Since I couldn't avoid him, I stood a little straighter and approached anyhow. "What's all this?"
He looked over at me, and then turned his attention back toward the spread. "Food."
Jackass. "I noticed. Someone catered all this in here?"
"Guess so." He scratched at his broad chest, and I was pleased to see he was fully clothed this time, at least. He wore jogging pants and a red t-shirt with a cupcake on it. Kinda sissy for a dude, but whatever. I'd store that particular tidbit for ammo later.
I leaned over the table and peered at the food. Cold cut sandwiches had been sliced into triangles with small toothpicks sticking out. There were deviled eggs, dips, chips, chicken wings, cheeses, fruit and veggie trays, and every kind of finger food imaginable. On the table that Owen stood over, there were desserts. I had a massive sweet tooth, so I gravitated toward that table, expecting Owen to slide away once I did.
He didn't, though. He just stood there, ignoring me, studiously regarding the table.
I wondered what was so fascinating. There was a big creamy looking pie, several puffy little confections with a ton of frosting on them, some cookies, chocolate dipped strawberries, and some other delicious but unidentifiable desserts. "Wow. Looks good."
Owen looked over at me and his mouth turned down. "Are you kidding me? This looks like shit."
"Your version of shit must look really different than mine," I said, reaching for a goopy-looking frosted cupcake with a candy cane sticking out of it. It looked sugary as hell and I was on board for that.
He smacked my hand as I reached for it. "Don't touch that."
I stopped, shocked. He did not just slap my hand, did he? "Excuse me?"
"Didn't you read the sign, Boston? Or are you that uneducated that you need me to read it to you?" He pointed at a piece of paper tacked up on a nearby wall and read it aloud. "DO NOT EAT THE CATERED FOOD. IT IS FOR THE EXECUTIVE PRODUCER'S VISIT TONIGHT."
I rolled my eyes and reached for the cupcake again. "I'll rearrange the plate and they'll never notice it's gone." I lifted it to my mouth and took a big, messy bite right in front of his incredulous eyes. "Mmmm, soooo good." Actually, it was dry. The icing wasn't fresh and tasted gritty, and the cake tasted stale. But I'd be damned if I'd let Owen know that. "This is the best cupcake ever," I muttered around the mouthful, lying.
"You are a total ass, Lunatic," he said in a revolted voice. "Seriously."
I f**king hated that nickname almost as much as I hated him. And since my cupcake sucked, I decided to use it for something else. I took the rest of it and shoved it right onto the center of his t-shirt, where the other cupcake was drawn on. "Here, I'll share."
Owen sucked in a breath and stepped backward, brushing at his shirt. The half-eaten cupcake dropped to the floor between us in a sickly, frosting-covered plop. He stared at me, then down at the cupcake. Then back at me.
I could practically see the wheels turning in his head, and I wasn't surprised when he reached for one of the nearby fluffy pies. He grabbed one off the table and turned toward me.
"Oh no you don't," I said in a warning voice. "Remember, they told us not to touch the food," I mimicked. "And you're such a good little follower that you should put that down--"
The pie smacked me square in the face, and the world went black for a cold, cream-filled second. Then, it dribbled into my mouth and I tasted lemon and a stale meringue.
That jerkface did not just pie me in the face, did he?
Seething, I wiped at my eyes. Over a f**king cupcake? Oh, this bastard was going down. I squeezed my eyes open to see Owen retreating, clearly about to head back up the stairs.
I grabbed the nearest pie and ran after him.
Mine smacked him in the back of the head, dribbling cherry filling and whipped cream down his neck. He halted in place, and I watched the pie pan flop to the ground, and then the rest of the pie slid down his shoulders. Then, he turned and looked at me with eyes so wild with anger I could see nothing but the whites.
The world was still for one brief second.
Then, we both ran for the dessert table.
It was an ugly food fight. Both Owen and I grabbed whatever we could, flinging it at each other. I got creamed over and over again, but I had good aim, and for every smack that Owen got on me, I returned. His dark skin was spattered with icing and whipped cream, and my shirt was sticking to me from the death of a hundred different desserts. Meanwhile, we tore through the dessert table, smashing dessert after dessert into each other. When that ran out, we moved to the appetizer table and threw handfuls of dip at each other, slinging it with abandon and cussing epithets at each other.
Someone grabbed my arm. "Luna! Luna! Stop!"
I jerked away, my arm—and the floor - so slippery that I nearly took a tumble. I managed to right myself just in time to stare into the face of the producer. He was staring at me with horror.
Shit.
"He started it," I blurted, and wiped filling from the corner of my eye.
"She's lying," Owen said. I looked over at him and was pleased to see him smeared with custard, pumpkin, and frosting. He looked like a big drippy snowman that was in the process of melting. I gave him a smug look.
The producer said nothing, simply looked at us and wiped his brow. He was flecked with dessert and dip too, I noticed. Oops. He must have gotten into the way of our war. "Didn't you guys see the sign?"
"I even read it aloud to Luna," Owen said. "She still decided to throw a cupcake on me."
I stuck my tongue out at him.
"The way I saw it, both of you were throwing equally," the producer said, and shook his head. "God. Now I have to get catering to come back out here." He sighed, then glared at us. "You two. Go get cleaned up and then I want you to clean this shit up. Right now, or you're both going home and forfeiting your prize money."
I scowled and crossed my arms. That prize money was five grand just for being on the show. "Fine." I shot one last glare at Owen and then stomped upstairs.
"Not so fast," Owen said. "There's only one shower and I want it first--"
I ran up the stairs.
"Goddamn it," Owen said, and I heard him stomp after me.
I managed to get up the stairs and slide into the bathroom and locked it before he made it to the door. I heard him thud against it, and then he cursed. A moment later, he banged a fist on the door. "Don't use all the hot water!"
Oh, I'd make sure I would. With an evil smile, I turned the hot water up.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE LODGE was utterly quiet. I frowned, put on the coffee, and padded around the downstairs. There wasn't the sound of another person anywhere around here. I checked the clock, since they'd confiscated our phones before we came on the show. It was super early, which meant that the camera crew should have been around, just getting ready to leave.
There was no one at all.
Chewing on my lip, I got my coffee and noticed a tray of donuts had been left for us. A very small tray - not enough for a crew full of cameramen. Thoughtful, I grabbed one and headed into the living area of the lodge, plunking myself down on a couch. From here, I had a perfect vantage point of both stairs and lodge doors. If anyone came in or went out, I'd see them.
Of course, the next person I saw was Owen, emerging from his room. I made a face and sipped my coffee, staring out the lodge windows. The snowy ground outside was gorgeous, but looked bitterly cold. Once again, I was thankful I was inside and voted off instead of roughing the elements with nothing but that crinkly blanket thing. Upstairs, I had a real bed with thick quilts and there was a heater in the lodge that ran all day to keep it nice and toasty warm.
I liked the Loser Lodge.
Owen disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard the sound of coffee brewing. After a few minutes, he came into the living room and sat down across from me, legs casually spread as if he had not a care in the world. He wore pajamas, and another one of those cupcake shirts - this time in blue.
The man had a cupcake fetish apparently.
We drank our coffee in silence, avoiding looking at each other.
"Where is everyone?" Owen asked after a long minute.
"Do I look like the Cameraman Whisperer to you?"
He was silent.
I was silent, too.
The front door opened a few minutes later and I jumped to my feet, relieved. Someone else to talk to! An assistant entered—Kitty. I'd talked to her a few times before she'd admitted they weren't supposed to chat with us, but I liked her. She had a grocery bag in her arms, and she gave us a cheerful smile. "Hey guys. How are things?"
"Good," I said, heading in her direction. I took the bag from her so she could remove her coat. "Where's everyone today?"
"Oh, there was a big meeting yesterday," Kitty said, grinning. "A big shakeup. They're deciding to do all kinds of things differently since this is the Christmas edition. They figured they can modify the rules for this particular show."
"Really? Like how?" I headed into the kitchen area with the grocery bag.
"Well, the producers aren't very happy with you guys," she said, frowning. "That food fight cost the catering allowance an extra three grand."
"Three grand?" Owen snorted from his vantage point on the couches. "For that stale garbage? You guys are getting ripped off."
Kitty shrugged. "Regardless, the executive producer is kinda cheap and he doesn't like to waste money like that. He's really not happy with you two." She hesitated, and I noticed she wasn't taking her coat off, just playing with the zipper over and over again.
"So what is it?" I asked, setting the bag down on the counter and looking at her. "Are we being punished? Is that why everyone's gone?"
"Yes and no," she said. "So here's the thing. It's kind of a punishment for you two and kind of a great twist in the game."
My stomach lurched. "Oh?"
"Yep!" Her voice had a happy note. "They've decided to do a final five."
My eyes widened. "A final five?"
"Why?" Owen blurted. He got up from the couch and moved to the other side of the counter from me, watching Kitty with wary eyes. "What's the point of a final five? The vote's going to be split all different ways."
"Not really," Kitty said. "The producers wanted a prime number for jury members, and they thought...eleven would be perfect." Zip zip zip...she moved her coat zipper up and down in an agitated fashion.
I counted in my head. Eleven jury members and five contestants left...that was everyone still in the game. "So...wait. Everyone left gets to be on the jury?" Jury members got twice as much money as the other losers and they were sequestered from everyone else, which meant even nicer digs.
"Yep," Kitty said, and flicked her zipper up again. Then down. Then up. She wasn't looking me in the eye. "So, the base of operations is heading over to the Jury lodge. I'm going to come here daily to make sure that you guys have everything you need, but for the most part...you guys are it for the Loser Lodge."
I stared at her in horror. "You've got to be kidding me."
"I wish I was," she said in a small voice. "I'm sorry."