Chapter Twenty-One
My startled scream alerts the rest of the contestants and crew members, who come running to the scene and see that Scott’s nose is dripping with blood. I quickly pull Andrew away before Scott can retaliate.
Kristina rushes over. “What the hell happened over here?”
“The fucking lawyer punched me,” Scott says, holding his nose. Blue hands him a towel for the blood.
Kristina spins on Andrew. “You. In the production office now.” Andrew shakes out his hand and storms off as Kristina calls for a medic.
Madison rushes over and puts her arm around me. “Are you okay? What happened?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I think Andrew thought he was protecting me?”
I look back and forth between Andrew walking away and Scott standing there bleeding . . . and I go after Andrew.
I grab ice from the outside bar, wrap it in my towel, and speed-walk to the production trailer. When I get there, I find him inside, alone, writing something. I knock on the door, and he turns as I say, “I brought ice.”
He puts his pen down, and I walk over to where he’s sitting. He silently watches me as I step between his legs and take his bruised hand in mine. I gently wrap the towel around it, making sure the ice is on his swollen knuckles.
“Thanks,” he says as he blows out the breath he had been holding.
I realize I’m standing too close, but neither of us makes an effort to move. “Want to tell me what that was all about?” I finally ask.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “It’s just . . . when I heard he was in the hot tub with an intoxicated contestant, I was pissed. I knew he’d pull something like that. But then I heard it was you . . . I just lost it.”
“Oh,” I answer quietly.
“I’m probably going to lose my job.”
“Only if Scott presses charges, right? I’m sure Kristina will convince him not to. She’ll find a way to make a bloody nose good for the show.”
Andrew shrugs. “Either way. It’s not a great look when the studio lawyer breaks the ‘no violence’ clause.” His hand twitches where I’m holding the ice on it, but he doesn’t pull it away.
“For what it’s worth, no one has ever defended my honor before. I don’t usually condone violence, but that was hot.”
I meant it as a joke, but he quickly looks up at me, searching my eyes.
And I realize that maybe I wasn’t entirely joking.
There was something possessive about the way Andrew came in and tore me away from Scott.
I swallow hard and busy myself checking his knuckles under the ice. “The swelling is going down.”
He nods. “Just in time to write myself up in an incident report.” But he doesn’t take his hand away, and I don’t let go of it either.
I’m distracted by the nuances I’m discovering this close to him. The slight smattering of freckles on his nose and the specks of gold in his warm brown eyes. I always thought green eyes were my favorite, because of their genetic rarity, but suddenly brown is in the running.
Then he inhales deeply. “Do you have another towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to my body.
I realize that in my rush to bring him ice, I used the towel that was formerly covering my still see-through angel costume. “Oh. I used it for the ice.”
He looks up and closes his eyes like he’s asking a higher power for strength. “I’m trying really hard to be a gentleman. Which is difficult when you’re wet and essentially naked.” He reaches for his suit jacket from the back of a chair and hands it to me.
I use his thigh for balance as I wrap the jacket around me. “Hey, I didn’t pick out the costumes,” I say.
“I know. And I’m going to talk to the producers about them. They’re ridiculous.”
“I’m supposed to be angelic.” I pout.
“There is nothing about the way you look that’s angelic,” he says, looking down at my hand that is still holding onto his thigh, as I continue to stand between his legs. He’s clenching the fist that isn’t currently being iced as if it’s itching to grab onto something.
I should really move my hand, but I can’t help but feel smug that I have this effect on him. It’s even more fun than trying to piss him off.
He must notice the glint in my eye because he shakes his head. “You like torturing me.”
“No, if I liked torturing you, I’d let this jacket slip off.”
“Please don’t,” he grinds out, but his eyes say the opposite. We stand there in a game of chicken until he reaches out and holds onto my hip, his thumb on my bare skin, under his jacket. To keep me away or pull me in? I don’t think he knows.
Then he sighs heavily and shakes his head like he’s trying to shake sense back into himself. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your shack while I wait for Kristina.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and reluctantly take a step back so we’re no longer touching.
Andrew grabs a flashlight, and I groan, “I forgot about the damn shack.” He laughs and guides me out the door.
Despite sobering up in the aftermath of the punch, I might still be tipsy because as we head down the grassy hill toward the shack, I stumble.
Andrew catches me before I face-plant, holding me by the waist and pulling me upright so I’m standing directly in front of him.
His hands are still on my waist, and I like the way they feel.
Too much. I also like the way his face looks in the moonlight. He really is very handsome.
“Thank you,” Andrew says.
“Did I say that out loud?”
Andrew laughs and takes my hand. “That’s two compliments tonight. I think you better stay away from tequila or I might get the impression you don’t hate me as much as you pretend you do.”
“In that case, I’m never drinking again,” I say as he helps me down the hill.
As we get closer to the shack of doom, Andrew says, “It was really nice of you to give Madison and TC the Villa, by the way.”
“What can I say? I’m a saint.”
He squeezes my hand. Which I realize he’s still holding even though we’re now on flat ground. “Aren’t you?” he says, holding up the towel of ice I brought him. “You’re always looking out for everyone else.” Andrew stops in front of the shack door and turns toward me. “Who looks out for you?”
I think about the granola bar he gave me, and his advice during the confessional, and his protectiveness around Scott. “Usually no one. But lately . . .” I raise our entwined hands, and the implication just hangs in the air.
We stand there, holding hands, for another charged moment.
Except this time, I pull away first. The thought of him looking out for me changes things.
Because this isn’t just us messing with each other or trying to get a reaction out of each other.
I don’t know what it means, but it seems like something I should figure out when I’m sober.
I hand him his jacket back. “Good night, Andrew.”
He hands me the flashlight and looks conflicted. Like there’s more he wants to say or do. “Good night, Grace.”
And then I watch him walk all the way back up the hill to find out his fate with Kristina.
Two things wake me up the next morning, and I can’t decide which is more annoying: the light streaming directly into my eyes from the hole in the shack wall, or the fact that Cowboy Bill is curled up mere feet away, snoring at 150 decibels.
I sit up, and my back immediately reminds me that I slept on the ground last night.
But luckily, my back pain is overshadowed by my splitting headache and monstrous thirst. I look around to see if there’s any bottled water or even an old rusted can of rainwater when I see Beth Anne sleeping on the other side of the shack.
She’s wearing a silk eye mask and ear plugs with a bottle of Evian next to her.
She’s even set up a battery-powered noise machine and humidifier.
She’s created the Four Seasons of murder shacks. Good for her.
I ruffle through my suitcase in hopes that I packed some painkillers when I see that I have a text from Cassie on my burner phone.
CASSIE: You didn’t call me to check in last night. How are you?
I sigh and text back.
ME: Well, I’m lying on the floor of a haunted tool shed with a massive headache and dry mouth. So, you know, I’ve been better.
She immediately texts me back.
CASSIE: Oh no! What happened?
And then last night comes flooding back with a vengeance. The shots, the wine, the dance floor, the hot tub, Andrew punching Scott. Shit. I tiptoe out of the shack and walk down to the beach in my pajamas so I can call Cassie without getting caught. She answers on the first ring.
“Why are you in the shack?” she asks without even saying hello. I cringe at her morning peppiness before explaining that I actually had the most points, but I gave the golden key card to Madison and TC.
Cassie claps loudly when I tell her I was “America’s Favorite Contestant,” and I move the phone away from my ear.
“Please be less excited for me. I’m hungover.
And the shack is the least of my problems right now,” I say before I launch into the drama of yesterday, starting with, “So, I kind of hooked up with Hot Scott yesterday.”
“Who’s Hot Scott?” Cassie asks as I walk along the shore.
“He just got here and he’s a model and really hot.”
“What do you mean by ‘hooked up’?” And then she whispers, “Did you have sex with him?”
“No! Wait, is that what ‘hook up’ means? No wonder Madison was so protective about me going in the hot tub with him.”
“Hot tub?! Everyone on reality TV knows that’s code for sex.”
“Well, not everyone,” I mutter as I seriously consider drinking the Pacific Ocean to quench my thirst. Instead, I sigh and explain, “Hot Scott and I did some dirty dancing at the Angels and Devils party, and then we made out in the hot tub with some touching until Andrew interrupted us. And then he punched Scott in the face.”
“You’re hungover? You made out in a hot tub? Men are fistfighting over you? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?” Cassie demands.
Even though I know she’s teasing me, I let everything sink in as I pace back and forth on the beach.
“You’re right. This isn’t me. I don’t do tequila shots or hook up with strangers.
I don’t know what the hell is happening, Cass.
There’s some serious Stockholm syndrome mind-fuckery going on around here.
I bet my brain imaging would be very similar to a cult member’s right now. ”
“I can’t believe some sleazy model was trying to take advantage of you in a hot tub!”
“Yeah, that wasn’t cool of Scott. But maybe he was drunk and making bad decisions too? And it’s not like I was telling him no . . .” I say defensively.
“Because you were intoxicated! I don’t like this guy for you,” she says. And in the somewhat sober light of day, I don’t either.
“What’s this Scott guy like anyway?” Cassie asks.
“I dunno. Hot?”
“So, Scott was just the proxy for all the hot cool guys who never gave nerds like us a second glance growing up?”
“How does everyone know about this theory? It’s insane,” I say as I throw a seashell into the water.
“It makes sense. You’re helping to reset the equilibrium of the universe.”
I laugh, then wince. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”
Then Cassie asks, “So what about Not-So-Old Man Benson?”
“Andrew? What about him?”
“He punched a guy for you! That seems very unlawyerly!”
I want to immediately deflect and say it wasn’t for me, and he was just protecting the show, but then I remember what he said in the production trailer last night. “But then when I heard it was you he was trying to take advantage of, I don’t know, I just lost it.”
“I really don’t know what Andrew’s deal is,” I answer honestly. “I thought he hated me. He was so grumpy and annoying in his emails and when we first met. And he’s constantly reprimanding me. But then last night . . .”
I try to make sense of his actions, but when I force my synapses to fire, more scenes from the production trailer come flickering back. I groan loudly when I remember how flirty and inappropriate I was, and oh my God I touched his thigh and threatened to take off his jacket.
“What?” Cassie asks when I groan.
“I think I may have drunkenly hit on him.” I hide my face in my hands and tell Cassie, “Don’t ever let me drink again. I can’t be trusted.”
But Cassie just makes a “hmm” noise.
“What’s with you and the ‘hmms’? What does ‘hmm’ mean?” I demand.
“Nothing. It’s just interesting.” But before I can ask her to elaborate, she says, “I actually have to run, though. It’s time to go release our babies.”
“Oh my God. I can’t believe I forgot that today is the big day!” I say, stunned. I throw myself down into the sand. No amount of tequila should make me forget the day I’ve been working toward for three years of vaccine research. This is an all-time low for me.
“It’s okay,” Cassie says, sensing my depressive state. “You’ve been busy navigating a whole new world, Grace.”
“How could I possibly let myself get caught up in all this bullshit fake dating drama? I got distracted by douchey guys and an infuriating lawyer instead of focusing on the things that really matter! What the hell is wrong with me?”
“It’s understandable that you’re overwhelmed,” Cassie says sincerely. “And don’t worry. Seriously, we’ve got it covered.” I appreciate her kind words, but they don’t make me feel any better about losing focus.
I sigh heavily. “Thanks, Cass.” As disappointed as I am in myself now, I’m equally grateful that I have her in my life. “Good luck today, and call me right after to tell me everything. Seriously, every single detail.”
“I will. And I promise we won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. I miss you.”
“Miss you too. Oh, I packed some Advil in your toiletry bag,” Cassie says.
“You’re a lifesaver!” I tell her before she hangs up, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with homesickness. Well, work-sickness. I should be there with them.
I sit in the sand, staring out at the ocean and feeling helpless stuck inside this reality TV prison.
All I can do is say a prayer to the environmentalist ghost of John Muir that my little froggies will do well in the wild today.
Then I take a deep breath, dust the sand off my pajamas, and vow to try harder.
If my coworkers are picking up the slack for me outside the mansion, I need to do my part in here.
But first . . . Advil. Hmm, maybe Advil really should have been a sponsor.