Their distance left the boys to their own devices several paces away; Blake, Vincent, and a buff but bland-looking dudenamed Matt who won’t stop talking about his life as a doctor are clustered with Blake by a small dry bar.Trying way too hard,Blake judges him privately, sipping frequently from his champagne glass so that he doesn’t have to try and make conversation with the guy. Vincent is cool, though, and Blake’s about to dip his toe into setting up some action later when the set grinds to an unexpected halt.
“Cut!” the director yells, and Blake turns his head in time to see Amber put her hand over her eyes and sway, nearly falling over. He bursts into action, closing the four feet or so between them in a couple of quick strides, catching her slim body easily right before she hits the ground. As he scoops her up, Blake can practically hear the swooning going on from the other girls, but he wasn’t putting on a show — Amber is pale, clammy, and barely with it, and Blake’s only concern is that she’s alright.
Thankfully, there are set medics on standby, and they take over right away once Blake carries the limp girl to a lounge in the shade. The producers are quick to thank him — though Blake has a high suspicion it’s for the quality TV and not Amber’s well-being — but equally as swift to sweep him back over to the patio where the other cast members are waiting.
To Blake’s surprise, cameras aren’t put down, mic packs aren’t turned off to save battery, but the newly-acquainted cast members are left to their own devices for a few minutes. Blake gets the feeling that “cut” doesn’t mean here what it might on the set for a scripted TV show. He’s reminded of Rachel’s warning to assume that he’s always being recorded. Despite that, Blake embraces the break, taking the opportunity to snag a champagne bottle and to go sit in the shade closer to the ocean.
As he lowers himself down onto another cushioned lounge with an accompanying groan of relief, Blake notices a boat on the horizon. Interestingly, it looks a lot like the catamaran they came here on — which is now conveniently missing from the docks — and the new boat appears to be getting closer. Before Blake can really formulate a theory about that, there’s a blur of red hair flopping down on the matching chair beside him.
“Can I unload on you?” probably-Ariana asks bluntly. “I know this is weird and we just met, but trust me, I amsonot hitting on you.”
Blake relaxes back against the chair before tipping the champagne bottle up, taking a long swig, and then looking over with his eyebrow raised. “Sure, kiddo,” he says. Honestly, Ariana isn’t his type, not by a long shot, and Blake can already tell the chemistry between them is not the kind that’s going to lead anywhere near a bedroom. Might as well make a friend if he can, but boundaries are important.
“Oh, thank God,” Ariana responds, clapping a hand over her heart, so roughly her palm makes a slapping sound against her skin. Blake starts a little as her light green eyes dart around furtively, clearly checking to ensure they aren’t being listened in on. Blake knows the mics are live, but the crew looks hot and bored, seeking out shade where they can and standing in front of the misters. As for the remaining cast, they’re wrapped up in each other — though Blake does catch a few stolen glances thrown his way.
“So… what’s up?” Blake asks, when his maybe-new-friend doesn’t automatically continue, still scanning the area behind them like she’s a covert spy instead. “Ariana, right? Gotta warn you, Ari, I’m workin’ real hard not to make a dirty joke about ‘unloading,’ but I’m sensing it wouldn’t be appreciated at the moment.”
When Ariana finally focuses on him, her eyes are wild and her hands are gripping her thighs so tightly her knuckles have turned white. “I’m gay,” she hisses. “Like, super gay. Not a boy-loving bone in this body, oh no. I can’t even flirt with dudes, I don’t have it in me!”
“Well shit,” Blake exclaims, passing the bottle, which Ariana takes a grateful sip from and grimaces as it goes down. Alright, no whiskey for her later. “Hey, that’s the last thing in the world that would bother me. I ain’t here to judge.”
“No,” Ariana says slowly, looking over at him like he’s stupid. “But they are.” She’s motioning towards the producers and looks about as freaked out as Hayden did that time Blake deserted him at the kiddy playland and the clown cornered his ass by the ball pit. Kid had nightmares for weeks.
Unperturbed by Ariana’s anxiety, Blake barely reacts, just shrugging gently and accepting the champagne back when she offers. “Who cares?” he says, and means it. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, Ariana, but all these idiots care about is good TV. Pretty sure they would have let Amber hit the ground if it meant they’d get to call an ambulance and show close-ups of a spreading pool of blood on the cement.” He sips his drink, still parched, before continuing.
“All you gotta do is be equally ruthless. Chat up the women, be loud about the fact that none of the men are ‘your type.’ And most importantly, hit me up if you need a rescue or just a break. I can help you flirt, and plus, I think we could both use a friend who isn’t interested in getting in the other’s pants.” He pauses and then makes a face, wondering if Ariana is insulted by that declaration, but she doesn’t seem to be. “No offense.”
“None taken. You’re not my type either. Let's just say there's one thing there that I wish wasn't, and, um, two things that aren't there, that I really kind of miss."
“Cool,” Blake replies as he stifles an amused grin. They pass the bottle back and forth once more, each taking a drink.
“Cool,” Ariana agrees, cracking what looks like a genuine smile for the first time before relaxing her stiff posture. Her iron grip on her legs follows, half-moons left behind by her fingernails notwithstanding. “I always wanted a sorta gay guy as a best friend. You know, like in the movies. Takeout, sleepovers, braiding each other’s hair.”
Blake snorts and then immediately hacks as the bubbly liquid goes up into his sinuses and burns on the way back down. Ariana, apparently not exaggerating about her inability to interact normally with men, taps the corner of his shoulder stiffly with her open palm. “There, there?”
“Geez, good thing I wasn’t actually choking,” Blake says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Ariana looks up at him mournfully — she knows she sucks at this, no need tomake her feel worse. “Tell you what,” Blake continues. “You feel worried ever, like someone’s catching on or putting you in a situation you don’t dig, you get my attention and pull on your right earlobe. I see the sign, I’ll come rescue you, make a real scene. I’ll do all the work, make you look super bi or pan or whatever. Sound good?”
Ariana looks like she’s been given a stay of execution, beaming back at him widely. “Thanks, Blake.”
“No problemo,” Blake replies, sipping his drink again before squinting out at the water and wishing he was in it. The boat is closer, but it should have docked by now if it was coming this way. Instead, it just seems to be sitting there, bobbing gently between turquoise waves. From where he’s sitting, Blake can make out what appears to be two people, one on each hull, just standing there, waiting. Not fishing or swimming or whatever else someone might hire a catamaran to take them to do in the Gulf of Mexico.
Suspicious.
“Whaddaya think about that?” Blake asks Ariana, pointing with one finger, the rest still wrapped around the glass neck of the champagne bottle.
She turns and holds a hand up against the afternoon sun. “Holy bananas,” she says. “What are the odds those aren’t a couple of party crashers?”
“But why bring them in like that?
Ariana shrugs. “Dramatic effect? Kinda seems to be their thing.”
“Yeah,” Blake agrees thoughtfully, dragging his thumb over his lip. “You’re probably right.”
Their conversation is abruptly interrupted by the director calling them all, “back to one,” as if they’re real actors on a set. Upon glancing over his shoulder, Blake sees Amber laughing sheepishly with Vincent, and he narrows his eyes at the apparent competition. Reminding himself that he’s glad Amber is okay, Blake finishes off the champagne before standing and forcing himself to trek back through the sun to the patio, Ariana trailing slightly behind. Remembering her fears, Blake takes a moment to turn around and squeeze the petite redhead’s shoulder reassuringly.
“You’re killing it,” he says softly, as Ariana smiles gratefully up at him. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
“Do I sense a little love connection here?” Startled, Blake withdraws his hand at the sound of Leah’s (somewhat jealous-sounding) voice and screws up his face. Before he can reply, though, Ariana chimes in.
