Chapter Twenty-Three
“I made the best friends in the world [on Love Shack]. I’d die for any one of them in a heartbeat … except Addison.”
Something about the silence of this house unnerves me.
Back at my apartment in LA, I always had the street noise to lull me to sleep, plus Presley’s snuffling.
Even in the Malibu mansion, I had the other women’s snores to fall asleep to.
But since Brooklyn left three days ago, there’s nothing to dull the sharp, ominous silence.
“Sheesh,” Olie says when I head downstairs into the foyer for paintball. “Did you just wake up?”
According to the large clock on the wall it’s eleven forty-five AM, so I’m fifteen minutes early for our group date prep. I shrug, crossing my arms. “I didn’t get much sleep last night … or the night before.”
“Did you sneak one of Dr. Dora’s gifts in your carry-on?” Olie makes a suggestive face.
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I miss my cat.”
Olie howls with laughter. “Could you be any more geriatric? I thought I was the oldest one here!” She shakes her head, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sure your kitty cat misses you too.”
Thinking about Presley makes my chest feel tight. I hope Serena remembers to play his favorite Enya album. He always nods off right at the first chorus of “Sail Away.”
But Presley is pushed far from my mind when Olie and I enter the living room.
The producers have gone all out. The most expensive décor has been removed from the walls, though the large moose head above the fireplace is still there. White sheets have been draped over the fancier pieces of furniture.
Jules is in my face with a makeup brush when the front doors of the house open and Rhett wanders in. I get one more brush of powder foundation on the nose before Jules moves on to Philippa, pulling a darker shade of foundation from her fanny pack.
Rhett shrugs out of a leather jacket and hands it off to a PA. He adjusts his flannel shirt and catches my eye but quickly looks away. We’ve been holed up in this house for the last few days, and I haven’t seen him once. I can’t help but think he’s been avoiding me.
I run my fingers over the new tattoo on my wrist. Until this morning, it was covered by a clear bandage. But now, when I touch the tiny inked rose, it’s completely blended with my skin. Fleetingly, I wonder what it would feel like to have Rhett’s fingers on it, discovering it for the first time.
Lainey calls us to attention, and my fingers drop from my wrist.
“We’re going to start with some shots of you girls getting dressed,” Lainey says. “Over here in the next room.”
I look down at my jeans and tank top. Are these clothes not good enough to cover in paint?
“Why are we changing?” Monica asks.
“You’ll see,” Lainey says.
We follow her into the next room, several crew members trailing us with handheld cameras. Like the rest of the house, the room is filled with wood paneling, but all the furniture has been cleared away. In its place are six changing stations and racks of clothes.
I head to the rack labeled “Georgia” and flip through my options. I’m less than impressed with the wardrobe team, but I have a feeling that Lainey is the driving force behind the array of bikinis and cutoffs.
Next to me, Monica groans. “I think they forgot to put out the actual clothes,” she says. “I guess I could use this to cover up—oh wait.” She takes what looks like a bandana off its hanger and inspects it. “This is a shirt. Got it.”
“Isn’t it kind of dangerous to do paintball with exposed skin?” Chloe asks, holding up a bejeweled bikini.
“Oh relax.” Lainey flaps her hand dismissively. “We have to do low-impact paintball, for legal reasons,” she grumbles.
“I’d go with this one,” Monica says, reaching over to my clothing rack. She pulls out a red bandana top and blue thong bottom, then glances at the producers before sneaking me a denim miniskirt from her own rack.
“Thanks,” I say. She waves me off as she considers her own outfit. I grab the pair of red cowgirl boots in front of my changing station and step behind the privacy curtain.
It’s all a little too tight. The bandana top squeezes my chest, and the miniskirt makes it difficult to bend my legs. Even the nipple tape I put on pinches a little too hard. How the hell am I supposed to win paintball wearing this?
Self-consciously, I step out, trying to fan my hair around my shoulders so it covers as much skin as possible.
I feel ridiculous, but at least I’m not the only one.
Olie has chosen combat boots and a glittery monokini reminiscent of that iconic Sandra Haywood outfit (minus the zip-off cargo pants), while Monica has fashioned a skirt out of two bandana tops.
Philippa keeps pulling at her neon-pink bike shorts as if expecting more fabric to materialize out of nowhere.
Meanwhile, I look like a porny version of the American flag.
The rules of the game are simple. Crew members will be patrolling with cameras at all times, since the house isn’t equipped with as much surveillance as the Malibu mansion. The entire property and house are fair game, except the roped-off producers’ wing and the contestants’ bedrooms.
Olie catches my eye and winks, and I quickly look away. I’m not sure how she’s planning on sneaking into Addison and Monica’s room; with those noisy boots on and producers crawling everywhere, I’ll be shocked if she isn’t caught.
“Once you’re hit, you’re out,” Rhett explains. “And the last woman standing wins. But”—he sweeps his gaze over the six of us—“there’s a catch.”
I almost groan. Of course there is.
“The first woman to be hit goes home.”
Olie gasps. Chloe clutches a hand to her heart. I just stare at Rhett, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“No,” Monica protests. “That’s not fair. Where’s Roland? What does he think about this?”
“Roland is resting,” Rhett explains. There’s an awkward beat of silence as my inner skeptic raises an eyebrow. “He’s not feeling well, but he’ll join us later.”
“And remember,” Lainey says, “if you cheat, we’ll know.” She should be directing her words to Addison—or even Olie, but her catlike gaze is fixed on me. I gulp uncomfortably and fiddle with the hem of my “shirt.”
Rhett clears his throat. “You have fifteen minutes to find your starting places and then the gong will—”
Smash.
I nearly jump out of my boots at the noise from the other side of the room, where Norbert is holding a large mallet next to a huge metal gong.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
“The gong will sound again,” Rhett finishes. “Good luck.”
Immediately, the room devolves into chaos.
Monica lunges for the table of paintball guns and grabs one as she sprints from the room.
Olie bares her teeth as she and Addison go for the same paintball gun.
Chloe and Philippa melt into the background after they’ve suited up.
In the midst of everything, Rhett and Lainey vanish.
I grab the last paintball gun and look up at the clock on the wall.
Fourteen minutes until all hell breaks loose.
I square my shoulders and take stock of the situation. More to get away from the lurking producers than anything else, I head outside. Jules gives me a little salute as I pass her on the veranda.
“Good luck,” she whispers.
“I’ll need it.” I played laser tag once in high school, but that’s where my applicable experience begins and ends.
The veranda is quiet except for the shrieks and laughter in the distance.
But once the gong sounds again, I bet the others will wish they had stayed farther apart.
Rather than run headfirst into a paint-bath, I search for somewhere to hide and wait it out.
Once someone else is eliminated first, I’ll join the fray.
It pains me to think like this, but I can’t afford to go home. Not now.
I’m not sure how long it’s been since the gong, but the producer who’s been tailing me with a handheld camera checks his watch impatiently.
Tugging my skirt down, I kneel to see if I could fit under one of the wicker benches. There’s not enough clearance, but the seat seems to raise up and I peer inside; just enough room for me to squeeze in.
“Well if that’s all you’re going to do,” the producer mutters, dropping the camera to his side.
He ambles away as I pull the bench lid down.
My knees are tucked up to my chest, my miniskirt has ridden up to my stomach, and something is poking into my thigh.
The lid almost closes over me, but my hips jut up enough that a sliver of daylight peeks in.
If only we were playing paintball at night, no one would notice that the bench seat is resting a quarter inch too high.
The gong sounds again from inside the house, and I clutch the paintball gun to my chest. As the reverberations fade into silence, a new sound greets me, and it isn’t paintball shots.
The door to the house slides open and two pairs of footsteps step out onto the veranda.
They’re walking far too slowly to be part of the game.
“You were right. They were Georgia’s.” One of the people is Rhett, his voice gravelly and tired.
“I knew it.” The other is Lainey. “And what does she think now?”
There’s a pause before Rhett replies, “I ended it.”
My mind races to the worst conclusions, each one a sharp stab to the heart. I should never have let Serena talk me into bringing that damn phone to set. I’ve handed Rhett all the ammunition he needs to sink me, and after weeks of silence, he’s finally pulled the trigger.
The footsteps get closer, and I squeeze everything in my body, trying to make myself as small as possible so they won’t notice that the seat of the bench is out of place.
A second later, someone sits on my bench, making the wicker press painfully into my hip.
Through the tiny slats I see the dark denim of Rhett’s pants, mere inches from my face.
“Good.” Lainey sighs. I hear her pace back and forth. “Does she want money?”