Wicked Games
Page 35
I blushed, shocked beyond words that he’d bring that up to my face. “Um…”
“The production crew is a huge fan of that scene when you threw paint in Dean’s face,” Jamie interrupted smoothly.
I relaxed a little, though the blush remained on my face. “Oh. Wow, that feels like so long ago.”
“Three weeks,” Mr. Matlock agreed and tucked my hand into his arm. “It’s kind of a good thing that you’re our first juror. This will give us plenty of time to go over the articles that MediaWeek should run about the show, and you can spend the rest of the time getting interviews and reviewing tapes.”
“Great,” I echoed, faking enthusiasm. Crap. I’d totally forgotten about the book. How on earth was I going to write about the time I’d spent here and avoid the topic of my relationship with Dean? It didn’t seem right to write about it. That would just make everything… weird.
Er, weirder.
“That’s wonderful. Let me know when you’re ready to start on the tapes and I’ll show you the area we’ve set up for your viewing room.”
I glanced around the room. More of the smirking crew lingered, and I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting for Mr. Matlock to leave so they could embarrass the crap out of me. “You know, there’s no sense in waiting,” I said, keeping my voice cheerful. “No time like the present to start.”
Anything to get away, pronto.
To my relief, Mr. Matlock was more than willing to show me the screening room. A few metal folding chairs were set in a small, tiled room and I was allowed to view reel after reel of TV footage. After showing me all the different gadgetry that the show had been able to afford (which I appropriately oohed and ahhed over), I was allowed my choice of reels to watch, with minimal supervision. A guy was also in the room, but he was editing and had headphones on and barely glanced at me.
I selected one file listed as “Pre-show interviews” and saw my own at the top of the stack. Ugh. I didn’t want to see what I looked like on camera. I opted for the next one down—Alys. Her reel was rather short, but funny. It was odd to see her with ruddy, full cheeks and a face full of makeup. She also seemed to be rather high-spirited going into the game, which was surprising. My memories of Alys and her grimly determined face didn’t match the reel. I wondered how many other people didn’t seem to match their ‘game’ personality. After watching and making myself a few notes on a pad of paper, I reached for the next one and the breath sucked out of me. Dean’s reel. Overcome with a mix of emotions—shyness, uncertainty, dread—I couldn’t seem to stop myself from placing the reel in and hitting “Play.”
It was Dean, in a casual T-shirt (Nike logo) and a pair of jean shorts. His hair was ruthlessly short—a skull trim. The deep golden tan was still there, and I wondered idly what he did in real life. And that’s when I noticed the looping red and blue ribbons around his neck, especially when he gestured to them.
“You want to know about these?” he was telling the camera and laughed with delight, as if that were the funniest question ever. “Don’t you guys know who I am? Dean Woodall, two gold and one silver in the last Olympics. Swimming. Yup. Yup, that’s me. Money? I’m here for the challenge of the game.” He hefted one medal and held it next to his cheek, grinning and hamming it up for the camera.
That pose seemed really familiar to me. So familiar that my gut clenched. Where had I seen that before?
The interviewer was laughing. “That your SI pose?”
“Cover shot,” he agreed with the interviewer and let the medal fall back on his chest.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
“Tell me about strategy, Dean. What’s your plan for the game itself?”
He gave an easy, lightweight shrug of those muscled, sleek shoulders, and my heart clenched at the familiar movement. “I’m looking forward to the competition. Test myself against elements… and the other players. Romance the ladies? If I need to. Anything to win, but I’m not specifically looking to meet a girl.
Romance the ladies? If I need to.
Anything to win.
Oh god. I was going to throw up.
This couldn’t be real. No way. I turned away from the footage as Dean continued to go into detail about how he planned on flirting with the girls to get ahead in the game. His casual laugh grated on my nerves, and I couldn’t take any more. My fingers fumbled for the pause button and I froze the screen. It highlighted on Dean’s face and his sleepy, laughing eyes. He looked sexy as hell.
I wanted to punch him in the face.
***
Two hours and a dozen of Dean’s interviews later, my heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces. The guy I’d slept with—the guy I’d gone crazy over—had used me. Every promotional interview was either about his past as a playboy Olympic Medalist or how he was going to be a major flirt in the game to use women to his own advantage, and when he didn’t see the advantage? He’d discard them.
And while I initially didn’t want to believe it, his words rang true over and over again.
“It’s my goal to hook up with a girl partner,” he told the camera with a laughing grin. “Preferably someone cute, but that doesn’t matter. I need her to trust me, and when I’ve got her wrapped around my finger, I’m golden. And then when she’s no longer any use to me?” He drew a finger across his neck in the classic gesture. “Done. Finito. It’s all about me in this game… but of course, the girls don’t have to know that.”
I was such a fool. I thought of the joke I’d made about a grown man being unable to look masculine in a Speedo. He’d given me such a puzzled look at the time. I’d had no idea why. Now I knew, I thought as I stared at the Sports Illustrated photos of him in a Speedo and his medals. My heart sank.
***
Depressed and unhappy, I spent the next two days with a carton of ice cream in my hands and making notes in my journals. There was a ton of work for me to do now that I was off the show—completing interviews, taping media junkets, answering questions, and taking notes on how the crew worked around the set. Since I’d be writing a ‘secret’ expose, I got behind the scenes information on just about everything—from how they came up with the challenges to how much influence the producers actually had. It was rather eye-opening.
Two days later, the next Judgment was held. Since I had been voted off, I wasn’t allowed to go back out to the Judgment Court, but watched via one of the feeds back at camp. Heather was the next one to be voted off—she wasn’t surprised in the slightest, judging by her reaction. I watched the faces of my former alliance—Lana, Will, Leon, and even Dean—and they were expressionless as Heather hugged them and left. Everyone knew exactly why Heather was leaving. It wasn’t that she wasn’t good at the challenges, or annoying around camp. She was simply in the wrong alliance.
At least she knew what was coming for her, I thought with disgust. My gaze rested on the immunity necklace that Dean wore around his neck. He was winning this thing handily.
A few hours later, Heather showed up at the camp designated for the jury. I greeted her with a bottle of wine and a celebratory pizza. “Welcome to loser land,” I said with a smile.
“The production crew is a huge fan of that scene when you threw paint in Dean’s face,” Jamie interrupted smoothly.
I relaxed a little, though the blush remained on my face. “Oh. Wow, that feels like so long ago.”
“Three weeks,” Mr. Matlock agreed and tucked my hand into his arm. “It’s kind of a good thing that you’re our first juror. This will give us plenty of time to go over the articles that MediaWeek should run about the show, and you can spend the rest of the time getting interviews and reviewing tapes.”
“Great,” I echoed, faking enthusiasm. Crap. I’d totally forgotten about the book. How on earth was I going to write about the time I’d spent here and avoid the topic of my relationship with Dean? It didn’t seem right to write about it. That would just make everything… weird.
Er, weirder.
“That’s wonderful. Let me know when you’re ready to start on the tapes and I’ll show you the area we’ve set up for your viewing room.”
I glanced around the room. More of the smirking crew lingered, and I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting for Mr. Matlock to leave so they could embarrass the crap out of me. “You know, there’s no sense in waiting,” I said, keeping my voice cheerful. “No time like the present to start.”
Anything to get away, pronto.
To my relief, Mr. Matlock was more than willing to show me the screening room. A few metal folding chairs were set in a small, tiled room and I was allowed to view reel after reel of TV footage. After showing me all the different gadgetry that the show had been able to afford (which I appropriately oohed and ahhed over), I was allowed my choice of reels to watch, with minimal supervision. A guy was also in the room, but he was editing and had headphones on and barely glanced at me.
I selected one file listed as “Pre-show interviews” and saw my own at the top of the stack. Ugh. I didn’t want to see what I looked like on camera. I opted for the next one down—Alys. Her reel was rather short, but funny. It was odd to see her with ruddy, full cheeks and a face full of makeup. She also seemed to be rather high-spirited going into the game, which was surprising. My memories of Alys and her grimly determined face didn’t match the reel. I wondered how many other people didn’t seem to match their ‘game’ personality. After watching and making myself a few notes on a pad of paper, I reached for the next one and the breath sucked out of me. Dean’s reel. Overcome with a mix of emotions—shyness, uncertainty, dread—I couldn’t seem to stop myself from placing the reel in and hitting “Play.”
It was Dean, in a casual T-shirt (Nike logo) and a pair of jean shorts. His hair was ruthlessly short—a skull trim. The deep golden tan was still there, and I wondered idly what he did in real life. And that’s when I noticed the looping red and blue ribbons around his neck, especially when he gestured to them.
“You want to know about these?” he was telling the camera and laughed with delight, as if that were the funniest question ever. “Don’t you guys know who I am? Dean Woodall, two gold and one silver in the last Olympics. Swimming. Yup. Yup, that’s me. Money? I’m here for the challenge of the game.” He hefted one medal and held it next to his cheek, grinning and hamming it up for the camera.
That pose seemed really familiar to me. So familiar that my gut clenched. Where had I seen that before?
The interviewer was laughing. “That your SI pose?”
“Cover shot,” he agreed with the interviewer and let the medal fall back on his chest.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
“Tell me about strategy, Dean. What’s your plan for the game itself?”
He gave an easy, lightweight shrug of those muscled, sleek shoulders, and my heart clenched at the familiar movement. “I’m looking forward to the competition. Test myself against elements… and the other players. Romance the ladies? If I need to. Anything to win, but I’m not specifically looking to meet a girl.
Romance the ladies? If I need to.
Anything to win.
Oh god. I was going to throw up.
This couldn’t be real. No way. I turned away from the footage as Dean continued to go into detail about how he planned on flirting with the girls to get ahead in the game. His casual laugh grated on my nerves, and I couldn’t take any more. My fingers fumbled for the pause button and I froze the screen. It highlighted on Dean’s face and his sleepy, laughing eyes. He looked sexy as hell.
I wanted to punch him in the face.
***
Two hours and a dozen of Dean’s interviews later, my heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces. The guy I’d slept with—the guy I’d gone crazy over—had used me. Every promotional interview was either about his past as a playboy Olympic Medalist or how he was going to be a major flirt in the game to use women to his own advantage, and when he didn’t see the advantage? He’d discard them.
And while I initially didn’t want to believe it, his words rang true over and over again.
“It’s my goal to hook up with a girl partner,” he told the camera with a laughing grin. “Preferably someone cute, but that doesn’t matter. I need her to trust me, and when I’ve got her wrapped around my finger, I’m golden. And then when she’s no longer any use to me?” He drew a finger across his neck in the classic gesture. “Done. Finito. It’s all about me in this game… but of course, the girls don’t have to know that.”
I was such a fool. I thought of the joke I’d made about a grown man being unable to look masculine in a Speedo. He’d given me such a puzzled look at the time. I’d had no idea why. Now I knew, I thought as I stared at the Sports Illustrated photos of him in a Speedo and his medals. My heart sank.
***
Depressed and unhappy, I spent the next two days with a carton of ice cream in my hands and making notes in my journals. There was a ton of work for me to do now that I was off the show—completing interviews, taping media junkets, answering questions, and taking notes on how the crew worked around the set. Since I’d be writing a ‘secret’ expose, I got behind the scenes information on just about everything—from how they came up with the challenges to how much influence the producers actually had. It was rather eye-opening.
Two days later, the next Judgment was held. Since I had been voted off, I wasn’t allowed to go back out to the Judgment Court, but watched via one of the feeds back at camp. Heather was the next one to be voted off—she wasn’t surprised in the slightest, judging by her reaction. I watched the faces of my former alliance—Lana, Will, Leon, and even Dean—and they were expressionless as Heather hugged them and left. Everyone knew exactly why Heather was leaving. It wasn’t that she wasn’t good at the challenges, or annoying around camp. She was simply in the wrong alliance.
At least she knew what was coming for her, I thought with disgust. My gaze rested on the immunity necklace that Dean wore around his neck. He was winning this thing handily.
A few hours later, Heather showed up at the camp designated for the jury. I greeted her with a bottle of wine and a celebratory pizza. “Welcome to loser land,” I said with a smile.
