I understood. It kind of sounded like the entire thing had been decided long before I even went into the room. I glanced over at Matlock and found him studying my figure again, and I resisted the urge to wrap my arms around my torso and hide myself. “I’m uh…not a hundred percent familiar with the show. How long would I be out there?”
“Six weeks if you stay the entire time. Someone will be voted off every four days. The show starts with twenty-four people with fifteen elimination rounds total. After seven group eliminations, we’ll go down to singles for the last ten and two will go to the final vote for the two million dollars.”
Holy shit. Two million dollars on the line—I felt dizzy. “Can I win the millions?”
“Possibly. You’ll have to be really good.” He gave me a faint, smug smile.
Interesting. They were going to give me a shot at two million? Suddenly I was a lot more interested. “What if I’m the first one voted out?”
“You won’t be,” he said. Again, the patronizing smile. “Other than that, it will be played out as the game goes. If you are eliminated early, you can give everyone a behind the scenes look at the Loser Lodge.”
A six week island get-away and a book deal any way I looked at it. I glanced over at Jeannie and she was giving me a death-glare. Islands or Boss From Hell. Coconut Hell or Editorial Hell. Sand in my swimsuit crack every day for two months, or Jeannie up my ass for the rest of my life.
I looked over at Matlock and gave him a game shrug. “Let’s give it a shot, then.”
“That’s a girl,” he crowed, and Jeannie smiled smugly.
Yeah, joy. Yay. Me on TV.
~~ * * * ~~
The next two days were a whirlwind, but the magazine was there to help out. There were things to be covered for and trained on (my weekly articles), a cat to be boarded (dropped off at Tim’s), utilities to be paid ahead of time (so I wasn’t homeless when I returned), and an endless round of physicals and vaccinations for the actual show. Just when I needed a nap—or to run away screaming from all of it—I was shuffled onto a charter plane and flown out to Auckland, New Zealand. One of the assistants continually shoved objects into my hands as we rode on the plane. She asked me a million questions and continually handed me release forms and waivers. No piece of information was sacred—from the last time I’d had my period to my blood type to my swimsuit size to did I need a bikini wax before the show filmed?
I admit I freaked out a little over the bikini-wax thing. Exactly how much were they going to be showing on this gameshow? But I sucked it up and got waxed, because the alternative was worse.
It got worse as we progressed. Every time I made a concession, I had to give three more. While we were on the plane, the assistant sidelined me with something else. “And here’s your bag of clothing for the next six weeks.”
It looked really, really small. Unnerved, I picked it up and began to dig through it. The fabrics that touched my hand felt soft, lycra-ish. Swimsuits, I guessed, and a shirt or two. Nothing warm, nothing concealing. Too kind of them. “Great, thanks.” My enthusiasm was evident in my voice.
“You need to change before we get on the plane,” she chirped at me, beaming, and led me towards the nearest bathroom. “Strip off all of your old clothing and put on what’s provided for you. We have corporate sponsors and you have to wear their logos.”
Made sense, even if I wasn’t crazy about it. But, yay bathroom. Of course, I discovered a few minutes later that the show was going to be a bit of a lesson in humility and identity.
The shirt I pulled out? Bright, vivid pink with my name—ABBY—emblazoned across both the front and the back in bold white letters. I suppose that was to help the audience figure out who we were easily. Lovely. With a grimace, I tossed the shirt aside and dug into the bag again. A string bikini—same pink. Same garish name across the backside of the panties. Yeah, well that wouldn’t be getting much use, despite my new (and painful) hair-free bikini line. I tossed it aside as well.
At the bottom of the bag, there was one more bikini in a different style, and a swimsuit—a tankini. All in the same nasty pink with my name screaming across the chest. I also had a pair of water shoes and a pair of sneakers. That was it.
Six week’s worth of beach clothing. They were kidding, right?
About Jessica Clare
Jessica Clare is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author who writes under three different names. As Jill Myles, she writes a little bit of everything, from sexy, comedic urban fantasy to zombie fairy tales. As Jessica Clare, she writes erotic contemporary romance.
She also has a third pen name (because why stop at two?). As Jessica Sims, she writes fun, sexy shifter paranormals. She lives in Texas with her husband, cats, and too many dust-bunnies. Jill spends her time writing, reading, writing, playing video games, and doing even more writing.
OTHER TITLES BY JESSICA CLARE
A Games Novel
Wicked Games
Playing Games
Ice Games
Bedroom Games
Reindeer Games
Body Games
Partner Games
Pleasure Games
Stranded With A Billionaire
Beauty And The Billionaire
The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed
Once Upon A Billionaire
Romancing The Billionaire
Bluebonnet
The Girl’s Guide to (Man)Hunting
The Billionaire of Bluebonnet
The Care and Feeding of an Alpha Male
Hot Summer Nights
The Expert’s Guide to Driving a Man Wild
The Virgin’s Guide to Misbehaving
Hitman Novel
written with Jen Frederick
Last Hit
Last Gift
Last Breath
Table of Contents
REINDEER GAMES
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
FROM THE AUTHOR
About Jessica Clare
OTHER TITLES BY JESSICA CLARE