Chapter Seven #2
What fresh hell is about to tumble out of that mouth?
I snatch his mic and mute it faster than he can say “hold my beer.” I remind myself (again) that he is the talent. The reason we have an audience. The man who holds my career hostage in his sun-kissed, reckless hands and doesn’t even know it.
Cole walks up with Sienna.
A burn of jealousy flares in my chest, but I quench it with a swallow. Cole and the gorgeous scientist’s shoulders are basically touching.
They can stand however close they want; I don’t care. My skin’s not crawling. Your skin’s crawling.
Blaze throws an arm around Orson.
“I got a major idea, bros,” Blaze says, pumping his fists. “GROUP ENTANGLEMENT. Four people tied up. Maximum chaos. Me, Dr. O, and two smokin’ singles in bikinis. Extra points if they’re—” he gestures at his chest “—y’know. Blessed.”
He flexes his pecs.
Orson tugs at his polo collar like it might save him. “I’m not sure that’s—”
“Yo, science queen. You in?” Blaze points at Sienna.
She arches one eyebrow. “Hard pass.”
“Respect,” Blaze says solemnly, then immediately starts scanning for replacements.
Shit! This is the moment. My one chance to stop this crazy, bad idea before it becomes my problem. My very public, very catastrophic problem.
Four people roped together. Covered in baby oil. Hands taped. On stage.
My brain delivers its verdict instantly: absolutely not.
That’s not an activity. It’s a sexual harassment lawsuit on a livestream. Dare4Change could suffer a major policy violation if things go wrong.
Then, a worse thought.
What would Cole do?
Cole’s mouth is already opening.
Nope. I’m getting the credit this time.
“Yes, great idea!” I say loudly. “Let’s do it.”
Blaze lights up like I’ve handed him fireworks and a lighter. “HELL yeah, Ivy gets it!”
Orson smooths his hands on his pants. “I shall participate, reluctantly, for the greater good of science.” Blaze drags Orson offstage in search of prospects.
I flash Cole a smug little smirk as I walk past him.
It’s a good one, too. A smirk that says I outplayed you and we both know it.
Hello, new Ivy. Instinct Ivy. The Ivy who makes reckless calls.
I’m halfway across the lawn when I feel his gaze on me. I glance back.
Cole hasn’t moved. His steel blue eyes are watching me as his camera dangles at his side.
That storm brewing in that glare can only mean one thing.
He’s pissed.
I just out-Cole’d Cole.
The thought lights me up as I reach the production canopy.
I plop into the folding chair, slap on my headset, and try to embrace the hot plastic seat as it suction-cups to the back of my thighs, again.
The warm, salty ocean breeze rolls in. The air is electric with couples’ flirty laughter and sunscreen, and the smell of baby oil that someone definitely opened early.
Blaze’s feed fills my monitors: him, Orson, and two busty volunteers tangled into a sexy shipwreck of rope. The staff finishes them off with tape, pressing fingers flat until all eight hands become useless little paddles.
Flipper hands.
“Bark bark,” Blaze announces into the lav mic.
The crowd loves it. Orson stares at his own taped hands as though they’ve been declared a biohazard.
I run through my pre-live checklist. Donation banner: confirmed. Camera feeds: up. Blaze’s lav mic: hot. Cole’s camera: roving.
“Mark my words, you just greenlit a trainwreck.”
His voice slides into my headset.
I peek around my screen. He’s fifteen feet from the stage, already framing the Blaze quartet.
“You sound jealous.”
“Jealous? Of you, Stopwatch? I’m enjoying the show. You stepping out of line for once, how’s that feel?”
“Like winning. I went with my instincts. Try not to choke on your shock.”
“Instinct? You flinched and said yes. Big difference.”
“Funny. That’s your entire career model. Smile big and pray no one notices your lack of preparation.”
“Ouch. And here I thought I was earning some respect.”
“I respect results, Hartwell. You simply agree to every insane thing Blaze says and call it ‘vision.’”
“I go with what works. You go with whatever makes you feel in control.”
Onstage, Blaze demonstrates how to wiggle, which is basically more aggressive hip thrusting.
The ladies in bikinis laugh.
Orson becomes very still.
“Whatever,” I scoff. “Better get used to calling me boss.”
Cole sighs. “I’ll call you lucky if this video doesn’t get flagged for inappropriate content.”
I glance at the group getting roped together. “It’s only two extra people,” I say.
“Plus a shirtless Blaze slathered in baby oil, and a marine biologist who looks like he’s never been hugged.”
“He’s probably shy. He studies animals, Cole.”
“Yeah, no. This is reading more like ‘blink twice if you need help.’”
“We don’t have time for this. We’re going live in ten, nine—”
“Ivy, you’re going to regret this.”
“Seven—Cole, I need Blaze center frame.”
“You say that like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Then stop shooting like a teenage boy, and get the camera off the girls’ bikini bottoms.”
“That was contextual framing, Stopwatch. Art.”
“Ugh—two, one. Go live.”
Blaze explodes into performance mode. “SEA LEGENDS!” He flaps his taped hands, and the donation counter starts climbing.
The lawn erupts in cheers.
“YO, flipper fam! Those sea lions are out there getting JACKED UP by our trash—fishing lines, plastic junk, random crap—and today, y'all are gonna feel that struggle. WHOOP WHOOP!”
He shimmies, which pulls the two women against him and Orson.
The girls smile.
Orson’s eyeballs nearly launch out of his skull. He locks up, still as a mannequin.
“Each squad’s got their bodies bound and their hands taped like freakin’ flippers. First team to break free SCORES BIG TIME! Champagne! Chocolate strawberries too, baby. And, wait for it, a couple's massage tonight IN YOUR ROOM!”
All the singles lose it, screaming with the hysteria of newly minted millionaires.
Blaze bumps Orson with his shoulder. “brOSEIDON, We are LOCKING DOWN that massage! Get HYPED!”
Orson nods with grim sincerity. “I do enjoy strawberries.”
The girls cozy up to him with giggles. Orson gulps so loudly it echoes through the speakers.
The livestream chat starts scrolling like a slot machine:
NERD IN DISTRESS
SAVE HIM
Blaze is collecting wives
WHY IS THE SCIENTIST SO STIFF
“FLIPPERS UP!” Blaze shouts. “READY. SET. GO!”
The lawn explodes into motion.
Couples everywhere start hopping, wiggling, twisting, shrieking with laughter as they try to untangle themselves without hands.
One couple instantly tips over sideways into the grass.
A guy tries to ‘Hulk out’ of the ropes and lifts his partner onto his back like a backpack.
Another duo kicks off a conga line, dragging nearby couples into the tangled mess.
Donations ping across my screen. It’s happening, people! My win!
“I’m curious, Stopwatch. How fast could you get free if we were tied up together?” Cole’s voice rasps into my headphones.
The low rumble of his voice vibrates through me. Ugh, I hate how much I like it. The thought of his hands on me. Being tied up. His body pinning mine while I rub up against him.
My stomach flips.
I grit my teeth against the shiver. “Cole, try to be professional for once.”
“That’s not an answer.”
On screen, a busty blonde in a yellow bikini grinds against Orson like he’s a stripper pole at a bachelorette party.
“I would like to be done now,” he mumbles.
Blaze whoops. “Ohhh, he’s READY TO WIN! Ladies, move those hips. FASTER!”
The girls squirm and writhe harder. Orson’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Well, Stopwatch, what’s your answer?”
“I’d have those ropes off before you could count to two,” I say.
“Nah.” His chuckle rumbles in my ear. “You’d overanalyze which knot to undo first.”
“And you’d hesitate. Like this morning.”
“About that…”
My gut clenches. “No. We’re working.”
“I wasn’t—I mean, I wanted to—fuck. Not my best moment, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
My skin tingles. The memory of his touch burns through me. I cross my arms, willing my pulse to calm the hell down. Whatever this feeling is, it ends. Now.
“You want to discuss this? Fine.” My hands clench, nails digging into my palms. “The ‘whoops my hand went rogue’ boob grab. The ‘almost’ kiss at the pool that you started and then flaked.”
I let out a sharp breath.
“I’m aware of what you’re doing, Hartwell. Getting in my head. Rattling me. Making me think you’re attracted to me.”
My jaw tightens.
“You’re trying to seduce me to win the promotion.”
He starts to speak, but I cut him off. “I don’t need your games or your half-assed attention. When I want a man, I’ll get one who isn’t using my body as a stepping stone to a goddamn corner office.”
“You think I was gonna kiss you as a tactic?”
“I think you’ll do anything to win. And the fact that you let Reece Dare crown you the golden boy of the Books for Every Block campaign proves you’re scarily good at it.”
Silence crackles in my headset.
“We both know I designed the framework that made that campaign go viral. You stood there, nodding along while everyone praised your ‘brilliance’. Like you had anything to do with it. Like you’ve ever touched a backend strategy in your—”
“Ivy—”
I don’t stop.
“And spare me the smolder routine. The ‘look how handsome I am, look how big my muscles are, especially the one in my pants.’”
“Ivy—”
“I’m not stupid. Or desperate. I see right through—”
“IVY! Eyes on Orson!”
I focus on the screen and watch physics and gravity ruin Orson’s life.
The strained rope pulls on Orson’s pants in slow motion, as if it’s savoring the moment. Until—
WHUMP.
Pantsed in public. Underneath: bright blue boxer briefs. Decorated with cartoon sea lions wearing tiny crowns.
And smack dab in the middle is the Washington Monument of erections.
The lawn goes silent.
“Oh my, that’s not good,” Orson says, trying to yank his shorts up with his taped flipper hands.
Repeatedly. Desperately. Hopelessly.
He may as well be trying to fold laundry with oven mitts.
And just when I think whatever higher power controls this dumpster fire can’t do any more damage… Blaze heroically lunges to help.
Unfortunately, Blaze’s version of help means leaning into it.
“LADIES! WHAT DID I SAY?!” He gestures like he’s unveiling the eighth wonder of the world. “I TOLD YOU DR. O WAS THE KING! AND THAT THING IS HIS SCEPTER!”
“I regret participating,” he murmurs, covering his erection with his flippers.
The scene is an erupting volcano of laughter and screams. The livestream chat goes nuclear:
NERD IS PACKING
SEA LION DADDY
he’s ready to breed!
TAKE ME, DR. O, I’M FERTILE
I would die for him
The donation counter grows like it discovered Viagra.
PING.
PING.
PING PING PING PING.
“Cole.”
“Yeah?”
“Did we just livestream that?”
“We did.”
I bury my head in my hands.
Shit.
Cole got in my head again. And now the internet has a new favorite meme: Dr. Orson Echol’s salute to sea lions.