What the fuck just happened?—Dean Woodall, Day 22
A bunch of hooting and whistling heralded my arrival when Jamie led me to the production crew. I gave her a puzzled look.
"You're really popular around here. Everyone loves you, especially the producers."
I blinked. "What? Why?" The looks they were giving me weren't cheerful as much as they were… well, a bit too personal. I'd chosen to wear a new sarong for a skirt and my bikini top, and I was regretting that decision. I should have sprung for something a little more sedate… but after a month on the island, this felt dressy to me and almost too warm. My ankle was bound tight, and I wore a pair of slip-on sandals. My hair was in a pony-tail and I wore no makeup. Nothing to write home about.
"You and Dean," she said gently. At my continued blank look, she went on. "You guys, uh, well… your romance was on camera. The producers like that sort of thing. Good ratings."
I glanced at the cameramen, who were laughing and nudging each other as we passed. "Romance on camera?" Something wasn't adding up. A moment passed before I began to get an uneasy feeling. "You mean…"
"Reeeeally on camera," Jamie confirmed. "We sort of have shots of you two everywhere."
I groaned and hid my face. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Tell me that you don't have us having sex on camera."
"Cheer up," she said, patting me on the shoulder. "At least we're not a cable network."
I groaned even louder. This whole experience had just gone from bad to worse. "Shoot me, please."
"Don't worry. The network has a no-nudity clause. Anything we shot that isn't family flavored won't be shown."
Somehow that didn't help me much right now, as the crew was giving me rather knowing looks. My face was bright red and I had a feeling it would be for a while.
"There's our first jury member," a voice said behind me, entirely too cheerful for my tastes.
I turned and faced a familiar man, dressed like he was out on safari and not on an island. "Mr. Matlock," I greeted, remembering the producer from our brief meeting in my boss's office. "How are you?"
"Sad to see you," he said, and clapped me on the shoulder with a big, callused hand. "Had no idea you'd turn out to be such an entertaining contestant, Miss Abby."
I blushed, shocked beyond words that he'd bring that up to my face. "Um…"
"The production crew is a huge fan of that scene when you threw paint in Dean's face," Jamie interrupted smoothly.
I relaxed a little, though the blush remained on my face. "Oh. Wow, that feels like so long ago."
"Three weeks," Mr. Matlock agreed and tucked my hand into his arm. "It's kind of a good thing that you're our first juror. This will give us plenty of time to go over the articles that MediaWeek should run about the show, and you can spend the rest of the time getting interviews and reviewing tapes."
"Great," I echoed, faking enthusiasm. Crap. I'd totally forgotten about the book. How on earth was I going to write about the time I'd spent here and avoid the topic of my relationship with Dean? It didn't seem right to write about it. That would just make everything… weird.
Er, weirder.
"That's wonderful. Let me know when you're ready to start on the tapes and I'll show you the area we've set up for your viewing room."
I glanced around the room. More of the smirking crew lingered, and I had a sneaking suspicion that they were waiting for Mr. Matlock to leave so they could embarrass the crap out of me. "You know, there's no sense in waiting," I said, keeping my voice cheerful. "No time like the present to start."
Anything to get away, pronto.
To my relief, Mr. Matlock was more than willing to show me the screening room. A few metal folding chairs were set in a small, tiled room and I was allowed to view reel after reel of TV footage. After showing me all the different gadgetry that the show had been able to afford (which I appropriately oohed and ahhed over), I was allowed my choice of reels to watch, with minimal supervision. A guy was also in the room, but he was editing and had headphones on and barely glanced at me.
I selected one file listed as "Pre-show interviews" and saw my own at the top of the stack. Ugh. I didn't want to see what I looked like on camera. I opted for the next one down—Alys. Her reel was rather short, but funny. It was odd to see her with ruddy, full cheeks and a face full of makeup. She also seemed to be rather high-spirited going into the game, which was surprising. My memories of Alys and her grimly determined face didn't match the reel. I wondered how many other people didn't seem to match their 'game' personality. After watching and making myself a few notes on a pad of paper, I reached for the next one and the breath sucked out of me. Dean's reel. Overcome with a mix of emotions—shyness, uncertainty, dread—I couldn't seem to stop myself from placing the reel in and hitting "Play."
It was Dean, in a casual T-shirt (Nike logo) and a pair of jean shorts. His hair was ruthlessly short—a skull trim. The deep golden tan was still there, and I wondered idly what he did in real life. And that's when I noticed the looping red and blue ribbons around his neck, especially when he gestured to them.
"You want to know about these?" he was telling the camera and laughed with delight, as if that were the funniest question ever. "Don't you guys know who I am? Dean Woodall, two gold and one silver in the last Olympics. Swimming. Yup. Yup, that's me. Money? I'm here for the challenge of the game." He hefted one medal and held it next to his cheek, grinning and hamming it up for the camera.
That pose seemed really familiar to me. So familiar that my gut clenched. Where had I seen that before?
The interviewer was laughing. "That your SI pose?"
"Cover shot," he agreed with the interviewer and let the medal fall back on his chest.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
"Tell me about strategy, Dean. What's your plan for the game itself?"
He gave an easy, lightweight shrug of those muscled, sleek shoulders, and my heart clenched at the familiar movement. "I'm looking forward to the competition. Test myself against elements… and the other players. Romance the ladies? If I need to. Anything to win, but I'm not specifically looking to meet a girl.
Romance the ladies? If I need to.
Anything to win.
Oh god. I was going to throw up.
This couldn't be real. No way. I turned away from the footage as Dean continued to go into detail about how he planned on flirting with the girls to get ahead in the game. His casual laugh grated on my nerves, and I couldn't take any more. My fingers fumbled for the pause button and I froze the screen. It highlighted on Dean's face and his sleepy, laughing eyes. He looked sexy as hell.
I wanted to punch him in the face.
***
Two hours and a dozen of Dean's interviews later, my heart had been shattered into a thousand pieces. The guy I'd slept with—the guy I'd gone crazy over—had used me. Every promotional interview was either about his past as a playboy Olympic Medalist or how he was going to be a major flirt in the game to use women to his own advantage, and when he didn't see the advantage? He'd discard them.
And while I initially didn't want to believe it, his words rang true over and over again.
"It's my goal to hook up with a girl partner," he told the camera with a laughing grin. "Preferably someone cute, but that doesn't matter. I need her to trust me, and when I've got her wrapped around my finger, I'm golden. And then when she's no longer any use to me?" He drew a finger across his neck in the classic gesture. "Done. Finito. It's all about me in this game… but of course, the girls don't have to know that."
I was such a fool. I thought of the joke I'd made about a grown man being unable to look masculine in a Speedo. He'd given me such a puzzled look at the time. I'd had no idea why. Now I knew, I thought as I stared at the Sports Illustrated photos of him in a Speedo and his medals. My heart sank.
***
Depressed and unhappy, I spent the next two days with a carton of ice cream in my hands and making notes in my journals. There was a ton of work for me to do now that I was off the show—completing interviews, taping media junkets, answering questions, and taking notes on how the crew worked around the set. Since I'd be writing a 'secret' expose, I got behind the scenes information on just about everything—from how they came up with the challenges to how much influence the producers actually had. It was rather eye-opening.
Two days later, the next Judgment was held. Since I had been voted off, I wasn't allowed to go back out to the Judgment Court, but watched via one of the feeds back at camp. Heather was the next one to be voted off—she wasn't surprised in the slightest, judging by her reaction. I watched the faces of my former alliance—Lana, Will, Leon, and even Dean—and they were expressionless as Heather hugged them and left. Everyone knew exactly why Heather was leaving. It wasn't that she wasn't good at the challenges, or annoying around camp. She was simply in the wrong alliance.
At least she knew what was coming for her, I thought with disgust. My gaze rested on the immunity necklace that Dean wore around his neck. He was winning this thing handily.
A few hours later, Heather showed up at the camp designated for the jury. I greeted her with a bottle of wine and a celebratory pizza. "Welcome to loser land," I said with a smile.
"Check your bitterness at the door?" she teased, setting down her one muddy pack with a weary thump.
"No, the bitterness sticks with you," I said, hating the hard edge that crept into my voice. "Come on. You look like you could use something to eat." I led her toward one of the tables, noticing just how very dirty her bikini was in comparison to my cheery white tank top and yellow sarong. "Sit down and you can fill me in about everything that happened at camp after I left."
"Oh, plenty," Heather said with a grin, reaching for a slice of pizza even before she sat down. She took a huge bite and chewed with an expression of bliss.
I tried to be patient as she ate, even though I was ridiculously curious about what had been going on back at camp. Had Dean been upset that I'd left? Or was he one of the ones that had voted me out?
Eventually, Heather swallowed and reached for another slice. "It's been crazy at camp," she admitted. "Lana's running the show. Everyone listens to what she says and if you're not in her special club, you're gone."
I tried to ignore the sting of that. I thought I'd been in Lana's club, after all. I'd given her the last of my peanut butter and shared my secrets with her, and look where it had gotten me. "So Lana voted for me?" I asked.
"All of them did," Heather agreed. "Dean, Leon, Will, everyone. Lana tells them who to vote for and they do it."
I flinched. Dean too, eh? "So Dean is in the little club?"
"Oh yeah," Heather said around a mouthful. "Mr. Gold Medals? Definitely in the club."
My eyes widened in surprise. "You knew he was an Olympian?"
"Hard not to," she said with a grin. "First time I saw him swim off the boat, I knew who he was. Plus, he's real easy on the eyes. You don't forget something like that."
Shame colored my face. Apparently some of us did. Maybe I'd have remembered him if he'd have written a book instead of posing on the front of a Wheaties box. "I had no idea."
"He's killing everyone in the challenges," Heather said, reaching for yet another slice. She was devouring the food and I couldn't blame her. Two days 'out' of the game and I still felt the urge to eat every ten minutes. "Dean's mopping up everything. He's lucky he's in good with Lana."
"Oh?" I said, trying to play it casual. "Are he and Lana tight?"
"Really tight now that you're gone," she said, and it felt like a dagger in my heart. "Every time anyone turns around, he's got his head near Lana's and they're whispering about something. Lana's the one in charge but I wonder how much Dean has his hand in. Probably a lot more than I realized."
Me too. "I wonder if he's sleeping with her too."
Heather choked on her pizza. "You slept with him?" Her mouth hung open and revealed a half-eaten bite of pizza. "Are you fucking kidding me? On TV?"
My face grew hot with embarrassment. "I thought everyone knew. You guys were teasing us about it back when we merged."
"Oh my god." Her eyes widened. "Dude, we thought he was just stringing you along for your vote. You looked totally lovesick over him and we were convinced… well… that it wasn't, you know…"
"Mutual?" I offered. The thought hurt me far more than it should have. I ignored the tears pricking behind my eyes and reached for a slice of pizza myself. "They're playing to win," I said in a light voice. "I guess I can't blame them."
But I totally could. And I did. Dean and Lana had been playing to win, and they'd used me. I wouldn't forget that.
***
Days passed, the game went on, and the loser lodge slowly filled with more people. One by one, the tribe whittled down to just the alliance, and then Will showed up, equally shocked and hurt that he'd been betrayed by Lana. Leon and Shanna and Lana and Dean made up the final four in the game, each one growing more gaunt and dirty as the days passed.
I still thought Dean was beautiful. I hated him now, but I could still enjoy looking at him, I supposed. Each person that returned to the loser lodge filled in a different piece of the story, but all of their stories lined up—Lana was running the show, and Dean sat back and let her call the shots. Meanwhile, Dean continued to clean up in challenges. They were an unstoppable duo, and it seemed to be a foregone conclusion that they'd be the final two. No one was really surprised when Shanna showed up at the loser lodge, and Leon a few days later.
Thanks to my ever-increasing amount of duties from the crew, I didn't get a chance to spend a lot of time with the rest of the jury. For one, I didn't want to—I was still hideously embarrassed that I'd been suckered by Dean. It was just as well, because when they found out I was here thanks to MediaWeek, they'd given me a skeptical eye and their conversations turned to whispers—no one wanted to be a chapter in my book. I couldn't blame them. I really couldn't. So I kept busy with the crew, filming highlights and reviewing the reels they allowed me, even going on location to film a TV special on The Making of Endurance Island. And if I felt a little lonely and left out… well, that was the price I paid.
Soon enough, it was time for the final tribal council. For this special episode, we'd get to dress up in our swankiest gear and sit in front of the two remaining contestants and listen to them answer questions. Then we'd vote for the winner in an elaborate ceremony.
After that… home. And a chance to return to my old life. I couldn't wait. I would have been thrilled if I never saw another island ever again in my life. Ever.
That didn't stop me from trying to look my best for the big finale, though. All the voted–off women clustered in the single bathroom in the lodge, applying makeup and fixing their hair (despite the overwhelming humidity). I was no different; I wanted to look my absolute best when the camera closed in on me. I wanted Dean to see how ridiculously hot I was, how clean and healthy and attractive.
And I wanted him to regret using me, just a little.
Of course, I was a wallflower compared to the other women in the lodge. They all cleaned up way better than I did, which was a bit depressing. I wouldn't think about that too much, I thought to myself as Shanna strolled past in a pale scarf-skirt that put my breezy island dress to shame.
Ah well.
When we were primped and ready, the jury filed into the show's van and drove to the far side of the island, where the game was still being held. A short drive later, the van parked and we spilled out, the jury members laughing and a little bit tipsy. A frowning production assistant shushed us, clipboard in hand. "When we motion for you, we need you to file in to the council room in the order that you were voted out. Abby, that means you're first."
I moved to the front of the line, my hands fluttering down my dress. At the producer's signal, I straightened, tossed my clean, bouncy hair over my shoulder and stalked onto the Council stage. It had been dressed up for the final council. A bonfire burned in between us and the two remaining contestants, and lit tiki torches dotted the oversized hut that we kept tribal council in. Wooden masks covered the walls, and palm leafs had been strewn about the set, adding an outdoorsy vibe to the interior, and soft tribal music was piped in to set the mood.
I walked carefully forward in my swingy little green dress that brought out my eyes and matched my only pair of heeled sandals on the island. Moving from the darkness into the lights of the council stage blinded me for a moment, and I concentrated on walking to the spot the producers pointed me to. I moved there and sat down elegantly on the carved wooden stool, then crossed my long legs, folded my hands, and stared at my enemies.
Lana and Dean looked filthy and exhausted. Lana's fragility was obvious, but there was a hidden core of strength to her and her posture was defiant. My gaze slid to Dean. He was more casual, leaning over one knee and resting his weight there. His cheeks were a little more hollow than I remembered, and his clothing was filthy, but he sat up straight as I walked in, and his eyes followed me. I ignored him, my back stiff with tightly wound anger as the other jurors filed in. He tried to meet my eyes, but I looked away.
Chip smiled at all of us as we sat. "Welcome to the final Judgment," he said in his best game-show voice. "It's been a long journey to get here—six weeks on the island. During that time, you've learned a little bit about each other, and you've competed together. You've fought hard to get where you are, but you've burned some bridges along the way. It's inevitable. And now it's their turn to judge you." He turned to the jury and gave us a brilliant smile, made all the more leering by the shadows. "Each of you will have the chance to interview the last two contestants, and when the interview is over, you'll cast your jury ballot. Vote for who you want to be the two million dollar winner." His eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "Understand?"
The jury nodded.
"Let's begin with…" Chip reached into a bag and pulled out a name written on a seashell. He flipped it over in his hand. "Leon. Stand up and ask your questions."
The big, tattooed man moved forward, and Lana turned to watch him. I took that moment to sneak a peek at Dean.
His gaze was still on me. Flustered, I broke eye contact and looked over to Leon, who was speaking. "Lana," Leon began, "did you, or did you not, make an alliance with all of us on this island?"
She gave a sly smile. "I did. I approached Will first and then Dean and Abby since their camp was next to ours. Then when we had the switch, I suggested an alliance with you. And I had you pull in your old partner, and Will pulled in his. Then it was easy for me to approach the others and offer them the same thing—final four." She gave a small, unconcerned shrug. "You have to do some lying to get ahead in this game. It's unavoidable."
Leon turned toward Dean and gestured. "Is that true? Did you have to lie to get ahead in this game?"
"Yes," said Dean immediately.
My eyebrow went up.
"You want to elaborate?" Leon crossed his arms over his chest, a scowl on his face.
Dean shook his head. "Nope."
Leon glanced back at Chip and then moved back to his seat.
"All right, we'll move to the next member of the jury." Chip pulled out another shell and examined it. "Abby, you're up next."
My heart gave a painful nervous thump. I stood, unclasping my sweaty hands, and moved to the center of the stage. One of the cameramen zoomed in on me and that made me suddenly tense. Swallowing hard, I met the gaze of the two contestants sitting across the fire from me. Lana had a confident smile on her face, but I'd expected that from her. She knew how to work people. What I hadn't expected was the smile on Dean's face. His gaze was possessive as he regarded me, his eyes roaming over my figure, and he wore a smile like we shared a secret.
I wanted to punch it off of his face. I cleared my throat, kept my expression calm, and focused on the two. "I'll start with Dean," I said in a light, careful voice. "Dean, did you fuck me to make sure you'd have my vote?"
His smile was replaced by a frown and then a scowl. "No, of course not."
I turned immediately to Lana. "My question for you—is he lying?"
She glanced over at Dean and a small, smug smile touched her mouth. "He told me he was stringing you along for your vote."
"Now wait a minute–" Dean began.
Chip interrupted. "I'm sorry, Dean, but you had your chance to speak. Abby, did you have any further questions?"
I felt ice cold as I stared at the two of them. My eyes narrowed at Dean and I scowled back. "No. No more questions. I found out what I needed to know."
I turned and went back to my seat.
The rest of the questions passed in a blur to me. I clasped my hands hard in my lap so I wouldn't cry or anything embarrassing like that. I focused so hard on keeping my icy composure that the council blurred for me. Lana answered all questions glibly, freely admitting to scheming her way to the top of the pile. Dean seemed less inclined to answer quite so easily—his responses were terse and sometimes angry. It reminded me of him when we'd first gotten to the island.
"Those are all the questions," Chip said. "Now it's time for the jury to vote who they want to win the prize. Abby, we'll start with you."
I stood and walked carefully to the voting booth. A stack of blank slates was there waiting, and I took one and laid it flat, then carefully wrote a name on the front.
The cameraman waiting there spoke to me. "Can you hold up your slate and explain to the audience why you voted the way you did?"
Very calmly, I held up the slate and revealed the name.
Lana.
"I'm voting for you, Lana," I said, and I couldn't even be gleeful about it. I was just tired and hurt. "You have my vote because you admitted to lying, and you never tried to get in my pants to get what you wanted in this game. Dean, I did not vote for you." My voice threatened to wobble but I rushed past it, my words spilling over themselves in a hurry to get out while my voice was strong and I was composed. "I'm sure that ruins all your little plans for world domination, and I hope it does. I hope you slept with every woman on this island and I hope your dick falls off because of it. You are the worst kind of person to sleep with a woman just because you wanted her vote. I actually thought there was something below that shallow surface of yours, but it looks like I'm the biggest idiot on this island, right? No longer. Lana, I hope you enjoy your two million dollars."
And I dropped the slate into the voting box.