No, several powerpoints.
Isla got so sick of me asking questions during our nightly reality show binge that she gave me two options.
Start from the very beginning of this fucking dramaverse, or let her give me aquickPowerPoint presentation. Quick being the word she apparently decided to disregard. I almost wonder if watching the entire decade of TV would have beenquicker.
But it definitely wouldn't have been nearly this entertaining.
Her hair is piled on top of her head, secured into place with a couple pens. The hot pink sweats I loathe hang low on her hips, giving me a sliver of the delicious line where her hips meet the soft curve of her stomach every time she raises her hand to point at something. The matching tank top and lacy black bra peeking out have to be on purpose, keeping my ass planted in my seat, paying rapt attention, and hoping the black strap falls again so I can watch her fix it.
I didn't think I would give a flying fuck about all these intrapersonal relationships and betrayals, but IthinkIsla's passion and explanations could make anythinginteresting. Her animated features, her insistence thatnoneof it is staged even though it very clearly is, every second of this bullshit isendurable because of her love for it. Or maybe it's just because her tits are on display, and I could listen to her talk about anything if she looks like that.
"So wait," I interrupt, not ready for her presentation to be finished, "Where's the cokehead guy in all this?"
Her eye twitches, "They're all cokeheads. That's like... the whole fucking thing. This whole show is fueled by cocaine and mysoginy."
I knew that, but her anger when she thinks I'm not paying attention is hilarious.
She can pretend nothing is happening here between us, that she didn't give me simultaneously the bestandworst blowjob to ever exist yesterday, but nomatter how many times I've fucked my fist since then, the overwhelming annoyance and tension hasn't abated one bit. And she knows it, the subtle twist of her lips every time I have to leave the room utterly salacious.
So, I'll do what I can to exact revenge in my ownsmallway until I think of something better.
"Okay, but the crazy cokehead. The one that's really bad at hiding it."
She nods, "The sociopath, yes."
She gave up on getting me to remember their names an hour ago, keeping it to nicknames.
"Where is that one during all this?"
"I mean probably doing coke, cheating on his wife, and trying desperately to stay relevant."
A chuckle shakes my chest as I watch her brush him off as if he isn't the most entertaining out of all of these absolutely insane bottom-feeders.
"So after all of this—" she gestures at the PowerPoint screen projecting against the wall, "Well, okay, wait, I'm not telling you that because you have to actually watch the season unfold in allits glory,butI think you've basically got all the information you need."
"Okay," I laugh again.
"Okay." She nods, walking to unplug her computer from the projector and returning it to her room. Her voice returns before she does, "The only thing you really need to know is that the blonde one is now having more success than any of the rest of them combined. She's fucking killing it."
"That's the one hosting that other show you're making me watch?" I ask, wishing I had a fucking drink in my hand to get through a whole new show about vapid, self-absorbed assholes.
"Yes!" she snaps, excitement lighting up her features. "We are almost there. We'll probably be able to start that one like next week if we keep up this aggressive watch rate."
A warmth blooms in my chest at her words.
For the first time since we got here, she's speaking of the future like it matters. Like she has something to look forward to.
If all goes to plan, we'llbe leavingin a couple weeks, heading to New York for acoupledays.
One of my East Coast guys, Trace, has been working around the clock to secure the hotel we're staying at. Hacking into their security system and finding all the weak points before filling them with our own cameras. He even went as far as getting a fucking part-time job as a bellhop to learn the layout and every possible way someone could get to Isla in the suite we'll be staying in.
Kyle has been too busy trying to track Silas back down after the absolute clusterfuck of the fire last week. He finally found him, staying in a condo on his insurance's dime, thanks to the police, whodefinitelycovered up what happened.
If they told him that they didn't find my body in the rubble, he'd be a hell of a lot more paranoid than he is, so I'm not too worried about him being suspicious.
"Are you listening to me?" Isla interrupts my wandering mind.
A grin lifts one side of my lips, the movement entirely involuntary, "Yes, Isla. I'm listening."
