Then Things Went Dark, page 11
“I’ll take truth too,” Theo says.
“Why do you hate your bandmates?” Araminta asks with a gleeful smile that says this is not malicious; she simply cannot resist.
Theo sighs and pretends that he had not expected this question, had not seized the game as the perfect opportunity. The news must have broken by now. There’s no way it would stay quiet for so long.
“When we started, it was all about the music, and for me it still is.” He shakes his head. “For them it’s about the fame, and frankly, I’ve seen some pretty disgraceful behavior: women used as props and tossed aside just as easily, a toxic attitude toward drugs—a pussy if you don’t and all that—they’ve screamed at staff they deem beneath them. I keep hoping they’ll become the boys I once knew again, but I think I have to face up to the fact they’re not very nice people anymore.”
He used to rehearse that answer daily, and the time on the island has given him just enough distance to stumble over the words in a way that seems natural.
Something that says I had no idea, I wasn’t a part of it, but I never liked them anyway, and now that you don’t like them either, you can root for me instead.
He looks around at the others nodding, offering sympathetic smiles, but Rhys just watches him with an amused smirk, like he knows learned lines when he hears them performed by an amateur.
“I take Dare,” Isko says.
Theo: I suspected he might do that, but I’m not asking him why he’s apologizing to Juliet. I think he would have lied anyway.
“I dare you to skinny-dip in the ocean,” Rhys says and the others cheer their enthusiasm for the challenge.
Isko’s eye roll is even more exaggerated than usual. “You are children.”
“Come on,” Jerome says. “You have to do it—that’s the rule.”
“There are easier ways to get me naked if that’s what you want, Jerome,” Isko says, standing to unbutton his shirt.
“What? That’s not…I…I’m straight, Isko—not that there’s anything wrong…”
Isko: I think he might still have been protesting by the time I got back.
Isko drops his chinos along with his underwear, and more cheering follows, which he replies to with middle fingers raised—which get blurred along with all other unsavory aspects of himself for the camera.
He takes off toward the ocean, crashing into it and screaming, “No one look on my way out—it’s fucking freezing in here!”
Araminta grabs him a towel and when he gets back, he barely pauses to wrap it around himself before climbing onto Rhys’s lap. “Like what you saw?” he says, running a finger down Rhys’s face.
“Oh, I’ve seen it before.”
“And the reminder?”
“I’ll never say no,” Rhys laughs, pushing him off. It’s clear only now that he crawled onto Rhys not to flirt but to make him suffer for daring him to do this, soaking him with the cold ocean water he’d brought back with him.
Rhys looks up to see Araminta glaring daggers at him. Not caring about the others—who are all carefully not watching Isko pull his clothes back on—he winks at her.
Rhys: If she doesn’t want anyone knowing about us then she’s going to have to deal with the jealousy of watching Isko flirt with me—and green with envy is a very hot look on her.
“Truth for me, I want my clothes on and lips to myself,” Kalpana says.
“What do you really think about each of us?” Rhys asks.
“I’m sure you don’t want to know.”
“Hit me.”
She shrugs like she is not particularly reluctant to reel it off. “I think you’re arrogant and reckless in that “I don’t care if I hurt others; I’m just here to have a good time” sort of way. Theo, I think you’re incredibly talented and care a great deal about music but you’re a little lost, both within the industry, and where you want to be in it.”
“That’s fair,” he concedes, though she’s just repeating what he’s said to her.
“Isko, I think you’re even more detached than Rhys is. You want to win this thing but you want the victory to just land in your lap.”
Isko: False, but I do not care what she thinks. Perhaps I am simply happy to wait for an opportunity to prove myself because I know, when it comes, I will not fail.
“Araminta, I think you’re all over the place. You’ve got passion and you’ve got talent but you’re too rich to have ever been forced to apply yourself. Maybe the world would see you as an artist if you weren’t trying to also be an influencer and a home renovator and whatever hobby has you distracted this week.”
Araminta: She has no idea. Everything I have, I built. And yes, I had several steps up, but I still worked, and I’m here because I never stopped working.
“And Jerome, I think you’re a piece of shit and an untalented turd at that.”
Jerome grabs the edge of the table. “You’ve got some nerve—”
He’s cut off by the lights and twinkling jingle as Eloise appears.
The challenge is a rushed thing. Their game of truth or dare taking up far more screen time than the quick clip of Rhys struggling to answer trivia questions and pretending he never cared anyway when he does not get enough right to earn a prize.
They continue drinking and chatting through the evening, and as it gets late, Isko sidles next to Rhys and toys with his collar.
“Want to alleviate some boredom?” he asks.
Araminta tries not to watch, and Rhys knows this is a test. They may not have discussed exclusivity, but Araminta is clearly territorial when the situation demands it.
“Nah, not tonight,” Rhys says. Isko waits for a reason: I’m tired or I’m having fun or even I’m not in the mood. But none comes.
He shrugs, disappointed but not wounded. “All right.”
He wanders off to get another drink, detouring after to the confession booth.
Isko: It was simply strange. I can’t see why he wouldn’t—
“Isko,” Eloise’s voice sounds, and the camera cuts to the other side of the confession booth to where the screen sits, normally filled with pointed questions or clips for them to watch and provide commentary on. Instead, their presenter appears. “Our at-home audience has been voting, and you’ve been selected for an incredibly exciting opportunity to win some points. You are our secret agent on the island. You’ll be given a series of tasks, and if you complete them, you’ll not only win points but also have the opportunity to spy on another contestant’s confessional footage.”
“What the hell,” Isko mutters, too drunk for this, staring at the screen like he doubts its existence.
This is not the show he signed up for.
“Do you choose to accept?”
But it’s the one he’s on.
“Yes, I accept.”
@StaceyK91
I love how we all said “you want an agent of chaos? Isko is the only man we trust enough to bring this” because we are correct #Iconic
@RiotParadeOfficial
We’ll admit, it’s getting a little bit harder to be #TeamTheo with each passing day but we need him to win so he can buy our forgiveness with the prize money! For now, enjoy this playlist we’ve created: RiotParade Songs Where You Can Kind Of See The Band Conflict If You Read Into Them Enough #Iconic—love Al, Dante and Tyson
@Ianistired
Um, anyone else seen this? #Iconic SHARE: “My dad worked in a shop” and “you’re too rich” Iconic’s Kalpana Mahajan revealed as the daughter of Arjun Mahajan, owner of CHIMERA retail chain worth $53 million. rtvnews.au/Iconic/Kalpana-chimera-retail-chain
Kennard sits with Maes in the break room sipping burnt coffee and poring through their notes. In the corner, a boxy TV plays some local news station, reporters standing outside the walls of the precinct he sits inside. He can feel them breathing down his neck, pressing for answers, asking why they don’t have them already.
When Cloutier appears, he throws himself onto the cracked leather sofa with a heavy sigh.
“That kid can talk,” he says.
“Who?”
“Jerome—classic nosy neighbor. Desperate to help us solve the case so he can brag about how instrumental he was. Avidly dodging all questions of his own legal and financial situations. Nothing on the cyberattack against AHX either. I could practically feel him planning how to monetize it—all the shows he’ll appear on, the book he’ll write. He’s right; it’ll probably earn him a fortune. What have you been up to?”
Kennard passes him the sheet, jolting as their fingers brush. This is ridiculous; they haven’t worked a case together in a year—a long, arduous year—neither wanting to ruin their career over their inability to keep their hands off each other. And this is the case they get put on, high profile, the whole world watching.
“I think we’re too focused on what we can see on the cameras. We should be focused on what we can’t, what’s not there that should be,” he explains.
“You could have gotten this from digital,” he says, nodding at Maes.
She hums her agreement. “I’m going to get the footage of who enters those blind spots and when.”
“But,” Kennard interjects, “I wanted to know which ones the contestants themselves were aware of: corners of the cellar, patches of trees too thick for the drones to fly through, the edges of the bathrooms. But that’s the main one.” He taps the highlighted line. “The smoking area.”
Cloutier scans the list, a scowl etching into his forehead. “No,” he says grimly. He looks up at the TV, now streaming footage—namely Theo trying to save Rhys: black shapes in the black ocean with those black rocks, blurs of deeper darkness, barely discernible. “That’s the main one. Anything could have happened in that ocean.”
Season 1, Episode 6
Araminta draws her knitted shawl closer around her as the biting night air cuts at her skin. Her stylists didn’t pack her anything even remotely warm, and she wonders if she can steal something from Rhys.
Waiting on the patio when the house is still and the island impenetrably dark is disquieting.
Finally, Rhys bounds into the dim light of one of the soft lanterns.
“All ready,” he says, holding out an arm. “May I?”
She bites back a smile and takes it.
He leads her to the beach, where a few haphazardly placed lanterns line the edges of the island, presumably an attempt at safety, letting them all know where it ends. Ahead, a soft glow shines, and she laughs when she realizes what it is.
“You didn’t,” she says softly.
“I did. Is the bad-boy thing a turn-on now that I’ve become a criminal in pursuit of your heart?”
He’s set up a picnic, its perimeter lit by artificial candles he’s stolen from this morning’s spa. She takes a seat in their glow, hating the thought that crosses her mind about cameras and lighting. In the distance, the lights of the AHX boats gleam, and she mistakes them for stars on a romantic horizon.
“If you steal my heart, I’ll let you know.” She feels curiously unsettled by all of this. She is used to extravagant gestures—she’s had many foisted upon her. But they always feel like they’re about the person trying to seduce her, their own perceptions of themselves: I am a romantic, look at what I will do, look at the lengths I will go to.
But she keeps staring at the pile of blankets, unable to shake how deeply that hits her—that he might have thought What if she gets cold? Not just about how it will all look, and how overcome she will be, but someone who has thought to make her comfortable.
And suddenly she feels very sad that a thing like that could mean so much to her.
“There’s champagne,” Rhys says, pulling a flask from the basket he’s packed. “But I thought the whisky might keep us warmer. Oh, damn, I forgot cups.”
“That’s okay. We can drink from the flask.” She wants to share it—it feels…quieter. Which is a ludicrous thing to think on a date that’s being broadcast, a drone hovering mere feet from them. But they’re alone on the beach, on an island at the edge of the Atlantic, the four other inhabitants fast asleep in a house they cannot even see from this angle. “What’s your favorite color?” she blurts out.
Araminta: God, I’m really not helping that manic pixie dream girl thing.
Rhys passes her the flask. “Orange. Would you care to explain why you ask?”
The whisky is smoky, and cheap enough that it burns going down. “I suppose the thing about being an expert in your field is that you’re very good at controlling your self-image. I can feel it sometimes around the others, the performance of it all. But right now, I can feel it slipping away, and I realized I don’t actually know anything about you.”
“Well, there are secrets on the wall if you’re desperate.”
“Yes, but I thought I’d start with your favorite color.”
“How do you know that’s not up there?”
She laughs and takes another sip. She feels warmer but reaches for a blanket anyway.
“I’d rather hear about the secrets you didn’t put on the wall.”
He smiles almost self-consciously and takes a moment to admire her before he speaks. “I like green too. But if you want a deeper secret, I’m afraid I might be too ordinary to be here. Everyone else has scandals—I’m just a man. I mainly act on the stage, not even on the screen.”
“What is it you like so much about it?”
“The invisibility, mostly.”
“Invisibility? Everyone’s watching you.”
“No, everyone’s watching a character. Me? I disappear. Sometimes I get so into it even I forget myself until I take that final bow.”
She leans against him and he tugs the blanket over his lap too. She rests her head on his shoulder, not looking at him but ensuring they are framed properly. “And what exactly are you hiding from?”
Rhys arches an eyebrow. “Oh, the audience.” He looks straight into the nearest drone. “I just hate attention.”
They both laugh and he takes her hand, running his thumb over the smooth lines in her palms.
“I love your laugh,” he says. “It’s almost lyrical.”
“Oh, for god’s sake Rhys. What a line,” she scoffs.
But he keeps hold of her hand, and turns to her. She freezes under his examination.
“Why do you laugh off compliments?”
She hesitates, starting to make another joke before realizing that would only prove his point, and he’s still looking at her so intently that she’s suddenly asking herself: why does she laugh off compliments?
Araminta: Rhys isn’t…he’s not what I was expecting, honestly. He’s so different by himself, when he’s not trying to impress the others. Some of the things he’s done on the island, he might make you think he’s just here for a good time, that everything is a joke to him. But it’s not, and he’s not—there’s something deeper to him. Something…oh god, I don’t know—the sort of thing you could fall for.
“Why sculpture?” he asks when she doesn’t answer.
“Power.”
He leans forward, a smile mirroring hers. “Power?” he repeats, clearly delighted with the answer.
“Yes. To extract beauty from something so unwilling to give it? To take something so unwieldy and force it to take the shape you want? That’s power.”
“And for you, power is alluring. When have you felt powerless?”
Araminta blanches and, worse, she feels it, the dip in her affected gazing. Something cold flickering behind the sparkling gleam of her eyes. Rhys is trying to get past the veneer, and for a moment it shakes her.
But she can package that emotion right back up. She’s been told she has a habit of trauma bonding—a hazard of her profession, she supposes, to showcase her emotion in a filtered photo and hope someone relates enough to like her for it. But with Rhys there’s a balance. To let him in and only him, to frame everything for general consumption while letting Rhys catch a glimpse of something more—and drive him to desperate lengths to try to find it again.
“I wasn’t, obviously; with my amount of privilege I couldn’t be. But I felt it,” she says, which feels a suitable compromise.
“Your family?” he asks. “I heard that you don’t speak to them anymore.”
She nods. “It was just so messy. Your parents don’t come out of the woodwork as terrible people; you just slowly realize they’ve been horrible your whole life. And when you’ve apparently been letting it slide for the last twenty-two years it’s difficult to put your foot down and say enough is enough—especially when you know you’ll lose everything. I can make my own money, but the emotional security is gone. I couldn’t call my mother when my heart was broken. I found out my father was in the hospital from a tabloid. I spent Christmas at my friend’s house, crying in her bathroom because I couldn’t stand the way I felt around her family, like some jealous outsider. Which I was.”
“Araminta, what you did was impossibly brave,” he says, though she suspects it’s only because he thinks it’s what she wants to hear. Everyone says it. But every other comment on her socials implies she only did it for the credit.
It’s how her head sounds sometimes: you should have done it sooner and you never should have done it at all and you don’t get to feel sad about it and you certainly shouldn’t vocalize that because why are you making yourself the victim here when it’s the people your father screwed over who are the victims and you got so much money off the back of it in raising your profile that it was probably only a publicity stunt in the first place and what a horrible daughter and they’re lucky to be shot of a disgraceful, shameful slut like you and will you just shut up about yourself for five bloody seconds.
She’s self-aware enough to know she’s victimizing herself for the cameras, weaponizing her pretty white sadness for votes. But she’s not self-aware enough to know that being hurt does not make her right. And it doesn’t stop the comments of a thousand social media accounts circling through her head.
“Anyway, that’s me,” she finishes. “Might as well know the baggage up front.”
“Baggage? No, that’s character, Araminta. I don’t want to be one of those jerks that suggests struggling makes you stronger, but whatever it did to you, who you are? Well, you’re one of the most incredible women I’ve ever met,” he says, shifting on the blanket to face her.
