Wicked Games (Games #1)(13)
Author: Jessica Clare

Dean was so much better than them in every aspect. I thought of the tiny shelter back on our beach and our bug repellent. Did I want to curl up with someone else in that shelter? Rub bug lotion all over their bodies? Have them lick peanut butter from my skin?

“Lana,” Chip shouted in my ear. “Second place!” Then, “Ginger, third!”

Slowly, the rest of the women finished. Well, sort of. Both Heidi and a girl named Heather hadn’t been able to create fire, so they were forced to draw straws, and Heather ended up with last pick. At last, Chip returned to me and I wiped my sweating palms on the edge of my shirt, nervous.

He held out the red envelope. “As first place, you receive this envelope. Open it and read aloud.”

I took it from him with shaky fingers, unnerved at the fact that all eyes were completely fixed on me and my movements. There was a wax seal on one side, and I broke it with my thumbnail and flipped the letter open.

“As winner of this reward challenge, a choice must be made. Either get first pick of partners and increase your odds, or elect a day in the shade.” As usual, the messages written by the staff were crappy and made no sense, so I turned to Chip for my answer.

“You have two choices, Abby. One, you can take first pick of the male contestants. Any of them that you want. This can give you a huge advantage over the others. Or,” he said, and paused dramatically, “you can forego strategy and select the reward instead. If you select the reward, you will be taken to a luxury spa and will spend the night there. You’ll have food, showers, and a warm bed waiting for you. But the downside is that you’ll be forced to remain with your current partner and will receive no strategic advantage.”

No strategic advantage? It sounded like paradise to me—vacation, food, shower, and Dean? But what if I was the only one that wanted that? It occurred to me that I might be making Dean the most miserable person on earth if I kept him with me, and I quickly glanced out to him, looking for my answer in his face. As usual, he wore no expression, not giving away anything. That was no help. I had no idea if I was making the right choice or not. Panicked, I scanned the row of men one last time, trying to decide.

To hell with this.

I’d lived several days with angry Dean before. I could live with angry Dean again. Even if it did make my stomach knot at the thought of him being mad at me after the bonding we’d done. But, my decision made, I handed the red card back to Chip. “I want the food,” I said.

“Of course,” Shanna said down the line, her voice catty. Someone snickered next to her.

Chip seemed very surprised by my choice. “You’re deciding to keep the same partner?” he said as Dean rose to his feet in the distance and slung his pack over his shoulders, the expressionless look still on his face. “After all the troubles the two of you have had for the past two weeks, what made you choose that?”

Uh-oh, I had to explain myself. “I really just wanted the food and shower,” I said in a bright voice, hoping that my bubble-headed lie sounded convincing. “Who wouldn’t?”

Chip gave a fake chuckle and gestured in the distance. “If you’ll go that way, you’ll be taken to your reward.”

With my bag clutched tightly in my hands, I trailed off of the small stage, back down to the ground. One of the production assistants was waiting nearby, ready to interview me about my win. Dean was in the distance, heading toward me, and I offered him a faint smile as he walked by. “Hi,” I called, just before another production assistant grabbed him.

He turned and gave me a hard look. “We’ll talk later.”

That didn’t bode well. I swallowed and nodded. If this was a show for the cameras, well… he certainly had me convinced.

***

While there were many tiny things I really disliked about the rules of Endurance Island, the worst had to be the ‘no talking’ rule on transportation. Since the show was all about filming every aspect of our day in the island setting, talking on the motorboats would interfere with that, so the simplest show rule was “No talking at all” during transport. Which was fine, normally, but as I sat in the helicopter with Dean next to me, our legs touching, it was hard to stick to the rule.

I wanted to find out if he was mad at me. If I’d made the wrong decision.

The helicopter dropped us off at a designated pad on a different island, and a woman was there to greet us and take our backpacks, since we weren’t allowed to bring them into the spa. She had the long, wavy hair and round face of the native islanders and was dressed in a colorful wrap dress and wore a flowered wreath. “Come,” she gestured at us, her voice barely audible as the helicopter took off again, and I felt (rather than heard) the familiar cameraman moving into place at our side.

The woman led us up a long flagstone path to a small beach house with large windows. The heavily slanted roof and bushy palms surrounding it were supposed to give an air of privacy to the hut itself, but I could see the rest of the hotel in the distance, and it felt weird to be so close to civilization once more. Our escort led us up the stairs to the bungalow and opened the door, then gestured that we should enter. “Your food is waiting for you inside. Please ring the bell if you need anything,” she said, then walked to the edge of the bungalow porch to demonstrate the bell. “I will come and assist you with anything you require. The helicopter will return in the morning to take you back to the beach.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, not looking at my partner. It sounded like it would be just the two of us. An anticipatory tingle skittered over my skin, but that was ridiculous.

Dean thanked her as well and she moved down the steps and away, leaving us alone in the small island bungalow. Dean glanced at me.

My mouth dried at the expectant look he was giving me. He clearly wanted answers, and the only ones I could think of started with I didn’t want to be separated from you… which just sounded desperate. I pushed past him into the cabin, looking around.

The smell of food hit like a brick, and my mouth began to water immediately. I followed it into the large living room area of the tiny house. The bungalow seemed to be built with a very open layout—one half of the entire house was the living room area, and a long, low table overflowed with food. Two pillows sat on either end of the table—I assumed for us to sit on.

I went to check out the rest of the bungalow. One small room was a bedroom with two tiny twin beds separated by a wicker nightstand. Two fluffy bathrobes lay nearby, along with two colorful wraps for us to wear when we were done showering. The other room was an immense, almost palatial bathroom that I could have sworn was bigger than the bedroom. Decorated in tropical style, it consisted of a stone floor and massive dual showerheads, separated by a saloon door partition. His and hers showers. Cute.

Dean drifted in behind me and was staring at the bathroom with an impressed look on his face. “Pretty nice digs.”

“Yep,” I said, still feeling awkward, and brushed past him, out of the bathroom and into the living room, making a direct line toward the food. A pizza dripping with cheese and pepperoni still had steam rising from it, and with my mouth watering I reached out to grab a slice… and stopped, appalled at the filth on my hand. Rings of dirt scored under my fingernails, and my tan was ringed with grime from living on the beach. Suddenly, I felt filthy as hell and wiped my hand on my equally gritty shirt. Ugh.

Dean moved behind me and his hand touched my shoulder. “Abby, I think we need to talk.” His voice was serious and low and distinctly not what I wanted to hear at the moment.

No, no. “I don’t want to talk right now,” I said, trying to brush past him. I didn’t want to ruin the lovely mountain of food or the showers or anything with an argument or complaining about my lack of strategy. I just wanted to enjoy an evening of luxury.

“We need to talk,” Dean insisted, following me as I pushed past him.

“I’m going to shower first,” I said, not looking at him as I moved into the bedroom, scooped up the robe, and then crossed to the bathroom. “You’re welcome to talk to me in there, but I’m filthy and I’m going to clean up before I touch any of that lovely food.”

To my relief, he didn’t follow me into the bathroom. I stepped into one of the stalls, the door swinging shut behind me, and began to strip out of my clothing. I didn’t care if it got wet—hell, it needed to be cleaned worse than I did. I stepped out of the last of my bikini and tossed it in the corner of the shower, then turned the water on.

It blasted my skin, hot and wet and just about the best thing ever. I gave a shuddery moan of delight and wet down my hair, leaning into the spray. God, it felt so amazing. Who would have thought a warm shower could feel so blissful after two weeks of no showers? I grabbed one of the small bottles of shampoo lining the wall and shampooed my thick, curly hair. Twice. The scent was coconut—something I was a little tired of—but I didn’t care. It felt heavenly to get clean.

A round, lumpy sponge had been left for me, and I squirted it with body wash, frantically rubbing down my body. As I did, I heard the shower next to me turn on and glanced over the swinging doors. Dean was in the other shower, and I could just make out his shoulders and head as he soaped up. “Decided to shower?” I called out.

He slicked the water away from his face and glanced at me over the flimsy shower door. “Thought I’d wait for you.”

I nodded and turned back to my frantic scrubbing. Part of me supposed that I should have been weirded out by sharing a shower with a stranger, but Dean felt like anything but. Living together on a beach for two weeks had certainly stripped that aspect out of our relationship, and I figured he could see flashes of my nak*d body in the shower, and I pretty much didn’t care. Though, if I had to admit it, I was curious to see him without his trunks.

I blushed at the thought and chided myself for it. We had to work together—professionally—at least until the tribes merged. I couldn’t be sitting here, wondering how big his equipment was. We were friends. Theoretically. He might be mad at me for screwing his chances, and I might have been thinking about his package, but we were friends before today, and hopefully we would be again after the initial shockwaves settled down.

“So why did you pick me?” Dean said loudly, speaking over the water.

What was the best answer here? “Because they expected me not to,” I called back.

“Trying to prove everyone wrong again, eh?”

I couldn’t tell from the tone of his voice if he thought I was being funny or what, so I said nothing, swiping the sponge over my neck and the tops of my shoulders. I couldn’t quite reach my back, and it was bothering me.

“Abby?” Dean stepped forward, and I glanced over my shoulder at him. He was standing near the swinging doors, but his eyes were averted, not looking at my nak*d (and very vulnerable) body. For some reason, I found that… sweet. My heart melted. Even though he was irritated at me and I was standing here nak*d, he was averting his eyes like a gentleman.

“Something like that,” I said slowly. My back still felt oily and gross, and I took a step backward, keeping my back presented to him. “Can you wash my back while we talk?” I kept my eyes trained forward, stating without speaking that I wouldn’t look at his nak*d body if he did. To keep my promise, I closed my eyes and bent my head, crossing my arms over my br**sts and exposing my back.