For the time being, Blake’s just staying in the present, soaking up the tropical rays and enjoying the boat ride for what it is. He stretches a little, closes his eyes behind his sunglassesand tucks his hands behind his head, interlacing his fingers. There’s sun on his face, a warm breeze in his hair, and soft sea spray caressing his body. The ocean water soaks teasingly through his thin t-shirt and swim shorts and drips from the back of his legs where they’re pressed against the netting.
Really, if this is all Blake gets to take away from this experience, he’s good. This is fucking awesome. Well worth the five hours he had to spend in the flying tin-can deathtrap to get here, and the two three-hour-per-leg trips to L.A. and back, not that Blake’s counting.
All too soon, the catamaran is slowing and bumping against a dock. Yawning lazily, Blake arches his back and sits up to take in his new home away from home. Lifting his sunglasses, he lets out a low whistle at what he sees. In front of him is a wide, white-sand beach with the same gorgeous water lapping quietly at its shores. Beyond that, there’s verdant grass framed by a lush, thick treeline and a sprawling bungalow nestled within it.
Even from here, Blake can tell that the place is beyond fancy — the walls of the house open all the way up, though it’s too dark beneath the trees to parse out what’s inside from this far away. Close enough to see in detail are several scattered gathering spots to sit and hang out on both the grass and the sand. Some are sporting hammocks, some chairs, and there’s even a fire pit. Dropped between the treeline and the house is an elaborate infinity pool that Blake is pretty sure has the outline of a hot tub tucked up and to the right of it. It’s hard to be sure from the distance, and Blake can’t wait to get up there and check it out for himself.
As Blake gawks, his fellow cast-mates start disembarking somewhere behind him and to his right, but Blake doesn’t pay them any mind. At least, not until one of them speaks and he’s left without much of a choice.
“Pretty swanky, isn’t she?”
Blake looks up, squinting against the sun in a way that he’s sure will not do his features any favors, but the owner of the voice is kind enough to step in front of the light before Blake can even answer. “Uh, yeah,” he says, openly sizing the guy up. Tall, more or less Blake’s height, maybe an inch on him, with light brown skin, a closely-shaven head, and a sharply-cut goatee that basically screams “high-maintenance.” Weirdly, Blake doesn’t get that vibe from the guy himself, though his eyes declare that this is not a dude he’s going to be able to bullshit. Well, hell. He’s hot though, Blake will give him that. He definitely wouldn’t say no to an invite, so he decides to play nice.
“Name’s Blake,” he says, holding out his hand. “Lawrence.”
“Vincent,” the guy replies, slapping Blake’s hand before shaking it firmly and smiling. “Kendrick. D.C., you?”
Oh, yeah, right move, Blake thinks. Hotter when he smiles. “Whoa, nowhere even half as exciting. Sleepy small-town Kansas, that’s me.”
Vincent sucks in his bottom lip and nods, not even remotely trying to hide that he’s checking Blake out. His eyes pan over Blake’s body, but for whatever reason, it feels lesssexual than it probably is. Under Vincent’s gaze, Blake kind of feels like he’s in an interrogation room, pinned beneath a spotlight. Not necessarily a bad thing — in the right situation, could be sexy as hell. There’s just something about the guy that puts Blake off-balance.
“Guess we should, uh—”
“Yeah,” Vincent agrees with a nod, hopping over the side of the boat and landing lithely on the dock with ease, like a damn cat. “Nice to meet you, Blake. I’ll see you around.”
Alright, Blake thinks, okay. He’s clearly not the only one who’s brought the charm and is here to play. A tingle runs down his spine as the possibilities of what might lay before him really begin to sink in.
Let the games begin.
_____________________
Once off the boat, the suits milling around seem to decide that they’re done playing the odds, assigning each of the five players their own producer and generally keeping them apart. They’re told very little, save for that their suitcases will be brought to their room, but not where said rooms might be. Across the grounds, the technical team is finishing setting up, and there are so many wires, lights, cameras, and other equipment Blake keeps struggling not to trip over, he wonders how they’ll possibly be able to make it look as if the crew isn’t there.
Blake’s producer, Rachel, assures him that won’t be an issue. She’s cute, but not really Blake’s type — perpetually on the move and sporting a dry sense of humor that reads to him as insincere. She rambles on without waiting for any response from Blake about how the first season’s contestants worried about the same things, and how they all ended up forgetting the cameras and crew were even there at all.
Unlikely, Blake thinks, but he doesn’t say so. He just smiles and nods.
“Anyway,” Rachel continues, scuffing the toe of her Converse on a paver next to the pool while Blake eyes the water with open longing. The Mexican sun is hot, and Blake can feel the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, to track down his neck and back. Being out on the ocean was far cooler, and Blake misses the spray already. He wonders when they’ll be left to their own devices.
“Later, after they film the intros, most of these people will leave. Producers will trade off being available to you, but most everything will be run from out of sight, out of one of the rooms in the back of the resort. Cameras are mounted everywhere, so assume you’re never really alone.”
She pauses to point out a few locations with well-hidden lenses that Blake hadn’t actually noticed (trees, furniture, a whiskey bottle) before continuing on. “And, of course, there will be cameramen floating around, but it’s their job to be subtle. Just ignore them. So,” she says coyly, jabbing her elbow into Blake’s, forced-friendly. “Anyone… catch your eye yet?”
Blake just shrugs and pretends to be busy taking in his surroundings. Not difficult — there’s plenty to look at. Adjacent to the patio where they’re standing, there’s an elaborate sitting area with a long, cushioned couch and a couple of extra-wide chairs or loveseats. Good for sharing, Blake notes. It looks to him as if the sitting area can be closed off if needed, but right now all the walls are open to the outside air. Behind those couches and chairs sits a bar, and to the right, beyond the would-be wall, is the hot tub Blake clocked earlier.
When it’s clear Blake isn’t going to give up his secrets that easily, Rachel shifts gears, taking him by the arm on a modified tour of the resort so that she can point out all of the amenities. Well, part of the resort, anyway — the kitchen, the sitting rooms, the beach — but the bedrooms are still nowhere to be seen. Not just that, there are also several sections of the place that are marked off-limits completely to the cast. Rachel makes sure to let him know (more than once) that those areas are reserved for the crew and production team only.
And God knows what else, Blake thinks.
Overall, the resort is as fancy and luxurious up close as Blake suspected from the boat; and that makes him suspicious. If the location and the accommodations aren’t the twist… what the hell is? No bedrooms yet, are they going to be sleeping on the beach, or what? God, beach sex sucks. Blake’s got zero interest in turning his asshole into the approximation of a fancy cocktail with a salty (sandy) rim, pun fucking intended.
During the tour, Rachel is careful to skirt around the other contestants and their respective leash-holders,maintaining a respectable distance that ensures they can’t interact. Despite that, Blake still manages to exchange coy, interested smiles with a petite little brown-haired, dark-eyed bombshell that immediately jumps in front of Vincent in Blake’s potential conquest line.
As he’s glancing over his shoulder to watch said bombshell walk away, Blake catches Rachel’s smug smile in his periphery, no matter how quickly she tries to school it. Between that and her accidental “slip” that this season everyone swings both ways, she’s starting to really ping Blake’s radar. While his trash TV tastes fall squarely into the overly dramatic medical soap realm and not reality, Blake did his damn research before getting on the plane to come here. Enough to know how manipulative producers can be, how everything they say to a contestant should be put into context, and as such, Blake makes a note to keep this chick at arm’s length.
Fortunately, it’s not even five minutes after they leave the hot brunette behind before the director is calling for everyone to line up to film official entrances. That involves corralling all five of them into the courtyard off to the side of the house while hair and makeup fuss over their sweaty faces for another endless number of minutes, and Blake really needs a beer.
He squints in the bright light, feeling very unsexy and probably on the verge of sunburned. It has to be close to one hundred degrees in the direct sun, and the other contestants look like they’re all feeling about the same. No wonder they weren’t supposed to “connect” yet, this would make for terrible TV.
