The Consequence of Revenge
I sighed and checked my watch just as Jason walked by the front door like he was waiting for something. He answered his cell, then smirked.
Sketch.
I waved him over once he walked through the doors.
“What the hell, Jason?” I pointed at his face, the one that was still breaking into the biggest damn grin I’d ever seen. “You have the smile. What gives?”
“Can’t a guy be happy?” He shrugged and looked around the coffee shop, then checked his phone.
“No.” I shook my head, eyes narrowing. “Especially considering said guy hasn’t gotten laid in months and still can’t secure a date from our mutual friend Jenna. Tell me, have the yoga classes improved your flexibility or are you actually turning into a chick after doing downward dog so many times?”
Jason’s stare burned holes through my body. “Thanks, Max, for the reminder.”
“Reminder about your soon-to-be female status?” I nodded. “Anytime.”
“Nope.” He chuckled to himself. “The reminder of why I’m doing this.”
“Doing what?” Damn that coffee was good. Imagine what the blond girl would taste like?
She’d give in. Eventually.
They all did.
I truly bat a thousand. No lie. Wait, okay, so actually that’s a minor fib considering my best friend Milo didn’t fall for my charm. Then again, she thought I was gay when she first met me. I looked down at my Prada shoes. Note to self: rethink footwear.
I rolled my eyes and took a long sip of coffee. The door to the shop opened and a camera crew waltzed in.
Huh, some lucky bastard must have won money or something.
They walked toward our table.
I turned around, so I could get a good view of whoever they were surprising.
“Max Emory.” A soft-voiced man said my name. Why was he saying my name? I turned, slowly, and came face-to-face with orange. No, really, just orange. His face was so orange it was like staring at the sun.
“Uh . . . yeah?” The cameras were directly in my business, all my business. My eyes narrowed, then fell on Jason. He was partially covering his face with his hands and smirking—the ass.
“Congratulations!” Oompa Loompa patted me on the shoulder with his orange hand and flashed a white grin at the camera. “You’re the new Bachelor on Love Island!”
It was then that my eyes fell to the name on the shirts the crew was wearing. “Love Island—Sink or Swim, Season 5.”
“Jason”—somehow I managed to sound calm when my insides were quivering with fear—“tell me this is a practical joke.”
“Oh, I assure you!” For real. If that man hit my shoulder one more time, I was breaking one of his fingers. “This is very, very real! Aren’t you excited? You’re going to be spending the next three weeks in luxury with twenty-five of the most beautiful women in America. And hopefully, you’ll find true love.”
“Yes,” I hissed. “Because I’ve been looking so hard for it—love.”
“Oh, we know.” The man nodded. “After the death of your fiancée I imagine you’re just . . . a bit broken inside.”
“My dead fiancée,” I muttered under my breath. “Yes, well, the death still feels fresh in my mind.”
“I’m sure.” The man nodded.
“Almost as if it just happened two seconds ago,” I continued.
“You poor soul.”
Jason coughed.
I kicked him under the table.
He winced, but the bastard was still smiling.
“Let’s have a round of applause for our new contestant!” The man clapped his orange hands together like a dancing monkey and slapped my shoulder. Again.
“And cut,” another man said. The lights flickered off and the camera was shoved away from my face.
“All right.” The announcer guy grabbed a stack of papers from a person behind them and tossed them onto the table. “You’ll have to sign a few waivers before we get started and take a drug test as well as a few other examinations just to make sure you’re healthy enough to participate.”
I scanned the first page.
“Accidental death?” I croaked. “Are you throwing me out of a plane?”
The guy laughed. “Of course not.”
I relaxed.
“We did that last year. Poor bastard landed in shark-infested waters. Of course that season had more of a Survivor theme.”
“Of course,” I repeated, then kicked Jason again. “And, um, if I want to back out?”
The smile on the guy’s face froze. “Why would you back out? You already signed your consent when you applied.”
“When I”—my eyes narrowed in on Jason—“applied.”
“Well,”—the man shrugged—“go ahead and fill these out. We’ll be in touch after your exams, and do try to cooperate with the doctors. They’re only doing their jobs. Here’s your appointment sheet. Don’t be late! If all goes well, we fly out in two days!”
The camera crew left.
Oompa Loompa followed.
“I should kill you for this,” I muttered.
Jason grinned. “You can’t. It specifically says in your contract that serving time in federal prison is against their rules.”
“Oh, I think I’d like to make an exception,” I said, scanning my appointment sheet. I had one for the dentist at noon. Another at the doctor for an STD test, naturally, because what? It was humanly possible to sleep with that many different women and get out alive without getting my nuts twisted off?