Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2) (2 page)

But it’s not Daniel. I invite my visitor in, and Jessica enters.

“Feeling any better?”
 

“I’m not sick, Jess.”
 

“No, of course. But … ” She stops, making vague gestures.
But you just got vag-slapped by a world-class bitch and humiliated yourself in front of everyone.
 

“I’m fine.”
 

Jessica’s mouth forms a devious little smile at one corner. The women here are all stunning — billionaire’s pick of the litter — but most strike me as magazine-cover gorgeous. The kind that requires upkeep and ego maintenance, the kind that falls apart when there’s not sufficient makeup in the morning. Not Jessica. She’s girl-next-door pretty. If I were a guy, I’d probably like her best. But it’s not like men do or think what makes most sense — and that goes for the men here most of all.

“She’s so pissed,” Jessica says.
 

“Who?”
 

“Kylie. She won’t admit it, but I can tell. Everyone can. It’s been … what … eight hours? She’s been back and forth between holding court in the Great Room and hate-fucking one of the guys six times in those eight hours. She took Logan the last time.
Logan.”
Jessica raises her eyebrows.
 

“Maybe she told him to be nice. They’re supposed to do whatever we tell them.” I wouldn’t know. I haven’t had sex with anyone since I’ve been here. Except for Daniel’s fingers. And myself, thinking about Daniel and his fingers. But I might be the only one.
 

“He can,” Jessica says. “But I tried him out. Twice. Once each way. The first time, I told him to kiss me all over. The second time, I told him to pull my hair and spank me.”
 

“Jess!”
 

She shrugs. Sweet as she looks, Jessica seems to have a matter-of-fact take on sexuality. If she’s here to get dirty, and if she enjoys getting down … well … then she might as well. “I’m just saying. But she didn’t get the nice version. She turned him up to ten.”
 

“Ten?”
 

“On the rough sex scale. Okay, maybe eight or nine. If he went to ten, she’d be dead.”
 

I let that disturbing tidbit go. “How do you know?”
 

“We heard it.”
 

I let the image settle: a group of women with their ears to a door, listening to the sounds of slapping and choking. I’m embarrassed to realize I like it.

I avoided the group when I reentered the mansion after Daniel’s reprieve, then let myself run into individuals here and there in the halls. Kylie and Ivy, her apparent ally, were both at lunch, but she never looked up at me. It’s an unsolved issue, and I’d been allowing myself to think it might quietly pass, or that maybe I was the only one damaged throughout the debacle. But if Kylie can’t shake off the dust with all that railing — and if she took punishment as the final course — then maybe there’s a victory here after all.

“You sure you’re holding up?” Jessica asks.
 

“Of course.”
 

She plays with a strand of straight brown hair. It finds her full lips, brushing across them.
 

“Tell you something?” she says.
 

“Yeah, sure.”

“I know you feel stupid.”
 

“Gee, thanks.” But she’s right; I do. I made a scene in the dining hall; I cried; I begged. All I could think about was my mother and how I was failing her in losing the money I’d promised to send Jenny. All I could think about was Linda dying from her wounds, and life down in Miami going on without a hitch. I don’t know that she won’t die, of course, and I never found out just how bad her condition is. But at least I’ve done all I can. Or rather, Daniel did it for me.
 

“But it’s good. After you came back, a lot of the others started talking about how there must be extenuating circumstances.”
 

“What do I care what the others think?”
 

“Don’t you care what
I
think?”
 

I shrug as if to say
whatever
. At breakfast, Jessica was the only one who stood up for me. And yeah, I care.
 

“Honey, if you’re in this, then you’re in it. You’ve seen reality TV, right?”
 

“This isn’t reality TV,” I tell her.
 

“Close enough. Cameras everywhere. Eliminations. Bonuses based on how long you stay. And did they tell you about the video confessionals?”
 

I shake my head.
 

“Well, we’re supposed to do video confessionals. That seems like the same basic rules to me. And what else happens in those kinds of contests? When there are challenges and eliminations and who knows what else?
Alliances
, that’s what.”
 

“‘Alliances.’”
 

“You can try to be a team of one. But bitch, I won’t let you.”
 

Okay, this is how I know I’ve had a fucked-up day. Because when Jessica calls me a bitch and says she insists on being my friend, I feel momentarily spectacular.
 

“Well, thanks.”
 

“Erin likes you. You know that.”
 

I frown. I got along fine with Erin, but then at exactly the wrong moment she decided to put on a sex show in my room. I guess this is a sex competition and I’ve decided to stay for some fucked-up reason — although I guess I know why — so I suppose I should get over it. But I’m not the only awkward one. Erin, apparently quite the little nympho once the flag drops, has been weird around me as well. I might know why, though that’s even weirder.
 

“Yeah. I think she likes me, too. Maybe too much.”
 

“You ever been with a girl?”
 

I cringe. “No. I’m straight.”
 

“So am I,” Jessica says, “but there’s something to be said for hiring a plumber who already knows all the pipes.” Her eyes flicker briefly up and down, taking me in, and I understand immediately that she’s done stuff with girls before and would, if I raised the suggestion, do so with me right now. The thought gives me a strange rush: heat and power mixed as one.
 

“Erin,” I repeat.
 

“Erin,” she says. “But also Malory, maybe. Blair. Whatshername, Renee? With the big boobs? And Ruby, the redhead. Now, on the other hand … who’s the one with the teeth?”
 

“They all have teeth.”
 

“Roxy. The girl who made the Sybian comment. I’d guess she’s on Team Kylie.”
 

That shakes something inside me. Have
I
become the central issue? Have I drawn the line by which the rest of this contest will be judged?

“So it’s me versus Kylie? Are those the groups?”
 

“Hey,” Jessica says, “cunts will be cunts.”
 

I’m not sure if that’s a yes or a no, so I just sort of bounce on the bed. Jessica stands and walks to the window. I guess we’re done with that topic. Which is okay. If she came in here to make me feel better, then mission strangely accomplished.

“Jess?”
 

She turns. I have light freckles that I’ve always hated. Jessica’s are a bit more prominent without being obnoxious. For some reason I’m jealous of them. And her lips. And her eyelashes, which seem to stand at attention without much, if any, mascara.
 

“Why are you being nice to me?”
 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”
 

“Because we’re competing against each other. We’re after the same thing.”

“I don’t think we’re after the same thing at all.”

She’s right. We’re not. I’m in a strange sort of purgatory, here mainly due to a combination of spite (at Kylie) and obligation (for my mother). I refuse to get my hopes even slightly up, but the numbers Trevor was tossing around last night, for the finalists, were seriously impressive. Jenny has tossed around a similar-sized figure for the past few weeks, now that she’s decided she can trust me. The number that solves all of Linda’s problems. But until now, that number and that idea have been wallpaper in the background. I could never earn that much, not in a thousand years. But if I made it far enough now …
 

But no, I don’t want Trevor Stone. I don’t even want his fortune. You hear stories, about lottery winners, where money ruins their lives and they do everything possible to subconsciously rid themselves of what they see as a curse. I can believe it. I’ve always been short on money and I have my dreams with what I’d use the winnings for beyond Linda, but past a certain point I’d honestly rather be without. When you have a lot, everyone thinks you owe them. You’re broke on your own, and that’s how I like it.
 

Still, somehow, watching Jessica, I don’t think that’s what she means.
 

“Kylie’s right about one thing, Bridge.”
 

“What?”
 

“Daniel.”
 

My blood chills. “What about Daniel?”
 

Jessica’s eyes flick up, and it’s as if she’s said it aloud:
Cameras
.
 

“I guess nothing,” Jessica says. Although I don’t think she’s saying it to me.
 

There’s a small rustling sound, and we both turn.
 

Someone has slipped another of those cream-colored envelopes under the door.
 

CHAPTER THREE

We’re standing in a semicircle, dressed for the day as instructed on those slips of paper, overlooking the infinity pool. The sun is out, and last night’s chill has surrendered to a beautiful day. I’m somewhere between tan and pale, so the sun always makes me slightly uneasy. How long will we be out here? I didn’t bring sunscreen. And given the display at dinner last night, I’m thinking a lot of parts that don’t see the sun might be exposed. I catch Ruby’s eye, halfway around the curve of contestants. Her hair is carrot red. At least if I get burned, I’ll be in good company.
 

“Whatever they have in store for us, I’m fucking it hardest,” Roxy says.
 

I look over. Ivy and Erin are between me and Roxy. Erin and Roxy, side by side, are about the same height, but Erin looks slight by comparison. Roxy’s attitude makes the difference. Really, we should be treating it as a thirteenth contestant.
 

Erin gives me a look that says,
Save me.
And I can’t help it; I snicker. My hand goes to my mouth, and Ivy glances over.
 

I think she’s about to say something when Daniel comes out to stand in front of us. Compared to how I’ve seen him throughout the time I’ve known him (although that hasn’t even been forty-eight hours yet if you don’t count the phone sex), he looks casual. He’s wearing jeans that fit him so well they must be custom, scuffed-up biker boots, and a plain white T-shirt with nothing on it. This is the first time I’ve seen him with short sleeves. His arms are so much larger than I’d imagined — and sculpted. This is also the most I’ve seen of his tattoo. It twines and twists, emerging from his tight sleeves before ending in black points at his wrist.
 

“Welcome to your first official day,” he says, crossing his arms. The small motion makes his chest swell enough to press into the fabric of his white shirt. “As we explained last night, you are here to participate in a competition with each other. The goal of the competition is to win the favor of your host, Trevor Stone, and eight weeks from now Mr. Stone will choose his wife from among you.”
 

I glance at Jessica. Kylie intercepts my eyes and gives me a level look. It’s not angry or confrontational or jaded or vengeful. Its sheer placidity is somehow more daunting than any negativity or hate she could throw my way, but now that I’ve had some time to process, I can handle it. She caught me off guard last night, but I’ve dealt with bullies and bitches plenty before. Oh yes, I can handle Kylie just fine.
 

“Many of you have taken full advantage of all this situation has to offer. Tony. Richard. Logan. Each other. Our many rooms and play sets.”
 

This time, I catch Roxy’s profile. She’s practically licking her lips. Practically rubbing herself. Gunning her internal engine, ready and all too willing to show Trevor and Daniel she can out-slut the rest of us.
 

“But what’s any competition without contests? So that’s where we begin today. I should reemphasize: Simply by staying, you’ll receive a stipend.” Daniel looks right at me, surely to remind me I won’t be receiving a stipend for several more days. But there’s more in his eyes than before, and I can’t put my finger on it. Gone is the softness I saw in the limousine. I know I’m being jittery and insecure, but I’d swear he’s back to being angry. Maybe he’s had time to reevaluate. Maybe he’s decided that if I can’t take a few insults without breaking down, I’m only worth pity — a word that Kylie’s already implied is the strongest bond between us. I’d argue, but does Daniel’s out-of-pocket payment to Jenny, for my mother, prove or disprove that? Does it strengthen Kylie’s accusation or dismiss it?