Reality Check

12. Crime, Meet Punishment

"Uh, Sarah? They're, uh..." The traumatized camera guy trails off while Max and I scramble beneath the tangle of blankets.

"Yeah, I heard." She sighs. Loudly. Guess the Enlisted crew doesn't appreciate us trespassing on their property when we have perfectly good, assigned beds (and showers) to fuck in. "Get dressed and get out here," she yells.

The door is still open. "Can we have some—" Max starts. His voice is raspy and gravelly and so damn sexy.

"No. Clothes, outside, now."

A minute later, we're stumbling out the cabin door. I press my arms against my side like I'm trying to impersonate a penguin in a high-stakes game of charades. In reality, it's windy, and I'm commando, because Max ripped my freaking panties in half.

Sarah glares at us, hands on her hips. "If you had waited until we permitted use of the couple's cabins, you would know that everything that happens inside of them is recorded."

My mouth pops open. Max places his finger beneath my chin and lifts, closing it before bugs fly in or I start drooling.

"You're on a television show, Ms. Benson," Sarah snaps. "This shouldn't come as a surprise."

She's right, but I'm still quite shocked. "Are we..." I shudder. "Are we kicked off the show?"

Another surprise comes my way in the form of Sarah's cackle. "Oh, no. Viewers will love this. You are, however, required to pay a fine for trespassing."

"How—"

"Fifteen hundred dollars. Each, of course."

Of course. What a perfectly reasonable, predictable amount.

"Can you take it out of our paychecks?" I ask, biting my lip. I do not have an extra $1500 lying around.

Sarah waves her hand. "We'll bill you after filming. For now, you two are on thin ice. We don't want you disregarding the rules during the first couple of weeks. Got it? Good."

The camera crew follows her across the beach, apparently no longer interested in the shenanigans Max and I are up to. Fair. I went from Niagara Falls to Sahara Desert over the course of Sarah's stern talking-to. No sexual tension worth filming here.

I'm completely, totally unsure what to do with myself, so I let out a groan and plop onto the sand, landing elegantly in a cross-cross-applesauce position. Max's face is twitching. I at least appreciate the anti-smirk effort, as impossible as it is for him. "You need a hand?" he asks.

"Nope."

"You want to finish what we started?"

I roll my eyes. "No."

"What do—"

"To be left alone," I snap.

Anyone else would be hurt or angered by my interruption. Not Max. He merely steps forward, intrigued. "Why?"

"You're kidding." I swear, if he just wants to hear me say it out loud...

"Humor me. Why?"

Maybe he can't read me like a book. I'd be feeling victorious if I hadn't just ruined my life. "Audio of me telling you to come on my tits is going to be broadcasted on national television a week from today," I burst out.

"They have to beep those words out."

I jump to my feet. I'm going to smack him. "I think audiences will get the point."

"I'll take care of it."

"How? How, Max? How are you going to take care of it? Please, tell me how—"