Chapter Eighteen #2
“You have two days before this week’s elimination ceremony,” Lainey says.
“Most of you won’t see Roland until then.
I suggest you shape up and think about what you’ve done.
Roland, Addison—with me, now.” She snaps her fingers, and Roland and Addison shuffle off after her, though I doubt they’ll get in trouble.
“I heard she’s seeing someone at home,” Monica whispers. She seems to have recovered from earlier, but dark circles still ring her eyes.
“Where’d you hear that?” Olie asks.
Monica shrugs. It’s a hallmark of Love Shack drama, proof that someone isn’t here for the right reasons. It would line up with what Addison said to me on the Ferris wheel.
“She told me,” Monica says. “The other day. We’re sort of friends, but … well, you know how she is.” Which means that Monica doesn’t know Addison is intentionally going for the villain angle.
Or she’s playing the game just as fiercely as Addison and this is her attempt to take out the competition. I have to hand it to her: Monica knows how to win.
Once the cameras cut for the day, I excuse myself under the guise of taking a shower in the extra basement bathroom.
I leave the tense bunk room, where Olie is still glaring at Addison, who proudly informed us that she’s not in trouble; the producers just wanted to make sure she and Roland “used protection.”
I scamper downstairs and pass Norbert in the entryway, whistling merrily to himself.
“I’m going out for a little walk, is that all right?”
He peers down at me, halting mid-tune. “It’s dark out!” he exclaims. “You could meet a madman out there—or a racoon! Ye know, when I was a laddie, I caught one with my bare hands.”
I blink at him. “A madman or a racoon?”
“A racoon,” Norbert says seriously. “And he wasn’t messing around. Shall I join ye?”
“Thanks, but I’m good. I just want some time to myself.”
He nods, his forehead scrunching. “I know ye’ve had a rough go of it,” he says. “But I’m looking out for ye, all right?”
“Thanks, Norbert,” I say, patting his arm. “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”
I head out through the mansion’s front doors and take off to the right, in the opposite direction of the tennis courts.
The wet grass squelches under my sandals, but I don’t stop until I’ve reached the fence lining the property.
I lean back against the wrought-iron slats and look back up the hill at the mansion, ghostly in the darkness.
Only a few lights glitter in the windows.
Lainey maybe? Norbert? Rhett’s suite is around back, so the lights can’t be his, but I wonder anyway if he’s awake.
Tearing my eyes away from the shadowy building, I pull out my burner and dial the familiar number, praying she’ll pick up.
“Serena?”
“Georgia!” she says.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, things have been intense. I only have a few minutes.”
“What do you have? Have you gotten time with Lainey?”
I tell her about the one-on-one interview and the Ferris wheel debacle, and she gasps at all the right moments.
“Addison pushed you?” she exclaims. “Holy shit, I’m glad you’re all right.”
“That’s not even the biggest thing,” I say. “I’m pretty sure Roland has been using performance enhancers.”
She sucks in a breath. “Damn. Because of his injury?”
I drum my fingers against my thigh. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“What’s he taking? Did he compete on them?”
“I don’t know exactly what kind, but yeah, I think he did.” If Rhett is to be believed, anyway.
“But he didn’t fail a doping test,” Serena points out. “If he had, he wouldn’t have been allowed to keep playing. How do you know all this?”
“I overheard Lainey,” I say carefully. It’s not untrue—though Rhett was the one who spelled it out. “She knew before Roland was cast but went ahead with it anyway.”
“Georgia”—Serena clicks her tongue—“you need more than overhearing. You need proof. Can you get a picture of Roland’s pills or maybe a copy of Lainey’s emails? You need something more than hearsay.”
“I know,” I say. “I know. I’ll get it, I promise.”
“What about the other women? Anything interesting there?”
I could tell her about Monica’s interview experience, how the producers pushed her about her anxiety, but for some reason, that feels worse than airing Roland’s dirty laundry. And if I told Serena, I’d be no better than Lainey. “Not really.”
“Hmm, well that’s okay,” she says. “If we can get more intel on the cover-ups, that’ll be enough to really sell this. Especially given what I have.” She pauses dramatically, waiting for me to ask for more information.
“What do you have? Something about Roland?”
“No,” she says. “It’s about Rhett.” Her tone makes me uneasy.
It’s the same one she used to pull out at college parties when she wanted to send a piece of salacious gossip pinwheeling across the room.
For the first few years of our friendship, I ignored her tendency to publicize any secret she was entrusted with.
After all, she never shared my secrets, only other people’s.
It was what made her such a good journalist. But now I’m not so sure.
“You know he and Cassidy were only married for a few months, right?” she continues.
“Four and a half months,” I say without thinking. “Or something like that.”
“Yeah.” Serena says. “People thought they divorced when they announced the breakup publicly in, like, May of last year. But I have a source saying they didn’t actually get divorced until months later.”
My breath hitches. That would mean that Rhett was still married when I met him. But why would it matter to Serena? There’s no way she could know. “Don’t those things sometimes take a while to process?” My own parents’ divorce took almost a year before it was final.
“Well,” she says in that same sickening voice. “I have a photo of him making out with a woman at a club right after the public breakup.”