Undertow

by Jen Greyson

  He righted my chair. “I’d hate for your time thus far to be a waste.”

  Oh shit. I still wasn’t positive if he was threatening me or trying to help. His lawyer face was impossible to read—as a side note I really hoped I could pull of that impassive one day. In the meantime, I had a choice to make. I could walk away from the biggest entertainment law firm or imprison myself of a love boat with a man I despised...and six other women.

  I straightened and crossed my arms, mimicking his posture. “What kind of compensation?”

  A ghost of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth. “I’ll double your salary for every week you stay on the show.”

  “What else?” Money wasn’t what I was after. I wanted a promise of a job, of a career.

  “I meant what I said about you being a good lawyer. If you do this, I’ll secure your position at the firm after you graduate and pass the bar. Until then, you’ll be welcome as intern.”

  “Lead intern?” Hell if I was going to let him stick me in the mailroom again after this.

  “Of course.”

  “Why me?” The growing pit in my stomach already knew the answer, but some sadistic part of my brain needed to hear it.

  “Mateo says you two have a history.” He frowned.

  Oh, I wanted to hurl. I wanted to bend in half and barf on the carpet.

  “Apparently he feels strongly about your connection and wants to replace one of the contestants with you.”

  I felt strongly about our connection too, but in a way that made me want to practice my knee-jerking to scrotums. But if I did this, it would guarantee me a job.

  All I had to do was be a complete sell-out.

  I tried to breathe, to rationalize if I could really do this, really seriously go on national television as a reality TV contestant. If I could—Oh, I couldn’t, I really couldn’t—but if I could, this would cement my career with a great firm. Dammit, I’d already done that because I’d earned it. A punching contest erupted in my gut. I gasped and managed to keep my wine down. “I’ll need this drawn up in a contract.”

  He grinned then. “A very good lawyer.”

  Flattery wasn’t going to sway me. I already knew what a damn good lawyer I was going to be. But could I do this other thing? I didn’t watch reality TV, and now I was considering being associated with it. I cringed and rubbed my eyes. Not just associated, Sangria... on the damn thing... in front of the cameras. And not just with anyone—with Mateo. At sea. Close quarters. Plus Kat.

  Kill me now.

  My stomach twisted and my heart tripped.

  “They only tape for six weeks. I believe you don’t start school until September?”

  Six weeks—a month and a half. I’d endured worse. And with the reward McComb was offering... How bad could it be?

  I dropped into an upright chair.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I nodded, numbness spreading through my limbs.

  “I’ll have the contracts drawn up. The yachts leave at seven tomorrow morning.” On the way out, he paused at my chair and settled a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Thank you. I think you’ll be great.”

  I jerked upright as a thought occurred to me. He hadn’t said a single thing about participation requirements. Not one thing about whether or not I could spend the next six weeks locked in my room.

  I twirled my finger in the air. “Happy vacation to me.”

  CHAPTER

  MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT and clear, mocking my immediate future, which was neither.

  The sun reflected off the waves, mini orbs rising and setting with the ocean’s rhythmic tide. A flurry of gulls dipped and dodged along the beachfront, scooping up remnants of abandoned meals. Crisp air promised a warm, humid day on land. One I’d gleefully endure if only my feet would remain on the shore.

  Working on less than an hour of sleep, I slipped from my room. The contestants ate together, but Stuart hadn’t said a thing about it last night when he’d joyfully ushered me to a quickly procured hotel room. Every action he’d made completely screamed asshole as he’d rubbed my salty situation deep into my wounds with his grating laughter.

  He said the room was for my convenience since we were shipping out so early, but I knew better. Everyone considered me a flight risk—including me. I’d have argued that I at least needed to pack, but not only did I have zero options for a few months at sea, but Stuart had brought Wardrobe and Makeup along. They’d measured, poked, waxed, and buffed me until the wee hours of the morning.

  The hotel hosting last night’s event had been chosen for its proximity to the marina. Not something I’d minded until today.

  I moved through the quiet lobby and out the back entrance, opting for the deserted beach instead of the clogged sidewalk. This early, a few joggers and yoga masters dotted the sand, but otherwise this end of my trek to prison offered wide spaces of nothing. The sand slipped and shifted beneath my feet, making me grimace. What a perfect metaphor for last night’s ridiculous turn.

  After McComb left, I’d been drowning. One wave of regret after another crashing over my head, and I still hadn’t caught my breath.

  With every step, my pace slowed and when I was half a block away, the pounding beat of last night’s pop music drowned out the peaceful waves and gulls.

  As I topped a small dune, my feet faltered. A massive stage loomed from the sand, blocking the ocean for sixty feet. A smothering dread engulfed me.

  What have I done?

  Before Stuart’s riptide dragged me under, I inhaled and pulled my shoulders back, then marched toward the stage. My signature across the bottom of five pages committed me to this for the next six weeks. I could do this, but one thing still bugged me. They’d filmed the original contestants last night—incorporating me now as a new one was going to be tough.

  More of last night’s giggling, preening crowd surrounded the stage. I slipped off to the side, watching and waiting. At some point I’d have to go backstage, but not yet. A few minutes of freedom remained and I wasn’t about to give up a single moment.

  One of Stuart’s assistants stepped to my elbow—Emily, I think. I stiffened.

  “We’re filming the original six again this morning because of the live crowd. Stuart wants you onboard within the hour though.”

  “Okay.” Relief washed over me and I leaned against a low metal fence corralling the crowd.

  The throng of people grew, seduced by the cameras and lure of airtime. With each new group of bodies, it moved as a contiguous body, expanding and contracting in a single breath.

  The trendy pop music intro died down and Stuart took the podium.

  While Emily had distracted me, Mateo and the girls had arrived. Today they’d dressed him in casual yachting wear—tan shorts and a navy button down—identical to the style he’d worn at the auction which made me wonder if he’d gotten a say in his own wardrobe.

  Clearly without any opinion of their own, the girls wore matching sundresses, one in every color. I hid my smile behind my fingers. Kat was not impressed.

  Good.

  Pretty sure my arrival on the boat was going to be another unwelcome surprise.

  Everyone looked at ease, enjoying the sun and surf. Everyone except Mateo with his strained smile and stiff posture.

  Oblivious, Stuart rambled on and attempted a few jokes. They were horrible. He was horrible. I wasn’t sure how just yet, but he was instrumental in the current ruination of my life.

  For entertainment, I stared little daggers at his forehead.

  “The first destination is Key West,” he said, eliciting oohs and aahs from the crowd. “For such a short trip, the contestants and Mateo will be on one yacht. And as you know, there are a series of destinations making up the dating process for the show. After Key West, they’ll be divided into small groups to allow Mateo ample time to start falling in love.” More twittering. “Anchors away in one hour.”

  Applause erupted. Mateo turned to the girls, smiling and gently touching arms and bare backs.
One by one, assistants escorted the girls to the boat.

  Still six girls. Plus one.

  As the crew broke down the set, the crowd dissipated, leaving me standing alone on my patch of sand. Mateo turned and met my gaze. The smile he’d used on the girls morphed into a mix of pity and joy at my new predicament.

  Fire glowed in my belly. He thought he’d won. Well I’d show him. I shot a courageous smile right back. Your plan is going to backfire, I nearly shouted out loud. I negotiated a brilliant job offer out of your conceited, rich-boy high-handedness. Don’t think for a second I’m going to roll over and play by your rules.

  He waved and I lifted my hand.

  Game. On.

  CHAPTER

  BACK AND FORTH. Back and forth.

  I turned and paced another track across my jail cell of a room. In four hours it had shrunk considerably. Survival would require a few midnight raids to the surface for air and open spaces.

  During my pacing, I’d sifted through what I knew about the synopsis of the show. According to the plan, one girl wouldn’t make it past the first episode. I had every intention of being that girl. Mateo might have gotten me on, but I was sure as hell going to be responsible for getting myself off.

  Seven days—one hundred sixty-eight hours—until freedom.

  Giddiness and laughter bubbled in my chest. Everything was going to work out.

  I wasn’t exactly sure how to get kicked off a reality TV show, but it had to be kind of like getting kicked off a jury. Either swing hard to the left, or harder to the right. In this case, the right was invisible, impartial, and inattentive. The left was passionate, powerful, and provocative. If I wasn’t around for filming and ratings boosts, I wouldn’t serve Stuart’s purpose. But, passionate, powerful, and provocative would endear me to him for a lifetime.

  To the right it is.

  Not only would Stuart’s maniacal house of cards go up in flames, but I’d also be off the ship and back to work. Nothing McComb could do to me then. I’d have done my part, and he’d have saved face with the client.

  My stomach growled. Meals might take some ingenuity, or I could hit the galley on my way to freedom during a midnight raid or two.

  Opening the remaining doors and closets of my cabin, my unasked prayers were answered in a minibar complete with fridge and sink. Sweet.

  Grinning, I snatched a bottle of peanuts and bag of M&Ms and curled up on the bed. Popping the top, I savored the smell of freshly-roasted, twenty-dollar-a-bottle peanuts. I propped the pillows and leaned into the plush softness. For a jail cell, this wasn’t horrible.

  Frantic knocking on my door halted the first peanut at my lips. Could I hope for room service and a seven-course meal? I ate a handful of peanuts. If I could wait it out until after everyone else aboard ate lunch, maybe I could sneak into the galley and fix something. Good thing I’d never been a picky eater.

  The knocking started again. Good grief.

  “I’m coming. I’m coming.” I slid off the bed and moseyed to the door. Then jerked to a stop.

  There was no peephole.

  My apartment had a peephole, a doorman, and an intercom. My warehouse had a full video surveillance system, a six-level security system, voice recognition software, and a peephole.

  Life for me didn’t exist without a peephole.

  There was no peephole.

  “Who—“ My voice was barely a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again, “Who is it?”

  No answer.

  There was no peephole.

  “Who’s there?”

  Footsteps neared my room.

  “Sangria?” Stuart’s voice penetrated the thick wood door. “I didn’t think you were there.”

  A surge of red-hot fury incinerated every other emotion. Last night, I’d still been too raw to combat his utter ass-ness. Not today. Twisting the knob hard, I yanked the door and stepped outside. “What?” My tone bristled like my back.

  “Nice try attempting to stay in your room. I’ve made a change to the show’s filming and decided to keep all the girls on the show until the season finale. Including you.” He turned and tossed a final blow over his shoulder. “I expect you at lunch in half an hour.”

  Six weeks. Not one week. Not seven more days.

  The news finally sank in and I sagged against the wall. By the time a witty retort popped in my mind, Stuart was well out of earshot before I recovered.

  Tears stung my eyes. Now that I’d seen my cell, six weeks was a lifetime.

  Twenty-four minutes and three decks later, I finally located the right stupid lounge by following my nose. Savory smells tripped up my stomach’s participation in my anger, but the rest of me was doing just fine staying pissed. Covered platters filled a buffet guarded by a couple waiters. Thankfully, the rest of the room was empty and I could stew in private.

  I tore a chair from its spot. Slamming myself in the chair, I crossed my arms and counted the minutes until I rushed back to my room. Stuart needed to fall overboard.

  And Mateo had better hope he didn’t get in my way, either.

  Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows making up three walls of the dining room. Set at the bow, the view should have been inspiring. Resentment was the only emotion it inspired in me. Classical music grated on my last nerve and I fingered the curve of my fork. If I had to listen to one more minute of this crap, I was going to jam the tines in my ear.

  I tipped my head back and snapped, “Change the music, Stuart!”

  Bach skipped to Jazz and I wrapped my fingers around the handle. I knew he’d been watching me. My forearm bulged. “Try again.”

  Eddy Van Halen’s riff from Eruption blared from the hidden speakers before Stuart turned it down to an acceptable level. The waiters jumped but he’d finally gotten it right and my knuckles eased. I lowered the fork and absently traced the pattern while the notes massaged the tension from my shoulders. It might not be acceptable dinner music for a posh restaurant, but if he wanted me to play, I got to determine a few of the ambiance features.

  My fingers tapped to the beat and I searched for the hidden cameras, though I wasn’t sure why they bothered with concealment. Not like anyone was going to forget why they were here.

  One camera winked from above the door, two stuck out from planters nestled in each corner, and I was pretty sure the centerpiece held another. Where the other girls would be leaning over and conspiratorially revealing their plans and playing to the crowd, I wanted to flip them off.

  A crisply dressed waiter unfolded my napkin and set it in my lap. I waved him away. “I’m fine.”

  He returned to his post by the door. I felt bad about snapping at him, but I couldn’t bring myself to apologize. Stuart was the one who should apologize.

  The first girl upstairs was Kemmerie, the southern belle. Such an incomplete way to describe someone, but that’s what she’d put on her own application and the marketing team had eaten it up. In every meeting I attended, the girls were referred to by their labels. Hers fit though. Debutante queen, Sorority sister, charity fund-raiser, and avid tennis player, Kemmerie did embody everything I imagined for the stereotype. Beyond her resume, she looked the part too. On the shorter side, plump features, blond ringlets and a bright, cheerful attitude perfected the image. I doubted anyone could hate Kemmerie.

  When she saw me, she grinned and waved. “Hi. I’m Kemmerie. We’ve met, right?”

  I straightened and quickly tried to mask my shock. Clearly Stuart hadn’t bothered to tell any of the contestants about the newest addition, but he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave it up to me to divulge. I’d sooner shoot my own foot off. Leaving everyone in the dark left a myriad of hiding options. They’d met me as law intern when I’d made them sign contracts, so at a minimum, they’d assume I was here in that capacity. I wasn’t about to reveal anything else until someone forced me.

  And then, only based on what it would cost me.

  Before I had to explain, Rinnae and Cassidy arrive
d, deep in conversation. They were a curious pair. Rinnae’s bright blue eyes were deep-set in her oval, chocolate face. Short, tight curls hugged her head, giving credence to her athletic lifestyle as a pro volleyball player. Sculpted arms stretched from beneath the capped sleeves of her silk shirt, belted at a tiny waist. Thick, muscular thighs bunched and flexed below a leather miniskirt, yet somehow she managed to make her muscles look very feminine and sexy. Maybe I should take up tennis when I get home, or at least hit a yoga class or two.

  Hippy-extraordinaire, Cassidy was to granola what Rinnae was to athletic. Long curls waved down her back, elegantly framing her Latina features. Boho all the way, the wardrobe team had outfitted her in vintage from head to toe. Tonight’s outfit came complete with a skinny leather headband across her forehead while a layered cream skirt accented her hourglass shape and the rich peach tones of a sheer tank and vest. Matching leather sandals laced over her ankles, the wedges adding a few inches to her short stature.

  They didn’t pause their chat as they came in. Rinnae gesticulated wildly and Cassidy laughed while waiters pulled their chairs out and Rinnae stopped her story long enough to thank him. The waiter tried to keep his composure, but failed, the tips of his ears turning beet-red. Cassidy sat between the other two and quivered with a vibrant energy, saying a quick hello to Kemmerie who leaned forward, eager to be included.

  Mandy peered in the door. “Here you guys are.” She smiled and waved at Kemmerie.

  Her fingertips brushed my shoulder on the way by and she might as well have tranquilized me as a feeling of complete calm infused me. That was trippy and I wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but she’d sucked the venom right out of my body. I relaxed and shifted, letting go of my death grip on the fork for the first time.

  Mandy sat opposite Kemmerie and made eye contact with each person. Rinnae’s voice lowered and the other girls visibly relaxed without Mandy’s touch. There was something about her that just mellowed everything about the atmosphere.