The kitchen is dark and empty, the only light the one above the massive range that shines on polished marble counters. And the contents of the thick wooden cupboards are disappointing.
Cupboard after cupboard reveals pots and pans, plates, glassware, and real ingredients for real food, but not any sort of junk food. The fridge isn’t much better. Energy drinks, wine, fresh fruit, vegetables, but nothing resembling a hot pocket.
I’d settle for peanut butter crackers or a granola bar. By the look of things, I’d be lucky to find either, so I can’t imagine the person who stocked the kitchen included Red Vines or peanut M&Ms.
Finally, in the pantry, I strike gold. When I discover a couple of cans of Pringles, I swear angels come down from heaven and sing the Hallelujah Chorus.
I’m hiding in the pantry, ready to shove another handful of Pringles into my mouth, when quiet footsteps on the stairs catch my attention.
I peek around the door, remaining hidden.
I don’t want to end up in another argument with Kendall, and I’m in no mood for a lecture on nutrition from Simone.
At the bottom of the stairs, Cy stops, mimicking my behavior earlier.
He’s tense, like he’s worried about getting caught, as he looks left, then right.
His shoes barely make a sound as he stalks to the front door and pulls it open.
It’s dark out. Where the fuck is he going?
The rules state that we’re not allowed to leave unless it’s on a sanctioned activity. But since there’s no camera crew following him, there’s no way what he’s doing is show related.
I wait a beat, making sure he won’t catch me following him, then scurry to the front door. I pull it open just as a dark sedan passes by.
“Shit.”
He’s going somewhere without a camera. Without a date.
Without Danny.
Does he have his phone?
Heart thumping heavily, I shut the door. Then I take the stairs two at a time. Upstairs, I close—and lock—my bedroom door behind me and slip my phone from its hiding spot. I navigate to the tracking app quickly, thanking God there’s a mobile version.
The dot that represents Cy moves away from the mansion. While I watch it move, I change into a pair of yoga pants. Eventually it comes to a stop at an address in Franklin Village, a quirky, artsy neighborhood at the base of the hills. Not exactly Cy’s stomping grounds.
What the hell is he doing there? Did Scarlett reach out? Is he meeting with her?
Maybe that theory is far-fetched.
It is.
I ignore that voice in the back of my head. The one that sounds suspiciously like Sawyer.
Cy could be in trouble. Also, I’m really fucking curious about why he would sneak out like that. Maybe he is in trouble.
Fuck, I’m not supposed to leave. I should text Sawyer and Cole.
But they’re at least an hour away.
I’m closer.
I can help.
Is this the best idea?
Probably not.
You don’t strike me as much of a rule-follower.
Cy’s comment earlier swims to the surface of my mind, that damn smirk spurring me on.
I’m not.
“Fuck it.”
I take even more caution when I sneak back downstairs, tucking my phone into my bra as I go, and head straight out the front door, closing it behind me with a soft snick.
“Now, what about the front gate?”
It’s closed but doesn’t present much of a challenge.
There’s an external camera, but it’s pointed at the other side to catch images of people coming in.
It shouldn’t be hard to avoid. If I can get out, that is.
I approach the gate slowly, and when it silently starts to open, I nearly have a heart attack.
Heart thundering, I turn in a circle, scanning the area around me.
When I confirm that I’m still alone, I realize I must have tripped a sensor.
Taking advantage of my luck, I continue on, keeping out of the range of the stationary camera.
Behind me, the gate closes, though the hinges don’t so much as squeak.
“Must be nice to be rich,” I mutter, scanning the grounds.
Thankfully, by now, there are few people here other than the contestants. No one should notice I’m gone.
What if they do?
I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. I’ve always been quick on my feet.
The night is silent as I walk down the street and stop several houses away to order an Uber. I’m used to noise, so the silence is almost creepy. As is the lack of traffic.
But the neighbors must all be inside their fancy houses. If they have dogs, they’re not outside.
I get more creeped out by the second as I wait, so when my Uber driver, Samir, pulls up, I dart for his car. If he thinks it’s strange that I’m being picked up outside of one of these properties, he doesn’t mention it.
I can’t imagine it’s the strangest thing he’s seen in LA.
Twenty minutes later, he drops me off outside the property where the blue dot on my tracking app still blinks. The house is surrounded by an adobe wall, the gate wide open. In the daylight it would be welcoming, but the darkness casts the white home in an eerie glow.
Maybe Cy is in trouble.
Samir peers at me over his shoulder, a look of concern on his face.
I plaster on a smile. “It’s okay. Thank you.”
Once he’s pulled away, I head up the path toward the house. The white stucco is clean, the illuminated covered porch inviting.
A gleaming sign shines brightly under the light.
The Wag & Whisker House.
Some of the tension eases from my shoulders as I study every detail.
There’s no doorbell, and when I try the doorknob, it turns easily.
I pause like that, debating with myself. Should I just walk in?
Probably not. Sawyer would say definitely not.
But what good would knocking do?
Going with my gut, I push the door open quietly.
I don’t know what I expected to find inside.
Drugs? Women? Both?
Whatever it was did not involve the man I hate more than anything in this world cuddling a small black kitten and holding the tiniest baby bottle I’ve ever seen.
It definitely didn’t involve one of the other founding members of Boys Next Door, Asher Kincaid, who’s sporting thick black-framed glasses and a light blue T-shirt that reads Wag and Whisker House.
“Can I help you?” he asks, a wary smile on his face.
His caution is understandable. It’s a bit late to just randomly show up to…whatever this place is.
Though if they’d locked the door, that wouldn’t be an issue.
“What are you doing here?” Cy stands, keeping the bottle in place.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
A smile twitches at his lips. “I asked you first.”
“I saw you leave. I was curious since we aren’t supposed to leave so I—”
“You followed me,” he finishes.
I dip my chin. “I did.”
“Seems like I was right about you and rule following,” he teases.
Fuck if his comment doesn’t make my own lips curve in a smile.
“Seems like I’m not the only one who doesn’t like to follow rules,” I fire back.
He breaks into a full smile. “You’re not afraid to say what you think, are you?” he asks.
Asher snorts a laugh. “Pot. Kettle.”
“Why should I be? What is this place?”
“Wag and Whisker House. An animal shelter,” Asher says. “We bring long-term residents from other shelters in and focus on finding them the homes they deserve,” His words flow fluidly, like he’s said them a thousand times.
Subtly, I pinch the inner skin on my elbow. When a stinging pain follows, I wince.
Nope, not a dream.
I really have stumbled into an animal shelter and come face to face with two of the founding members of a band whose songs I still know by heart. Not that I’ll ever admit that.
“Seems pretty young to fit your general population.” I nod toward the kitten in Cy’s arms.
Like he knows we’re talking about him, he mewls, the sound melting my heart a little.
“This one was dropped off as we were closing. Found the litter on the way out to my car and called Cy for help. You two obviously know each other,” Asher says, shifting his attention from Cy to me.
“You could say that,” I say.
“It’s a long story,” Cy says at the same time.
“I love stories,” Asher retorts, his eyes bright with humor. “Sydney, have you ever fed a kitten?”
Five minutes later, I find myself holding a second coal black kitten while she laps at a teeny-tiny baby bottle and explaining to Asher how Cy and I know each other. All the while, I have to hold back the urge to blurt out that he was Katie’s favorite member of the band.