Wicked Games (10 page)

We moved forward to the booths we selected. I chose one in pale green, on the end of the contestants. I wouldn’t be able to see how the others were doing, and that would probably be for the best, since it would just make me nervous. But this was a contest I could do well in. I knew how to make fire. I could do this.

But who would I pick if Dean didn’t want to be my partner any longer?

I sat down on the shiny lacquered wooden stool and immediately stood up again. The stool was still wet with prop paint, and I wiped it off the back of my thighs in disgust. How cheap was the set? Ugh. I picked up the knife and flint and kicked the stool aside. I’d worked with flint to start a fire in my survival course. I could do this.

“Contestants ready?” Chip called, and I tensed over my table, thoughts racing. “Go!”

I grabbed a handful of tinder and then doubled it, making a huge mountain of it on my table. Tinder would burn fast and burn high, and I just needed to figure out how to get it to burn high enough to hit the rope that was at eye-level. I grabbed my flint and knife again, and scraped the edge of the blade against the flint. Nothing. I probably needed to strike fast and strike hard. With that in mind, I banged the two together and produced a tiny spark, but not enough to light my fluffy tinder-pile. I banged again, slicing the edges of my finger in the process, but the spark was bigger.

It took four more bangs (and subsequent cuts on my fingers) before I managed to get a spark to land in the fluff-pile. As soon as I saw a curl of smoke, I bent over and cupped the mound in my hands, blowing on it until smoke began to pour out.

“Someone’s got a flame,” Chip called over my head, and I hoped to God he was talking about me. I didn’t dare look up, just continuing to blow on the tinder-puff until the flames were licking and I could hold it no longer. Then, I threw the entire box of tinder on top of my table, and added the kindling sticks, waiting for the entire table to go up.

It did, and pretty soon I had a low mass of flames on my table – the key element being ‘low’. For some reason, my fire wasn’t burning very high and my stuff was burning up entirely too fast, and I was nowhere near my string. Frustrated, I stared down at the wood underneath my table, trying to find small, dry logs to build my fire quickly. I picked up one, then two, but it was a slow lick, and it wouldn’t get me to where I wanted. I needed to win, and fast.

“We have three...four...five fires going,” Chip called behind me, as I fed the final scrapings of my tinder-box contents to my fire, adding the last of the small sticks to it. My larger logs still hadn’t caught, and I began to get nervous and desperate. Could I burn something else? Was that against the rules?

I turned back to the host for a moment, feeding more logs at the edges of my fire to push it in. “What can we burn?” I cried at him. “Anything?” The fabric would be real handy right about now – I could drape one edge of it over the rope...

“Anything under the table,” he called back at me, dashing my hopes. The fabric lay behind me, nowhere close to my table.

What was flammable? My shirt? No – it was the only T-shirt I had while I was out here, and I wasn’t about to burn it. I rocked on my stool, thinking hard.

Wait, my stool. I stood up, jerking to my feet, and grabbed it. It was painted with a thick, glossy coat of paint, the exact same color as my light-green booth. It still gleamed wet and when my hand touched it, it was sticky. The paint wasn’t dry. Wasn’t paint flammable? I grabbed it, flipped it upside down, and held it over the licking flames.

“What are you doing?” Chip yelled at me from behind the dais, and immediately the camera-man nearby zoomed in to my booth.

“You said I could use anything under my table,” I called, and a ripple of laughter emerged from the men’s row in the distance.

I held the stool over the licking flames, hoping the wet, sloppy prop paint would catch on fire. The actual wood of the stool felt light and cheap to me – lighter than plywood – and I wouldn’t be surprised if it burned faster than anything they’d given me in my woodpile. Sure enough, the bottom began to lick flames, and I set it down in the already burning-fire. The flames began to flicker and dance over the surface, turning green and blue as the paint burned off, and I stepped backward slightly, using my log to shove the rest of the burning crap on my table over the stool.

It was burning like a beacon, and I wondered at the cheapness of the props on the island. Heh. One of the legs began to burn and I angled it so it was touching my rope, and waited, glancing down the row at the others. Lana had noticed what I was doing and was using her stool as well, though with less success.

The fire was licking up the cheap legs of the stool and licking toward the rope already, and I watched as the other women glanced over at my fire and began to use theirs as well, stools thumping onto the tables right and left as women stood and tried to copy my success.

There was a snap, and my flag shot into the air. “Abby wins first place,” Chip called out in a sour voice. Apparently he didn’t like my bending of the rules. I didn’t care. I clapped my hands and sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. My god, I’d
won
something. It felt good.

One of the production assistants off-camera motioned for me to go and stand next to Chip, and I did so, waiting for the others to finish. I scanned the line of men remaining. I’d have first pick of partners, and they knew it. None of them were making eye contact with me, except Dean, who flashed a brilliant white smile in my direction that made my knees weak. So as not too seem too obvious, I looked up and down the row of men. Tattooed Leon was still there, and Olaf the biker. Will smiled at me, but it was uncertain and I knew he didn’t want to be separated from Lana unless we were told we couldn’t pick our old partners. I totally understood that, and gave him a small nod. The others I hadn’t ran into very much – Shane, Chris, Jack, Riley.

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, reading aloud.

“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 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 down-side 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 angry 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 back 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 on reward. 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 camera-man moving into place to the 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 dropped my bag in the doorway and went to check 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 had 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.”