by Kari August
She pulled away, still looking at him excitedly. “Did you see how big those falls were? And I have scarcely ever gone swimming before!”
He gasped at her in horror. He hadn’t realized. He had filled out the form for both of them, assuming she knew how to swim. Who didn’t know how to swim nowadays? Oh, sweet Lord. If anything had actually happened to her . . .
But she was still chattering away happily. “I didn’t fathom what I was missing before. Do you think we can do that again?”
Charlie doubted with this rafting company—they probably never wanted to see either of them again.
She kept going. “We should definitely do this once more. Oh, and get another huckleberry ice cream. What do you think?” She smiled eagerly.
And in that moment, Charlie knew—no matter how much this woman could frustrate him to no end—no matter how much he tried ignoring his emotions—no matter how much he thought he would never have these feelings with someone like her—he loved her. He had fallen in love with her.
But Mags started shivering, and Charlie spurted into action. “We better get out of these suits.” He looked around at the rest. “Oh, and we have to get back on the bus, returning to where our truck is parked.”
“Do you think Waldemar is doing fine?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.” If only he felt the same about himself.
Charlie held Mags in his arms the whole bus ride back. She hadn’t objected—and had secretly loved it—though she found it scandalous to allow such liberties in front of everyone. That never would have happened in her time. Well, she reasoned with herself, she had been so cold.
They had then returned to the hotel, where, luckily, they were given their new room. Mags had taken a hot shower, and now Charlie was doing the same.
She still felt frozen, despite putting on a couple of sweaters, so she slipped into the bed. She would jump out once Charlie stepped from the bathroom. She hadn’t put up a pillow barrier yet, and she did not want him assuming she was more of a strumpet than he already must think. She had hugged him at the end of the rafting trip even though he had shown no interest in her the night before. She had just been so excited.
Charlie opened the bathroom door, and she started to rise.
“Stay, Mags. Get warm.”
She hesitated, but then admitted, “I can’t get the chill out.”
“I’ll hold you some more.” He got into bed and reached for her.
She snuggled next to him without protest. Oh, goodness. What was she doing?
She timidly . . . just do it! . . . gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for taking me on this trip, Charlie.”
He kissed her back . . . a short brush on the lips. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m really having fun.” She bussed him again.
“Me, too.” But this time when he leaned over to kiss her, he did so more leisurely and slooowly, before pulling back.
They stared at each other a moment. Oh, she adored his gentle caress, but what should she do now? She didn’t move.
“Mags?” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“I really like you.”
She could scarcely breathe. “You do?”
“You’re just so pretty and totally unpredictable and . . .”
He thought she was pretty? She couldn’t remember when someone had told her that—many years ago and not often.
“. . . and . . .”
“And what?” She couldn’t wait to hear what he said next.
“You want to make love?”
She sat up, bumping her head into his. “Passionate, romantic love?”
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Where you can’t get enough of me?” Oh, how her heavenly friends had talked about that.
“Yeah.”
“Where we do things not approved by the church?”
He laughed louder. “I would hope so.”
She raised her arms in triumph. “Yes!”
But then he appeared to turn more serious. “Ah, Mags?”
“Yes?” She suddenly became worried. Perhaps he was concerned now about going to hell—after all it was scary going against the church.
Oh, somehow, she just had to reassure him—even though this was going to be difficult—that she knew women who had done all sorts of things and had still made it into heaven.
However, he then grinned and inquired, “But don’t you think it would be a lot easier if we got out of our clothes, and you didn’t pile the couch cushions and pillows between us?”
She burst into a wide smile. “I really like you, too, Charlie.”
“Good to hear.” He began by helping her pull her sweaters off.
Chapter Seventeen
Ned had been absolutely correct. Dickie had not known what he was getting himself into. Sure, he had done television before, but not a reality show.
Since arriving this morning, the cameras seemed to be following everyone everywhere. Dickie, of course, wondered what kind of embarrassing situations that might lead to. He did not have long to wait for an answer.
First, Clarence and he were shown to their barracks. They looked around the sparse accommodations—particularly the beds.
Clarence smirked. “So, I bet you desire the bottom bunk, Dickie.”
He looked back incredulously. “Are you kidding me? No, thank you. That’s all I want is you potentially crashing down on me—especially since you ate like a pig the last couple of days.”
That plan Clarence had devised to appear rested and well-fed before they began their adventure had been taken to excess. Clarence had requested all sorts of meals from Juanita—cheesy bean and beef burritos, fried plantains, and pork and vegetable stew. As Juanita had happily complied, Dickie had looked on in disgust at all the shoveling in of food and had ignored Clarence’s warnings.
“You better eat, too, Dickie. I’m sure it will taste like hell what they’ll be serving us. They got these packages of goopy mush when they go into battle—they’ll probably try to pawn that slop off on us.”
Even Nanny Sally—who had returned with the twins—had sniped at Clarence to stop his stuffing. But that had only driven Clarence further since he liked nothing better than to go at it with Sally.
Then after changing into military garb, they were instructed to form a line outside the barracks. They were introduced to five former Seals, but Dickie could see that this Bongo and Rooter characters were the leaders.
Everyone was directed to tell a little about themselves. Oddly, the other contestants were called names by the Seals that were not their own. Sure, Dickie could see why one was referred to as Red, but it was a mystery why Clarence was now Double R. But he took it as a sign of respect that he was allowed to keep his name of Dickie—even though that was usually reserved for family or close friends.
Bongo then started to discuss what kind of activities they would be expected to perform, emphasizing that Seals were not quitters. Seals endured. Seals were all shapes and sizes—each one with their own skill set that was valuable to the others.
At this point Clarence began whispering to Dickie. “I gotta leave.”
Dickie frowned. “You want to quit already? We haven’t even done anything.”
“No, I gotta go.”
“Go where?” Dickie was baffled but could not inquire more because Rooter then glared at them.
“Keep your traps shut until you are given permission to talk.”
Clarence chose to raise his hand as if in a schoolroom. “Sir, requesting permission to return to the barracks—”
But he didn’t wait for permission and took off at a gallop. Everyone watched him enter the structure and slam the door. And then Dickie could hear the squeaking bathroom door opening and closing. Oh, Lord.
Bongo then gave Rooter a pointed look and tried to continue. “Perhaps you will think that you cannot possibly go on. But you reach for inner reserves and forge forward—that is if you have what it takes to be a Seal. And you will
realize why Seals function in teams. Your partner goes down, you help him up. You will complete this show together. If one of you fails, you will both be eliminated from winning . . .”
He continued on. But finally, Dickie saw with relief, Clarence running back from the barracks. As he took his position next to him again, Rooter hurried over and began shouting at Clarence. “Did I give you permission to leave, Double R?”
Clarence tried to reply. “I couldn’t hold it—”
“No, I did not. Next time you wait for permission,” he sputtered, “even if you have to do it in your pants.”
Dickie could see that Rooter was being earnest. In that documentary they had watched, the British special forces officer had described how once he had had to suffer through runny stools splashing at him from his partner because they could not leave their exact surveillance position.
But the comment only made Clarence chuckle. “Wow. That’s a little extreme, I’d say—”
“Hit the dirt. Fifty push-ups.”
“Fifty?” Clarence squealed.
“Nah, I was just kidding, Funnyman.” He smiled eerily. “We’ll make it fifteen.”
Rooter then placed his foot heavily on Clarence as he dropped to the ground. As Rooter counted off, Bongo completed his speech.
Clarence and Dickie now stood a couple hours later, listening to Bongo explain the first assignment for the contestants.
“You will have three hours to complete the hike to the top of the mountain. Follow the dirt track only. You cannot get help from anyone but your own partner.”
Dickie caught GC giving a knowing smile to W. They obviously thought this was going to be no challenge at all. Dickie didn’t like them—they were too confident. And what exactly did trainers do anyways?
“As an added surprise, you will bring a fifty-pound backpack with you.”
Red glanced at T, nodding encouragement. Dickie liked that warriorlike pair—so apparently did Bongo and Rooter, who had chatted with them amiably during a filming break.
Uh . . . they hadn’t talked so much with Clarence and him, Dickie had noticed, though.
Dickie lifted the backpack. It was only half as heavy as some suits of armor. Though Dickie had a back that curved in an “S,” it had never stopped him from performing well—at least on a horse. He was not so sure about this trekking.
The hike began and GC and W immediately outpaced everyone else. At the point they escaped from view, Dickie started hoping they would collapse along the way.
Red and T marched steadily, and Clarence and Dickie kept up with them for the first fifteen minutes. But then they began to drag behind. That, of course, was when a cameraman was put close to witness Clarence and him panting and puffing.
Finally, Dickie called a halt. They both dropped to the ground and rested lifeless a moment. Dickie at length raised up enough to survey how far they had actually progressed. He looked at his army regulation timepiece. “Clarence.”
“What?”
“We don’t have to go as fast as those jackasses?”
“Who? GC and W?”
“Yes.”
“But do we have to catch up with Red and T?”
“I don’t think so.”
Clarence sat up, smiling. “Really? That’s great.”
“And another thing.”
“What?” Clarence frowned slightly.
“Bongo said we had to bring these backpacks with us.”
“Yeah?”
“He did not say we had to wear—”
Clarence grinned. “—these sacks of shit. I get where you’re going.”
“We could drag or push these things.”
“Okay, I’m on.”
As Dickie kept precise watch of the time, they hauled, heaved, and shoved their belongings and themselves along, stopping often to chat, drink and rest.
At two hours, fifty-nine minutes, and fifty-nine seconds, they crossed the finish line. Dickie looked around. GC and W were tossing a ball to one another, trying to appear casual, but he could tell that they were tired. Red and T appeared drained but satisfied.
Clarence started chuckling. “Hell, that was close.”
Rooter was on him immediately. “Hey, Double R, I guess you thought you could take a leisurely stroll through the park.”
Dickie defended them. “As clever warriors, we reserved our strengths for more important missions.”
Rooter sneered. “I don’t like you, either. Let’s get that straight.” The cameras came in closer.
Dickie frowned. He was not used to being disrespected militarily. He tried to explain. “Brute force does not always win the day. Shrewd assessments of the situation and astute tactics are just as valuable.”
Rooter turned around. “Bongo, you got to hear this. We got a military man with us.” He turned back to Dickie. “And just how did you come to these conclusions, selling cookies for a home shopping network?”
Dickie glared at Clarence. Just what had he told them when he had filled out their form?
He could not hold back his anger. “As the Duke of Gloucester and the King of England, I gained extensive military experience and was well-respected—”
“As an actor,” Rooter uttered scornfully. “Oh, I’m going to find something special just for you to perform. Just wait.”
The next day, Dickie sat in the surf next to Clarence. “What’s the purpose of this, anyways? I never got your explanation before. Tolerating the cold water now does not make one able to bear it any better later.”
“Endurance, I think. They want to see who wusses out.”
Dickie looked over at the jackasses, satisfied. They were not going to hold out much longer. GC was shivering so much he was shaking like a leaf.
He then glanced the other way—now Red and T could be a problem. It appeared as if that warriorlike partnership could stay a while more.
The competitors were obtaining points for which team could remain the longest—and the team who had the most points at the end of the whole competition obviously won.
A half hour later, the jackasses were gone—GC first—but the others were remaining firm.
Dickie was really cold. “Clarence.”
“Yeah?”
“How much longer do you think Red and T can last?”
Clarence glanced over and grimaced. “Another century. They have the mind set to do what it takes.”
Dickie hesitated a moment before making the next suggestion. He could already predict what Clarence would say in response, but tough times required tough measures. “Clarence, I think we’re going to have to warm each other.”
As expected, Clarence protested. “You do realize, Big Boy, I’m not that kind of fella. I mean you actor types—”
“Be quiet, Clarence, and just hold me.”
“Aw, for God’s sake. Here.” Clarence stiffly put his arm around him and, of course, the cameras came in closer.
But after a few minutes Dickie found it had little effect so he started to climb into his lap.
“What the hell are you doing, Dickie?”
“Shut up, Clarence. You want to win or not?”
“No! Not if it means embarrassing ourselves.”
But they caught a glimpse of the other pair getting up and leaving.
They both cheered and stood.
Clarence grinned. “You see, Dickie, I told you this extra blubber might be useful.”
But their celebration did not last long. Bongo had a chore to take the chill away.
“See those heavy poles over there?”
The contestants all looked over.
“Aw, shit,” Clarence muttered.
“Carry them back to the barracks.”
After lunch—Dickie likened it to a kind of peasant gruel—Rooter announced what his special assignment for him was.
They all had assembled in a barren warehouse.
Rooter smiled. “While the rest of you men are practicing your diving skills, Dickie will be in solitary confinement, in a
version of what one might expect if captured by the enemy.”
Dickie looked at the large box in the middle of the room, puzzled.
Rooter walked over to it and lifted the lid. “Time to crawl in, Dickie.”
Dickie sauntered over, gazed into the empty box, and frowned. What was he missing here? But he complied with the command. The container was a bit small and he had to bend his legs to fit.
“Knock when you have had enough.” Rooter then closed the lid on him, and the box became dark. But as he adjusted to his surroundings, Dickie realized, that, yes, once again, there was a camera in there with him.
Dickie was still perplexed. How was this some kind of ordeal? He supposed some would find the situation scary—especially those who did not like confined spaces—but really, this was luxurious lodgings compared to a damp, freezing dungeon where one could imagine all sorts of horrors in store for them.
After a few minutes, Dickie became bored and yawned. He really could use a nap. As he drifted off, he briefly contemplated how his sleeping might annoy Rooter some more, but really, the man was going to have to invent something better than this.
“We had to wake him up!”
Bongo nodded. “I know. I can’t believe they’re still here.”
“And that diving deep and tying knots while below, did not at all faze Double R. He’s got some deluxe pool at his mansion where he plays games like that with his son,” Rooter added.
“Tomorrow is the E and E. We’ll see how they do then.”
“Escape and Evasion.” Clarence uttered in a singsong manner, grinning at Dickie. “Fantastic!”
“I see you recognize the terminology, Double R.” Rooter looked skyward.
The Seals had given up, trying to quiet Clarence during group meetings. Dickie wondered if the Director had figured his comments contributed to the entertainment value and suggested they leave Clarence be. Dickie also pondered whether the Director had realized yet that the Seals, not the competitors, were the interesting characters on the show—they all appeared as men who had been through a lot of tough situations and survived. Dickie was sure their personal stories were more interesting than say, the jackasses, who were preening themselves currently. Good God. Had they applied oil so that they would glitter?