Then Things Went Dark, page 10
Araminta and Rhys appear in white robes and take in the scene before them. Rhys’s face lights up and he snatches an oil from the side like a child with a must-have toy. Araminta looks more hesitant.
“Rhys,” she starts warily.
But he turns to her with a practiced smile, a hint of that ever-present mischievousness combined with an intensity that makes her knees weak. He has a way of looking at her sometimes that makes her feel captivated—like the ground has shifted, and he becomes her new center of gravity.
“Where do you want to start?” he asks. “Oil? Mud? I’ll be very honest; I’ve spent most of the night lying awake thinking about every way I want to touch you.”
She arches a curt eyebrow. “And does wearing my skin make the list?”
“Araminta, I’m being serious.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t doubt that you were.”
“Unfortunately?” He puts the oil down and turns to her, the flirtatiousness falling away to a seriousness that is almost solemn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to press; I thought we were both feeling something here.”
She draws her robe a little closer. “We were—I mean, I am but…last night was so much—all those emotions flying, and then you and I, isolated from the others like that—”
“Is that why you kissed me? Because that kiss…Araminta it’s unraveled me.”
She wonders, briefly, how she always manages to attract statements like this. It’s never “I can’t stop thinking about you” or “I like you.” Her first boyfriend professed, “This yearning, it’s untenable” and her last, that “My god, I could fill a lifetime writing songs about your smile.” He’d lied, of course. And knowing that “a smile like an angel but she loves like the devil” was a line written about her was devastating. She couldn’t even inspire a decent meter.
But now she’s got “Peppermint” in her head, and Rhys is waiting for a response.
“Why do you want to sleep with me so badly? If you want to get laid, I suspect Isko will be more than happy.”
“I think you’re enchanting,” he answers so quickly it has to be rehearsed.
“I’ve dated poets, Rhys, you’re not going to get me into bed with a false but lyrical platitude.”
“Believe me, if I wanted to seduce you with language I could do better. But that’s the honest truth—you’re clever and creative, I love the way you’re simultaneously flippant and direct, and there’s something about the way you talk and the way you act that is, for lack of a better word, enchanting.”
I flirt, she thinks. That’s all it is.
“I have no interest in being another manic pixie dream girl on what I’m sure is a long list.”
“You don’t want me in that way at all?”
She doesn’t want to lie. But she doesn’t know what the truth is because her feelings are buried beneath the competition, and when it comes to that, she’s thought about screwing every single one of them, even Jerome. But Rhys…
Well, if her interest were solely calculated all this would be easier. If it were just about getting votes and screen time, she wouldn’t keep thinking about all the ways she wants him. And not just intimately: she wants his casual touches, his whispered words in her ears, his chaste kisses, and his hand in hers.
Rhys smiles, the cocky smile that’s so infuriating and so riveting all at once.
“Why, Araminta,” he says, teasing her silence.
She bites her tongue, still thinking this out.
“Rhys the issue is”—she hesitates, because this is the calculated move—“I do like you but I only had the nerve to kiss you because I felt vulnerable after that competition. I don’t like the way the game gets inside my head, and I think if we date, the others will ruin it—or at least make it so I’m never sure what’s real and what’s their manipulation.”
“Come on, don’t not date me for them,” he whines.
Rhys: [Laughter] God, she’s clever, isn’t she? I didn’t want a date, I wanted to hook up. And suddenly she had me begging for a relationship. If she carries on like this, she’ll have me on one knee in weeks.
“I want to date you, but I don’t want them to know,” she says. “I want to keep this secret.”
“Why?”
For the drama, Rhys. For the cameras and the audience and the challenges that leverage points and all that money at the end—a romance is ordinary, but haven’t we proved secrets are destructive?
“Because I like you and I want to protect that feeling.”
“I’ll think about it. Until then, let’s consider this our first date.” He reaches for the cord of her robe and draws her close. “May I? Because you seem like you could use a good massage.”
She nods and he slicks oil along her back, teasing the edge of her bikini, and then it is her turn and he is all hard muscle beneath her. They coat a thick mask from one of the jars onto their faces and mix cocktails from the mini bar; when they wipe it off, they move to the mud, layering it on each other, and they kiss clumsily, their hands sliding off their slicked skin. So they shower together, water cascading down them and kiss some more, and it is all slippery and wet and urgent.
And finally, it dawns on Rhys that he cannot have this date, with this girl, for those cameras, and reject her after. It will make him look awful.
“All right,” he says, holding her face in both hands, drawing away from her lips only long enough to get the words out. “I’m in. And I won’t tell a soul.”
“Hello, Rockstar.”
Theo’s sigh is weary for the fourth day on the island. “What do you want?”
“To sit.” Rhys collapses onto the lounger next to him. “To talk.”
Rhys: If I’m not going to spend the day gushing about Araminta, I need to distract myself with my second favorite hobby: annoying Theo with my mere presence.
“I can’t imagine we’d have much to say to each other.”
“Oh, you’re hostile today,” Rhys says with a grin.
Theo bristles. “Look, Sutton, I forgive you the card you took from the wall, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend time with you. In fact, I’d say we all made it perfectly clear how much we don’t want you around when we voted you off the island last night.”
Rhys: The thing about Theo is just how easy he makes it. It’s like he doesn’t know how to cope with people not fawning over him.
“I’m flattered,” Rhys says, “To get such a reaction from the Theo Newman? You were too cool to smile at the Turntable Awards but I elicit an emotional response?”
Theo ignores him.
“Come on,” Rhys says, trying again. “I just want to get to know you better.”
Theo feels his jaw twitch.
“Oh,” Rhys’s eyebrows shoot up. “That terrifies you. Let’s talk about that.”
“What is there to say, Rhys? Steal another card if that’s what you want. Hasn’t the whole world got to know me better at this point?”
“Deeper, then.”
“Don’t you already have me figured out?”
“Well, I really don’t think you’re all that complicated.”
“And you are?”
“I’m not sure. I know that I want something real out of life, which is different from being tired of the fake. That’s your reason for being here, right?”
Theo: Rhys loves the sound of his own voice. He wants to pretend he’s getting at some deep insight you’ve never confronted before but that’s all he wants: to hear his own voice say something he thinks is clever.
“I’m here because I’m tired of everyone thinking they know me because they’ve known the singers who came before me. I’m not just some doll created by my label to fit an algorithm and sell—”
“I’m pretty sure most musicians think there’s no better way to get to know them than through their music. So let’s not pretend you’re here in noble defense of music itself. You’re just a disappointed rock star hoping there’s more from this life.”
Well, he’s not exactly wrong, but hearing the words out loud sends a cold shiver down Theo’s spine.
What if it’s not just the desperate scramble to save a career? What if the only reason Theo cares is not that this means so much to him but that it has yet to be all that it promised? He’s desperate and clinging to the hope that if he saves his dream, it might save him too.
“I’m fine.”
“You looked miserable at the Trebles. I bet you were already itching for the next award. Or maybe you’re looking for happiness elsewhere. Albums going platinum or, just for a random example, TV show appearances?”
Theo swallows, does not want to let on that he’s reeling, because the very thought that what he’s fighting so hard for—what he’s here for—isn’t even something he adores, something he lives and breathes like he says he does…
He physically cannot face that potential truth, would rather embrace the lies, because at least he knows the person he’s built himself to be.
Theo: Of course, nothing he said was true. I think I’d be more worried if someone like Rhys did get me.
“Come on—you know I’m right.” Rhys’s smirk is replaced by an attempt at innocence that angers Theo even more.
“You know, Rhys, this is exactly why we all wanted you gone. You didn’t steal anyone else’s secret, but they voted for you all the same. You’re not even nasty. You’re just bloody annoying.”
“Oh, calm down, Newman.” Rhys stands and claps Theo on the shoulder. “Try not to take all this so seriously, OK? It’s only reality TV.”
“You’re right,” Theo snaps, leaping to his feet. “It’s only reality TV. There’s no harm to any of this.”
He rushes across the patio with purposeful, thundering steps. At the wall, he stares at the cards and rips another down.
“Let’s see. You were standing here, weren’t you?” Theo says, turning to Rhys, and shocked to find the man grinning as though enjoying the show. Maybe he really does think all is fair in love and entertainment.
Then he glances at the card. It’s not Rhys’s.
I’m sorry, Juliet. Your «chou»
It means nothing to Theo—except for the sign-off. I trained in Paris rings in his ears.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to speak to you,” Jerome says, having drawn Araminta away from where she’d been discussing the ethics of art ownership with Kalpana. “You saved me last night, at that public vote. Thank you.”
“Oh, no problem, Jerome.”
“I think we’re similar, you and I. And I find myself rather impressed by you.”
Araminta draws her arms in tightly, like by shrinking away from him, she can put a little more distance between them.
Araminta: Does he think I’ve forgotten the fact that I was his first choice to kick off the show? This is next-level negging.
“You’re someone who never had to be anything at all,” he continues. “Your areas of expertise, though rather lackluster, are admirable for their ambition,” he says, turning to her with his chin high like he has bestowed a gracious gift of a compliment upon her. “I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Ah, um, sure, Jerome. I’d love for the two of us to be closer friends,” she says, wondering if she could use his apparent infatuation to her advantage. But she knows men like this. Being nice doesn’t work; it just makes them think you’re a bigger bitch when you don’t reward the base dignity they offer with your vagina.
“Which is why I wanted to give you some advice. Be wary of Theo—he was spreading gossip about you yesterday. I think he looked you up when he had access to the internet.”
“Oh, really?”
She cannot think what he might find—she is not like the others with secrets hidden in the dark; hers are out among so much light that you might never find them for all the clickbait.
“Yes, which is pretty bold, isn’t it? Given he bribed his way onto the show.”
“What?” she asks distractedly, too busy thinking through her own potential reasons for cancelation.
“Oh yes, they dropped someone else to make room for him. Probably didn’t need to be persuaded for a name as big as his, but it certainly helped. They always think they’re so subtle when they use shell companies. As if his record label could make a donation through a dozen different people and it wouldn’t be traced back.”
Jerome: I trusted Theo yesterday. Which was foolish, really. The man has a rather untrustworthy past.
Araminta stares, but it is not Theo’s secrets she is concerned by; it’s Jerome, because clearly he’s done something, hacked into somewhere he shouldn’t have or encouraged Soltek to develop something they shouldn’t. Either way, she’s certain there’s been some violation. Probably not the sort of thing that leaves a trail, nothing that can be traced back, but the sort that leaves whispers and accusations. Araminta, with all that stock tied up with this man’s reputation, cannot bear the thought of being dragged down with him.
He needs to stop talking before he says something to the wrong person.
So she makes her excuses, and Jerome watches her all but run from him.
Jerome: It’s a classic pattern, but I refuse to be yet another nice guy who doesn’t get the girl. It’s all about sowing the seeds, doing the groundwork. After last night, she must be desperate to win back my favor. She must be realizing just how lucky she’d be to have me.
Araminta nearly collides with Rhys as she rushes away. He laughs and draws her off the path into the sparse trees that, with enough shadow and luck, might hide them and might not but that’s part of the thrill. All that adrenaline pumping through her at the thought of the damage Jerome might cause has a better thing to latch on to, all her freewheeling thoughts turning as one toward Rhys.
The rough bark presses against her back, Rhys pinning her against a tree and she fights the lust that’s taking over her—that need to taste his salty skin and mark him with blooming bruises beneath her tongue.
“Rhys, they’ll see us,” she whispers.
“How am I supposed to resist,” he groans, his fingers twisting at the ties on the sides of her bikini briefs.
In response she kisses him again because she can’t resist either, not now that they’ve started.
“A second date,” he proposes. “You wanted more than just secret hook-ups, yes?”
“But how?”
Rhys: I’m not the sort of man to do things by half. With Araminta? I’m going to sweep her off her damn feet.
The camera feels gratuitous. Its close-ups are intimate, and it cannot get enough of this: beautiful, scantily clad people, their yearning laid bare, and Rhys—gorgeous, beautiful Rhys—who has perfected the reverential look that makes viewers swoon, like he cannot believe his luck to even be permitted to look at this woman.
“Midnight,” he says, and with his lingering gaze, it is less a plan than a promise.
Before dusk falls, Jerome stares at the wall and all of its secrets. He admits he’s tempted. Araminta, Theo, even Isko—he knew they would be here. They were in the limelight—or beside it—enough to find that information. But Rhys is a mystery. And Kalpana he should have paid more attention to given she’s the one ruining his life.
But he doesn’t think the secret to destroying her is on the back of that card.
No, he suspects she’s the variety who simply needs enough rope to hang herself. Because isn’t that what activists do? Put themselves on a pedestal? She could be brought down by one trip in a private plane, one misdemeanor, one confession.
“Truth or dare,” he proposes later, as they are all gathered around the firepit, waiting for Eloise to announce their task.
Kalpana doesn’t even wait. “I dare you to name a woman you actually respect.”
“Simone de Beauvoir,” he tosses back. “I read so much of her at university I even filled my walls with her quotes.”
Kalpana: There’s a thing that corporations do—and the male personifications of them, apparently—where they co-opt the language of those fighting against them. It’s all talk. So no, I’m not surprised Jerome has come on this show ready to shout about what a feminist he is.
“I choose dare,” Araminta says, grinning.
“I dare you to kiss us all,” Jerome rushes. “In turn, blindfolded, and rate us. I think we’d all like to know what’s so special about the Nymph of Knightsbridge.”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Kalpana fumes.
Rhys glances around with concern, viewers agreeing that it is less a jealous possessiveness than a recognition of Jerome’s motives. “Surely a dare ought to be one kiss. This is taking it a bit far.”
Araminta shrugs. “I’m happy to do it.” Her eye catches on Rhys with a hint of amusement, like it is an inside joke, like she may be doing all this simply to kiss him again.
She wraps a scarf around her eyes and the boys line up, Kalpana seething and refusing.
Kalpana: In case anyone was in any doubt about what a piece of shit Jerome is.
They’re all perfectly decent kisses, though it’s clear Jerome, with the taste of rum on his lips, hopes his will set her ablaze. She rattles off numbers almost carelessly. She knows Rhys’s kiss instantly. He bites her lip with the same pressure as earlier, like he might have left grooves he is trying to fill.
She never wants it to end but must admit that on a purely technical level, Theo’s was better. Still, she calls out ten when she gave Theo eight. She needs the audience to root for them after all.
Jerome: I’d like to say she was dreadful, but surprise, surprise—someone with that much practice is a good kisser.
“Truth,” Rhys says.
“Are you angry with us all after last night?” Isko asks.
Rhys laughs. “I’m flattered you see me as such a threat. To go to such lengths to get rid of me? I must truly be iconic. I was hurt at the time.” He catches Theo’s eye before he continues. “But there are no hard feelings. Some of us are very aware this is a game.”
Theo: He’s such a prick.
