Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
I blink and stare at my phone.
This can’t be real.
Just as I was starting to believe everything Remy told me, I get this?
Someone at the show found Griff’s phone.
Or he gave it to Kiki.
No. Griff wouldn’t do that.
But he obviously told her I was a virgin. That he…that we…Embarrassment slides over me like hot lava. He’d share something so personal about me with a stranger?
It just doesn’t seem like Griff. He’s private. Doesn’t like to talk about himself all that much. Did I not know him at all? Has being on the show changed him that much? Did he lie to Remy?
Me: Don’t worry. He’s all yours.
There. If that was the show’s goal, they’ve got their wish. I never bought a ticket for this crazy train and now it’s time to get off the ride.
I block the number again and shut off my phone. That’s enough outside communication for me. I need to get ready for work anyway.
I can’t escape the stares and whispers when I clock in to work. Does everyone in town watch that stupid show? Stupid question. Of course they do. Our hometown hero is starring in it. Puke.
The front-end manager, Stacy, is waiting at the window with the till for my register. The eager-to-chit-chat smile stretched across her face turns my stomach. She chews a wad of gum with her mouth so wide, I can count the silver caps on her back teeth. Every few seconds she snaps it with a loud pop that sets me on edge.
“How’s it going, Molly?” Snap. Chomp. Pop.
I can count on one hand the number of times she’s asked me anything personal. I steel myself for more probing questions.
“Fine.” I force a quick smile and grab my till.
“Isn’t your boyfriend on that reality show?”
“Yup.” I clutch the till tighter, the hard plastic biting into my stomach.
“Did he really sleep with that Kiki girl? Or is it a strategy—like, did they team up to win the show?”
I frown as my brain processes the questions. “What?”
She shrugs. “Those shows are crazy. People do stuff like that to win. Form an alliance. Then when everyone else has been eliminated,” her eyes narrow with a strange sort of glee, “the bloodshed begins.” She cackles.
“They’re not in competition with each other.” Was there a cash prize for the ring girls? Since the “romance” angle had been pushed so heavily, I never paid attention to what else the girls might win on the show.
“They’re all fake anyway.” She pops her gum again. “You can’t trust anything you see on reality shows.”
I can’t tell if she’s trying to cheer me up, but I actually take comfort in her words. “Thanks, Stacy.”
She nods. “Register one’s free. Ann went home early.”
Ann’s the crankiest cashier and she guards register one like a junkyard dog. It’s the best register. The buttons don’t stick, the scanner actually works, and best of all there’s a big pillar with a bunch of fake plants hanging from it that I can hide behind. Today must be my lucky day.
God, my life is pathetic.
“Great. Thanks.” I turn and hurry through the produce department, dodging a cart of big red, yellow, and purple heirloom tomatoes. Ooo, those look good. I should bring a few home tonight.
Don’t think about Griff. Don’t think about Griff.
It’s going to be a long night. A long summer.
I need to work hard. Save my money. Toughen up. Then leave for college and never return.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Griff
The gym feels charged with a mix of anticipation and frustration this morning. In the days after my showdown with the head producer, the atmosphere in the house seems to have shifted a lot.
Two new coaches were brought in to work with us. Instead of the loose, self-motivated, training schedule we had, we’re now required to be downstairs by six a.m. and the rest of our day is just as structured. The crew wakes us by banging on our doors and setting off an earsplitting alarm throughout the house. It’s like the producers want us moody, sleep-deprived, and pissed off before we meet downstairs to spar with each other.
It hasn’t been a problem for me—at home I keep a tight gym schedule and work full-time. But for the guys in the house who stay up drinking and fucking around all night, it’s been an issue. Their constant bitching and moaning get old fast.
This morning, Venom and I paired up to work on our grappling skills. We’re both eager to test and improve our moves, not show off for the cameras.
Somehow, I block out all the noise around me and lose track of the lenses constantly encroaching on our space.
We start on the mat, each of us battling for control. I lunge forward. Too soon. The big bastard easily rolls me to my stomach. His arm locks tight around my neck.