Chapter 20
Slipping my T-shirt over my shower-wet hair, I pull open my hotel room door. Stone drops his knocking fists and greets me with a grunt. I nod in return. We don’t speak. The benefit of an old friend.
We arranged to meet here after our morning workout to take Parker’s call.
I head into the mini-kitchen and pull out the blender. It sounds like a jet engine as it mixes the protein powder, fruit, and almond milk.
Stone leans against the counter and sips a protein drink he brought with him.
I pour the thick strawberry liquid into my green FTW container, then twist on the black lid.
My cell rings. Parker. I put it on the counter and hit speaker. “What’s this about?”
Stone shakes his head at my gruffness.
“Good morning to you too, Grumpy Gus.”
There’s a moment of silence that I don’t fill.
Parker sighs. “We need footage of you practicing for the dance contest.”
She’s calling to get me to do more for the show?
“No. Film Puerto Rico if you need B roll.”
There’s a loaded moment of silence. If Parker’s eyes were dice, I’d be able to hear them rolling.
“I can easily fill the time with footage from Yolanda’s losing performance, her upcoming practice sessions, interviews with our celebrity judges, and additional B roll, but no practice footage of you will make it look like you’re handing the win to Yolanda.”
“No.”
Stone puts a single finger in the air, indicating he wants a go.
I nod, giving him permission to take over.
“Parker, Stone here. We were under the impression that The Last Stands, filmed live, were all Easton was committed to do outside the regular show schedule, but now you’ve added this practice session, along with a bunch of one-on-ones.”
“The one-on-ones are to fix Easton’s own mistake during our first live. And you’re right, most Last Stands won’t require practice footage since it’ll be a skills test. This is different.”
“You made it different,” I grumble. Originally, contestants would’ve danced with a partner from Dance Your Bleep Off. Our half-hour practice session would’ve been part of the show, with cameras dipping in and out. The limited time to learn the steps made the challenge as much mental as physical. Now, Parker is having Yolanda and I dance salsa together. “And we both know why.”
Parker laughs. “Yep, I’m trying to make this show a success. That’s what I’m paid for. I’m also trying, as you asked, to make sure you don’t look like an asshole. No practice footage is going to cause a huge issue.”
She’s right, Stone mouths, then mutes the phone. “You have time in your schedule this morning.”
I grind my teeth. “Fucking fine.”
Stone unmutes the phone. “We can be there in a half hour.”
“Perfect,” Parker says, hanging up. Some poor crew member is currently being woken up to the unwanted news that they need to head into work early.
Sucks for both of us.
Finished with his own protein drink, Stone starts a pot of much-needed coffee. “You’re unduly agitated over this situation,” he says, scooping coffee into the filter. “What’s this really about? You’ve been in a foul mood since the first live.”
I scrub a hand across my face. He’s got me there. It’s not only Parker playing up the chemistry between me and Yolanda; it’s how people are reacting to what she’s doing. There’s been talk online that Yolanda didn’t earn her way onto the show. That I got her on. Just as bad is the general consensus among the other contestants that Yolanda is their biggest threat or that I’m doing more for her than for them. If anything, the opposite is true. I go out of my way to help others and hold back from helping her because of the optics. “You’re going to think I’m a paranoid idiot.”
“Never. I think you’re a gullible idiot. I’m the one you pay to be paranoid.”
I can’t help the fuck-you smile that flares then dies on my face. “I’m worried about Yolanda.” Just saying her name causes a lift in my chest. “She was so sick. And her reaction to the water bottle, filled from the same source as all the contestants, tells me that’s what made her ill. Except no one else got sick.”
“Okay. You’ve got my attention. Now convince me.”
Always the attorney. “She’s had a string of bad luck—car mysteriously runs out of gas, making her late, tires slashed on both her and her brother’s cars, again making her late. Then she’s the only one who gets food poisoning? That’s a lot of coincidences.”
“You’re suggesting someone, likely another contestant, sees Yolanda as a top threat on the show and is trying to make her life miserable so that she becomes unduly stressed, makes mistakes, and loses?”
It sounds less paranoid to hear him say it out loud. “You said yourself it’s a lot of money. And it can’t help that Parker has latched onto my past with Yolanda and our… whatever.”
“You mean the heat between you two that tells everyone watching the show exactly what you’d rather be doing with her.”
“Don’t say that.” It’s hard enough sharing the stage with her. I run a hand through my hair. “Do you think I’m being paranoid?”
“I said it was too much money, and I stand by my statement.” He takes out two ceramic coffee mugs and pours. He hands one to me, then sips his own. The silence stretches on long enough that I know he’s taking it seriously. “None of the incidents you’ve described are a knife in the ribs, correct?”
“Your point?”
“Whoever is doing this doesn’t seem to have murderous intentions.”
“That’s a small fucking comfort. You know as well as I do that things could escalate.”
He puts down his mug. “True. Okay. I’ll look into it, research each of the contestants more thoroughly, but you have to focus on your job.”
“My job?”
“Not showing up for practices because you think it’s unfair that Yolanda is in the first Last Stand is bullshit.”
“There are times having you as a friend truly sucks.”
“Yes, and it so happens those times are when I most accurately call you on your crap.”
I sip my suitably strong coffee, lean back, and let the slow swallow of caffeine work its magic. “I’m going to end up looking like an idiot on Sunday, aren’t I?”
“Maybe not. You’re not an awful dancer.”
“I’m a great dancer.” I started taking lessons and incorporating it into my fitness routine after that night with Yolanda.
“So do what you do best: compete. You, my friend, hate to lose, and a live challenge should have your win-at-all-cost genes flowing.”
Working out tense muscles, I flex my wrists. The outline of thick blue veins pops under my skin. “It’s not that simple. In my mind, someone likely did something to make Yolanda sick. If not for that, she wouldn’t have lost. That means this person is using me to take Yolanda out. That feels unfair.”
“It’s not your job to decide fair or unfair. It’s your job to try your best, but if you need motivation, I’m happy to provide it.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Don’t be.”
The smirk on his face isn’t reassuring me. Although, part of me hates the idea of her losing. I also know he’s right, it’s my duty to do my best. “Go for it.”
“Our old school bet, HTL, says you can’t beat her.”
I put my cup down. He really does know me better than anyone. HTL stands for Humiliate the Loser. Basically, whoever loses this bet, the other person gets to set up a humiliating retribution.
I hate to think what he’d make me do with a live television show at his disposal. Yep, I can already feel my frustration and conflict turning into drive and determination. “You’re on.”
* * *
My recently erectedbeach-tent dressing room has wood flooring, Wi-Fi, decorative lights, a table with drinks and snacks, and a paisley couch, where Stone and I watch Yolanda on his laptop.
She’s on stage speaking with Miguel and the celebrity judges about her chances during The Last Stand tonight.
“You owe me,” Stone says.
I grunt my agreement. I owe him not only for getting me to practice the steps to this salsa, but also for the bet. I’m going to need that motivation to stay focused while dancing with her.
“Is that dress legal?” I say, my voice coming out much rougher than I’d intended.
“I say we file criminal charges.” His joking tone is laced with the gloat of a man about to win a bet.
It’s easy to see why. My competition is wearing strategically placed turquoise-and-gold fringe masquerading as a dress. Every time Yolanda moves, that fringe sways, offering a glimpse of breast, abs, and hips.
I can’t take my eyes off of her. God, she’s beautiful. She laughs, flicking her head to the side, and her long curls sweep in waves around her beautiful face.
The camera pans around her… Dear God. The low, low back of her glittery-strapped, breast-hugging, tight-as-a-second-skin flapper dress nails your attention to one thing. Her ass.
“You’re going to burn a hole in my screen,” Stone says, and there’s a definite laugh in his voice as I look away. He rubs his hands together. “I am so winning this thing.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” I’m nothing if not a fighter. Still, it won’t be easy. Not only because of that retina-burning outfit, but because something has shifted in Yolanda.
It’s as if her loss or the damn unfairness of the rumors around her loss have unleashed her. For the first time on screen, I see the girl I met that long-ago night. I see her openness and optimism and unflinching desire to do good as she responds to Miguel’s questions about her illness and the ugly rumors swirling about her.
Parker has to be loving this. Yolanda’s character arc—from shy and reserved, to flawed performance, to phoenix rising from the ashes—has even me rooting for her. Damn it. I really, really don’t want to lose my bet with Stone.
Last time I lost an HTL to him, he made me post a no-explanation-allowed video of me brushing my teeth for two minutes. Dumb as shit, I laughed my ass off when he told me. I made fun of him, told him that he had me at his mercy and that’s what he went for?
Boy, had I been wrong.
It went viral.
People talked about it for weeks. What was I trying to say? Did I accidentally post the video? Was I drunk or high? Was it a cry for help?
And everywhere Stone and I went together, he’d find a way to sneak a toothbrush or toothpaste into the situation. My glovebox. The folded napkin while we ate dinner. Once, he even had a bartender stick a brand-new toothbrush, bristles down, inside my scotch.
I don’t even want to imagine what he’d do with my loss in this situation.
Nope. I can’t lose.
It would seriously help if Yolanda didn’t look so damn good. She’s red-hot in that turquoise-and-gold fringed dress.
“Two minutes Mr. Blake.”
“Thanks, Néstor,” I say, standing and shaking out my legs.
“You look great,” Stone says.
I roll my eyes. “Not as great as my competition.”
“She’s got an advantage.”
I squint at him. “Which is?”
“Those hips. Ay, muchacho, ese chica es muy caliente.”