Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
I’m already a bit shaken.
CHAPTER 5
LEO
“You look pissed, but it’s not our fault. We told you to stick around and you could have competed for one of the other girls,” whispers the tall blond who I’ve since learned is the real count from Italy. Emile has attached himself to my side because we Italians should stick together. “Like Serena, there, is a former Miss Galaxy.”
I don’t follow his discreet gesture because I’m too focused on how Quinn’s major assets are on full display and not just for the ten contestants but the cameras too. What did Binnie say her ratings were? Five percent? Two percent? What does that translate into? There are over 50 million people in the US. Even on the low side, it means millions are going to be staring at her tits.
“How many people watch this damned show?” I ask. Emile perks up at my question.
“Last season there were two million.”
“This is some bullshit,” I mutter. Quickly I unbutton the rest of my shirt and pull it off. Shirtless, I march across the sand and jerk Quinn to my chest. “Here, you’re wearing this.” She fights me as I struggle to put the shirt over her shoulders.
“I don’t need it. Oh my God, you’re naked now.” She struggles against my efforts, her arms pulling out of the sleeves.
“Is this part of the show?” a girlish voice says. “Is this how our next bedmate is picked?”
“Bedmate?” I bellow. “There are two beds in every tent.”
“I meant tent mates. We’re supposed to sleep together,” the one Emile pointed out as the beauty queen informs me.
“Are we shooting a porn or a dating show? Put this damned shirt on,” I order. Quinn seems tired of fighting me and resignedly shoves her arms into the sleeves of my white shirt.
“What about me?” the beauty queen asks.
I frown. “What about you?”
Her smile dims about five wattage points. She glances over at the camera crew. “Is this supposed to be happening?”
No one responds. They’re just here to record us, not to provide guidance, and I don’t need any direction. Quinn can’t be standing here looking all edible and squeezable while two million people look on. It’s not decent.
“I can’t believe you signed up for this,” I say. Even with my shirt on her, something doesn’t look right. Then I realize it’s because she hasn’t closed it. I can still see a strip of skin from her neck to belly button. Fucking outrageous is what it is. “Button up,” I snap.
“I put sunscreen on,” she grumbles but does what I say.
“I could use a shirt,” says another woman. She leans forward from the line and waves at me.
“I have one,” the count offers. He shrugs out of his polo and races over to the girl’s side. Soon all the other men have taken their shirts off and are offering them to the women. I stick close to Quinn and give the evil eye to anyone who even looks in our direction.
All the guys are standing next to a woman, which seems right to me. No one is left out, and no one is trying to get close to Quinn, but just to be on the safe side, I move her to my right so that she’s on the end and I’m between her and the beauty queen.
“If you wanted to stand next to Serena, just say that instead of moving me around like I’m a piece of luggage,” snaps Quinn.
“Who said I wanted to stand next to Serena?” Where did she get that idea?
“Why wouldn’t you?” asks Serena with a frown on her face.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t you?” parrots Quinn.
“Are you talking to my woman now?” says Emile, leaning forward so he can stare at me.
“I’m not your woman,” says Serena. “I haven’t made up my mind, and you can’t claim me like I’m some candy bar in the checkout line at Walmart.” She steps forward and holds out her hand to Quinn. “Come on, darling. You don’t belong to anyone.”
“Don’t move,” I order, but Quinn doesn’t listen to me. She actually scampers forward and grabs at Serena’s hand like it’s a lifeline.
“And we don’t need these either.” Serena throws down the polo that Emile had pressed into her hand. Quinn follows suit. She quickly unbuttons my shirt and tosses it onto the sand. She jerks her chin in the air and gives me a challenging look.
I swipe the shirt off the ground and am about to throw it over Quinn’s newly bared shoulders when a chime rings, and a disembodied voice rings out. “Citizens, now it’s time for a game. Please head to the beach where you will find a box. In the box are items and instructions on how to use those items. You will not be pairing off. I repeat, you will not be pairing off.” A chorus of confused murmurs rises up.