“And the guy—”
“Bradley Woodard.”
“—didn’t have any idea how to steer that raft. They should have put him in the back because he’s the biggest.” He looked Joss over with a dispassionate study and clearly found her wanting. “You should have never been placed there.”
She never should’ve let the show’s producers push her onto that helicopter. But they’d reminded her that she’d signed both a whopper of a hold-harmless release and a contract of completion. If she didn’t compete in Do or Die, there would be a lawsuit, and she couldn’t withstand any more bad press at the moment.
Tell that to her stomach, still twisting itself into impossible shapes.
“You would have been a liability in front, too, because you are so little,” the man continued on about the raft. “One major rapid and you’d go flying like a projectile out of a catapult.”
A spark replaced all the gastro-gymnastics inside her. She clambered out of the raft and said, “Should I remind you that I was the only one who didn’t fall out of the raft?”
“Pure luck.”
That made her want to punch him in the kidney. But his lower back looked just as impenetrable as the rest of his body. Asshat. At least he wasn’t part of the show. And realistically, anger and annoyance on her part was infinitely better than total terror.
“Puck, release,” the man called out. A gorgeous golden-red dog trotted to his left side and gazed up at the man with adoration in his brown eyes. Maybe Devil Divine had better rapport with animals than he did with people.
“He’s beautiful,” she said. “Is he a retriever?”
“Yes. A golden.”
She ran her fingers lightly over the dog’s back, but he didn’t spare her a glance. That hurt more than the man’s scorn. “Then I’m surprised he didn’t jump in the water.”
“Puck is well trained. If I tell him to sit, he stays in place until I release him.”
“Wow, I wish I had a dog like that.”
“A lot of people do. But they do not understand what it really takes to train one. They take one look at Puck and want him. They can’t have him.”
What a strange thing to say. “Of course they can’t. He’s your dog.”
“He’s my best friend.”
Her heart cracked a little at that. Yes, dogs were known as man’s best friend, but from the way Devil Divine behaved and talked, she got the impression that he might not have many friends. And it made her realize that she was following him up the bank from the water just as loyally as his dog was. She glanced back toward the bridge. Now that her pulse was slowly returning to normal, it was clear to Joss that she had no choice but to buck up and play this game. Fear or no fear. “Um… I probably need to get back to the crew.”
“They are meeting over here.” He nodded toward an open-sided canvas tent. With Do or Die banners hanging from all the metal supports, it had obviously been set up for the show.
She, Devil Divine, and Puck were almost inside the tent when someone yelled from behind them, “Joss Wynter, can I have your autograph?”
That was all it took for a crush of people to break away from the main crowd and rush toward Joss. The rumbling and noise level rose, decibel by decibel, until it seemed as if it was invading her chest and pressing against her ribs.
“You don’t want her to sign a damn thing,” a man shouted. “She’s a selfish bitch!”
“Joss, Joss, look this way!” someone else hollered.
A little girl called out, “Can I get a selfie with you?”
Joss’s ability to breathe was restricted by the panic building inside her. She should’ve demanded the show allow her to bring bodyguards. But both she and Jerry thought the mini-series would be filmed in the boonies, away from both fans and haters alike. That she would be safe.
“I… I can’t face those people,” she gasped out to the man—Harris, he’d said his name was Harris—striding half a pace in front of her, but he didn’t even spare her a glance.
Unable to shake the feeling of being threatened, she broke into a run and darted around him and the dog. Maybe if she could just make it under the tent awning, people would back down.
Why wasn’t this guy helping her? It was as if he didn’t recognize that she was in danger.
Joss lunged for the tent, tripping over a support rope. Oh, God. She was falling. Falling. Losing control. She would plunge into the crowd from high above them, and they would surround her, jump on top of her, smother her.
Joss took a headfirst slider into the dirt and tried to flip over to ward them off, but she couldn’t seem to make her muscles work.
That was when she heard the man say, “All of you, stay behind the red line. You cannot step past it. This area is only for people associated with Do or Die.”
Now? Now he decided to come to her aid? After she’d almost blacked out with panic?
Finally, Joss managed to flop to her back and saw that he was standing like a human shield, arms out and legs wide. The dog was on alert too—ears up and tail lifted like a furry sword.
A man with a dark beard and mean eyes stepped over the red spray-painted line that Joss hadn’t seen when she hurtled across it.
“You do not have an ID badge,” her now-protector said. “Step back.”
“I just want to tell her—”
“Now.” He flattened a palm on the other guy’s chest and easily pushed him away. No anger, no violence, no rush. Just put him back in his place.
That did more to calm Joss than all the Valium in her medicine cabinet back home.
While Devil Divine was holding back a mass of people who wanted to get close to her, Buffalo Moody strode through them without acknowledging anyone. The host of Do or Die had tanned skin and a face that could be described as craggy. Joss guessed his hair was supposed to look sun-bleached. But she had colored her own hair enough to recognize drugstore dye when she spotted it.
Although he looked like a big fake to Joss, female fans apparently loved him. And the Hollywood rags made it clear he’d loved plenty of them, too.
The crowd parted for him and the entourage trailing him. Lauren looked a little worse for the wear with one shoe missing, but the confident expression on her face didn’t waver, and she stopped to pen a few quick autographs. Some on paper, some on body parts.
Bradley wasn’t a sign-my-tit kind of celebrity, so he just smiled and shook a few hands. Two camera operators flanked them from behind and herded them toward the tent.
And here Joss was, lying on the ground. She was already shorter than both of her opponents by at least half a foot. She didn’t need them towering over her.
Get your ass up, sister.
She scrambled to her feet.
Red dust clung to her palms and tiny rocks were embedded in her already abused knee. She brushed at it, setting off a sting. A trickle of blood oozed down the outside of her calf.
She could handle a few scrapes and a little blood. She could handle more. She would handle more.
She hadn’t built a successful music career by letting fear get in her way.
As kids in the suburbs of Omaha, she and her sister Kellie had been allowed a long leash. They—well, mainly Joss—had roamed free, climbing trees and exploring the neighborhood. That was where she’d first learned to be tough. Then when she struck out on her own to play her music, she’d learned another type of toughness.
Mental toughness.
“There she is,” Buffalo boomed, swaggering toward her. “Joss Wynter! No one on the crew imagined you would win the first opportunity.”
Opportunity? Is that what he called being dropped from a helicopter? She called it a reason to be admitted to the psych ward.
He swung an arm around her and grinned for the camera. His fingers brushed the side of her breast—an accident or on purpose? Joss tried to ease away, but Buffalo was a strong guy and gripped her shoulder.
Another boob brush.
Yeah, that was not an accident.
<
br /> Joss smiled up at him, but she put a little teeth behind it and not the friendly kind. The spectrum of wild emotions she’d run through since she left LA were coalescing into something heated. Something that could easily boil over and burn the hell out of everyone here. “So you’re telling me that I’m the Do or Die underdog?”
Buffalo laughed. Hehuhhe. Hehuhhe. “Well, you have to admit that between you, Lauren, and Bradley, you’re the most physically underwhelming.”
“And though she be but little, she is fierce,” she gritted out.
“Hey now,” Buffalo said, “no need to get your feathers rustled.”
“They’re ruffled,” Devil Divine told him as he pulled a dry T-shirt over his head, covering up that amazing body. “And she was quoting Shakespeare. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Interesting. Her big-bad-handsome-man knew something about literature. Hidden depths.
With a blink, Buffalo turned back to the crowd and flashed a toothy grin. “If you’ll excuse us now, it’s time for our competitors to get ready for the first leg of the show.” He nodded toward the corner of the tent and the person stationed there lowered the canvas tent flaps, casting the space into temporary darkness.
Buffalo took that opportunity to do more than skim Joss’s breast. He gave it a good cantaloupe-ripeness squeeze. No. No one was allowed to grope her like that. After that horrible night on stage, she didn’t stand for that shit anymore.
So Joss also took advantage of everyone’s blindness and grabbed the show host between the legs.
She twisted and said in a low voice, “Touch me like that again and I will take these as a souvenir.” And then bright lights flipped on suddenly, clearly illuminating her hold on Buffalo Moody’s junk.
Fabulous. The cameras were trained right on them, and this would be definitely be a clip that made it through the editing process. As if she didn’t care that she’d been caught holding Buffalo’s balls, Joss casually released him and crossed her arms.
The groping host had the audacity to wink at the camera.
“Well, well,” Lauren sneered as she saw Joss’s hand leave their host’s crotch. “If we’re going to play this game that way, then I’d better pick a partner.” She turned to Devil Divine with a predatory look. “Yum, cutie. I choose you.”
He didn’t even acknowledge that Lauren had said anything, just turned to Buffalo and said, “We’re behind schedule. If we don’t leave here within ten minutes, we won’t make it to the spot I picked to overnight.”
“Son,” Buffalo said, holding out his hand, “we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Buffalo Moody and this is my show. So you just put out the fire in your pants. I say when we leave.”
“I am Ross Kingston’s son. Not yours.” Devil Divine’s gaze seemed to land somewhere around Buffalo’s left ear.
A man at least fifteen years older than Devil Divine insinuated his way into the group and flashed a smile at Moody. “Hey, there. I’m Dan Cargill, owner of Prime Climb Tours. This guy is Shep Kingston, and he’s the local guide I helped your producer handpick—”
“No,” Shep cut in. “The producer asked for me. You didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Dan ignored Shep and kept his attention on Moody. “Sometimes Shep’s a little abrupt, but you’ll find he’s pretty good at what he does. Second to me, of course, but I wasn’t available so—”
“Son, if he’s second to you, then why was he the one to pull Lauren out of the drink?” Moody cut the man down with a scathing stare. “If it had been up to you, she’d have drowned.”
“I… I’m sure it was hard to see from where you were standing on the bridge, but Shep and I worked together to free Ms. Estes from a very dangerous situation. One she wouldn’t have been in if—”
Moody snapped his fingers at the guys keeping people from entering the tent. “Escort Mr. Carr outside.”
“The name is Cargill, and I—”
Two men took Cargill firmly by the upper arms and frog-marched him out of the tent. Moody swiped his hands against one another as if dusting away an annoyance. “Now, where were we?”
Devil—no, his name was Shep Kingston—said, “We were about to get moving.”
“Well, Shep. We don’t move until I give the word. And we’ve got a little business to take care of before we hit the trail.” With a careless hand, Buffalo gestured toward a group of grips, who toted forward three full-size suitcases, two Bottega Veneta satchels, a leather trunk, and Joss’s carry-on and guitar case.
“Thank God,” Lauren sighed, waving the grips toward her as she said to Buffalo, “I assume we’ll have a support van for our things.”
Buffalo’s chuckle held a cruel edge. “Not exactly.”
One of the grips passed out small knapsacks to each of the competitors.
“You can pack whatever you can fit into the backpack,” Moody said, his tone smug. “And one personal item if it doesn’t fit inside. But you and you alone will carry anything you bring along. We’re using a skeleton crew for this show. Just two cameramen, the local guide, me, and the three of you. You’ve got five minutes to choose your items.”
4
While the asshole Moody was grinning like he’d just unwrapped the best Christmas present of all time, the three contestants stood with open mouths, bags dangling from their fingers. Shep’s dad and Way would probably describe them as shell-shocked.
Shep felt a little like that himself. He didn’t mind going into the backcountry packing light. In fact, he preferred it. But there was light and then there was dangerous. “Moody,” he said. “So the show crew will be packing in food, water, and other essentials, right?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because these three people are not accustomed to the wilderness.”
“Kingston, the people who watch this show want to see the contestants struggle. Even suffer. And since they won’t be climbing a massive mountain or scaling a glacier like in some seasons, we needed to up the ante a little. Dan Cargill assured me that you were an experienced survivalist. And that’s what you’ll be teaching these three on camera. How to survive.”
Shep pointed to the far corner of the tent and said to Moody, “Let’s step over here.”
Moody’s megawatt smile didn’t dim as he accompanied Shep and Puck across the tent, but he walked stiffly, as if his butt muscles were contracted. That usually meant someone was unhappy about something.
“I did not agree to be filmed.” Without looking down, Shep reached out to skim Puck’s head, trying to keep himself centered. Calm. “Dan Cargill was supposed to make that clear to you. I do not want to be on camera.”
“Son,” Moody said. “This is my show. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Technically, it’s the network’s show. But what I think you are trying to say is that you like to make all the decisions, whether or not they are good ones.”
“You’re getting paid to carry out my decisions.”
“Prime Climb Tours is getting paid.” But the man wasn’t completely wrong. Shep’s compensation would come in the form of keeping his job, allowing him to pay his minimal bills. Staying on top of normal things like that on his own meant he didn’t need another person to help or remind him. Puck was the only companion Shep needed these days.
“Whatever.” With a wave that said he didn’t give a shit what Shep wanted, Moody said, “Cargill assured me you would be more than happy to accommodate any requirements of the show.”
Damn Dan. And damn Buffalo Moody. “I will teach these people survival skills, not because Dan agreed for me to, but because they will not be safe if I don’t.”
Moody slapped Shep on the arm, and Puck nosed between them. He knew Shep’s equilibrium was being threatened. Hell, his equilibrium had been shot ever since Dan told him about this show. Moody glanced down at Puck. “Who’s the pooch, and what’s he doing here?”
“This is Puck, and he is my dog.”
“Lose him. He can’t make
the trip with us. He shows up on camera and he’ll upstage the celebrities. Besides, he doesn’t seem too friendly.”
“He is very friendly to my friends. You are not my friend. I won’t leave him here because Puck goes everywhere I go.”
“Not this time, son.”
Moody took a step, but Shep—knowing this was the kind of man who couldn’t be swayed by words alone—grabbed his arm and gripped it hard. “Mr. Moody, do not call me son again. Now, Puck will be making the trip with us. He is a service animal and if you violate my right to have him with me at all times, I will consult my attorney and have him file a discrimination suit against you.”
“Service animal. Sure he is.” Moody snorted and stepped away, breaking Shep’s hold on him. “And I thought the celebs were divas. You sure as hell don’t look disabled. I bet if I asked you for legal paperwork that you couldn’t produce it.”
“On the contrary, Puck’s papers are in the glove compartment of my truck if you would like me to present them to you.”
“What the fuck ever,” Moody grumbled. “Just keep him off camera.”
“And what about me? Dan promised I would never be filmed.”
“But I never promised any such thing.” Moody rounded on Shep and puffed out his chest so that it brushed against him. Disgust, as thick as a nasty green smoothie, oozed through Shep, and he shifted away. Still, bits of Moody’s spittle landed on him when he said, “Sure, our priority is camera time for the contestants, but you will be filmed, too. So get over it.”
Shep could take Puck and walk away this minute. Just slide into his truck and return to the sanctity of his cabin. No, that wasn’t true. No job meant no cabin. No cabin meant no independence.
Striking Edge Page 4