Wicked Games (Games #1)(3)
Author: Jessica Clare

“Partners,” Chip echoed, speaking louder and talking over Dean. “We’re going to divide you into teams of two. One man, one woman.”

What the heck was this, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?

The others began to write on their boards with a piece of chalk, and I glanced down at mine. What to write? Journalist? Writer? God, could I sound any less athletic if I wrote down writer? After a moment’s introspection, I decided upon ‘Book Reviewer’ and flipped my board around. I peeked down the line, wondering if my suspicions were correct.

The other plaques read, in order: Ex-Military, Actress, Swimsuit Model, Grad Student, Camp Counselor, Playmate, Stunt Double, and Medical Intern. One shorter woman had written ‘Gymnast’ and another had written ‘Mareen Biologest.’ Ten bucks said that she wasn’t one—those big fake br**sts would make it impossible for her to stay under the water.

My buddy that had insisted I drag her to shore, only to mock me once I’d saved her ass? ‘Aspiring Model.’

The men drew numbers and arranged themselves on the sand with tribe flags depicting their team numbers. To my intense satisfaction, good ol’ Dean had selected number eleven out of twelve, something that obviously didn’t sit too well with him. He had a sour expression on his face that delighted me.

The first guy picked—some dude with a chest full of tattoos and a ring in his nose. I guessed that he was going to pick the gymnast (male fantasy and athleticism all in one).

“I’ll take the Playboy Bunny,” he said and broke into a smile.

The bunny—my other nemesis Shanna—giggled and bounced over to stand next to him in the sand. The ex-military woman—Ginger—made a noise of disbelief in her throat, and I had to concur. Who would have thought that the girl with big plastic hooters and a Southern accent would get picked over a gymnast and a stunt double in a survival competition?

The next guy picked—the ‘Mareen Biologest.’ This was turning into a rather laughable spectacle of a ‘survival’ show. Hotness seemed to be the key factor here.

The next two to be snatched up were the ones I suspected—Ginger the ex-military, Vera the gymnast, and Alys the stunt double were the next to go, all to partners that looked as if they were relieved at the other choices. Soon enough, it was Dean’s turn to pick, and no one was left but myself and Heidi at the far end of the line, still holding her Aspiring Model sign and giving everyone a sunny smile.

Oh crap.

I had a hunch that I’d be picked dead last—and the guy at the end of the row that would be my partner seemed to be the exception to the ‘young and reasonably hot’ look that the producers had wanted—he was older than the others, had a mane of salt-and-pepper curls that went down his back, and the biggest biker beard I’d ever seen. I couldn’t read his name because his beard was so long it covered his shirt.

I felt visibly deflated at the sight of him, and my gaze flicked back to Dean, who seemed to be having an equally difficult crisis of decision. He looked at Heidi, then back at me, then back at Heidi again, as if weighing his options.

Oh god. I sure didn’t want to be stuck with Dean.

Sure, Old Biker Guy looked like he wouldn’t last a week out here, but I’d take him over an arrogant jerk any day. Not that it was my choice to make.

Dean heaved a sigh and put his hands on his oh-so-lean hips, glancing over at Chip the host. I knew he’d made his choice then. His gaze had lingered long and hard on Heidi, and she’d winked at him and given him her best sultry-girl smile. And when he’d looked over at me? I’d glowered at him and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I’ll take the pissed off one. Abby.” He sounded so thrilled about it too.

I admit, my jaw dropped a little. So did Heidi’s.

“Are you sure?” Chip asked, as if he couldn’t believe it either.

“Gee, thanks, Chip,” I called out with an overly sweet voice and stepped off the mat.

“I’m sure,” Dean replied, his cocky-guy voice returning, and I gave him my biggest, fakest, most model-ish smile and moved toward him. While Heidi was standing there, I’d do my best to look pleased that I’d been picked. I grabbed my bag and sauntered through the sand—well, with my wet, heavy shoes, it was more like a stumble.

Dean looked chagrined as I wobbled my way over to stand next to him, and Heidi moved to the Old Biker Guy’s side, looking equally confused that her hotness had been passed up for the lump of humanity known as myself.

“Welcome to Endurance Island,” Chip shouted again, a phrase I was already getting tired of hearing. “Your maps to your camps are tied to your flags. Head there and we’ll see you at the next challenge!”

Dean turned and glanced back at me, giving me his lopsided white smile, no doubt carefully calculated to make hearts flutter and panties descend. “Looks like it’s just you and me for the next few days.”

“Great,” I said in a tone of voice that was anything but. “Now do you want to tell me why you picked me instead of Heidi?”

He glanced over at her once, then flicked a dismissive gaze back to me. “She can’t swim for shit.”

Huh. I have to admit that made me speechless, just a little.

“And besides,” he said as he picked up our tribe flag (lucky number eleven), “you’re the one with the peanut butter. And now it’s our peanut butter.”

Obviously the peanut butter was a bigger asset than I was.

Chapter Three

You know, it’s funny. All the other girls on this island look like they’d love to spend a few days alone with me. Abby looks at me as if she’d like to take my axe and gut me like a fish. Weirdest chick I’ve ever met. Decent swimmer, though. Let’s hope she doesn’t totally blow it during challenges.—Dean Woodall, Day 2.

We didn’t speak as we hiked along the island. Myself, I couldn’t come up with anything civil (and I suspected he had the same problem) so we trekked through the sand and brush in silence. We’d passed by a few other camps—ours was on the far side of the island thanks to our poor number selection. The castaways that had chosen even numbers were hauled off by boat to another nearby island.

Cameramen fluttered in and out of the woods, following us. Since we’d already been instructed to ignore them, I’d done my best to do so. Even now, they were starting to blend in with the scenery, despite the fact that they were constantly jumping a few yards in front of us and filming.

“I see the camp up ahead,” Dean said eventually, and I lifted my head to look where he was pointing. Sure enough, a purple flag with a bright eleven fluttered near the beach. As we came upon the flag, I frowned. Endurance Island was truly going to be a hardship, all right. The flag was planted in the sand in the middle of nowhere, and the only thing that told us that this was our camp was a small cast-iron cook pot with a tiny bag of rice next to it.

Dean paused at the sight as well. “Home sweet home, I suppose.” He glanced back at me.

I bit my lip. It was either that or start screaming.

“I guess the budget must have been cut for this season,” I joked. “No four-star resort for us.”

“This is about endurance and surviving against the elements,” Dean replied in a scathing voice. “What did you expect?”

I glared at the back of his head as he tromped off through the bushes. “Asshole.” This was going to be the longest two months of my life, easily.

Despite the jerkoff that was my partner, they couldn’t have picked a lovelier location for the filming. Gentle waves lapped against the shore, and the sand that edged the water was smooth and pale and seamless. Palm trees rustled overhead, swishing in the wind coming off the water, and all around me was the green of vegetation and the blue of the ocean. It was lovely.

Dean was nowhere to be found. Our cameraman had run down the beach to try and find him—it was just me.

Paradise. I smiled and drank in the air.

Of course, the whole ‘paradise’ realization left me when, after admiring the setting sun for a few minutes, I noticed rain clouds in the distance. And realized that as pretty as our small cove was, there was also zero shelter to be found. My stomach started to growl.

We had no fire. No shelter. My small bag of clothing was soaked, my shoes were squishing on my feet, and I was terribly thirsty. Time to set up camp, I supposed. I picked a somewhat-protected spot with a few overhanging trees and used a fallen branch to rake the sand, trying to clean out a wide enough spot that was clear of debris for a fire and a shelter. By the time that was done, I was sweating and dirty and gross but had managed to clear off a decent-sized area.

Dean sauntered back at some point and stood in the distance, watching me. He held a crude bucket in his hands. “I found the water well.” He held it out to me. “Brought you a drink.”

I eyed him uneasily. That was almost too nice of him to be believed. “Thanks,” I said in a cool voice, and took the bucket from him. “Is it safe to drink?”

“I’ll find out in about a half hour,” he said with a half grimace.

Fair enough. I took a few cautious sips, then returned it to him. “We should try and boil the rest, just to be on the safe side.”

“And what are we going to boil it with?” he asked, taking the bucket back from me. “Our hands? Magic?”

“How about that nasty temper of yours?” I snapped back. “It seems to be boiling over a lot lately.”

“Well, can you blame me?” He gave me a disgusted look and gestured at our pathetic camp. “I was gone for over an hour and I come back and you haven’t even attempted to start a fire of any kind. What exactly have you been doing?”

“Setting up camp!”

He took a quick, over-exaggerated look around and spread his arms wide. “Wow, it looks amazing. I especially like the lodge you’ve set up. That’s incredible.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, you ass. I was clearing off the sand so we’d have someplace decent to actually set up. If you want to sleep on a bunch of rocks and branches, you’re more than welcome! I, however, am going to finish making a decent shelter.”

“Finish! You haven’t even started, sweetheart.”

“And I never will if you don’t leave me alone!” By this time, I was shouting, gesturing in his face as much as he was gesturing in mine. “Why don’t you go do something manly and go kill something for dinner?”

That seemed to surprise him. “Why don’t we just eat your peanut butter?”

I shook my head. “Absolutely not. That’s mine. You got an axe, I got peanut butter.”

His mouth curled into a sneer that still made him sexier than he should have been. “Is that how we’re going to do it then? What’s yours is yours and what’s mine is mine?”

“If that’s how you want to be, fine! That is exactly how we can do it,” I huffed. Fuck him if he thought I was going to share my peanut butter with him, when all he did was yell in my face. “You keep to your side of the camp and I’ll keep to mine, and we’ll see who’s better off, won’t we?”