Survivor

Survivor

Marissa Farrar

Published by Warwick House Press, 2015.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Survivor

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Further Reading: No Second Chances

Also By Marissa Farrar

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CHAPTER ONE

Charlotte Charleston put pen to paper and paused.

What the hell am I thinking, signing up for this?

Her gaze scanned down the contract once again: the production company will not take responsibility for any injuries sustained during filming. The production company will not take responsibility for any cases of poisoning, allergic reactions, or mental health issues resulting from anything which occurs during filming.

Had her career—her life, even—really come down to this?

She continued to read, her eyes skimming down the paper. The production company may set up ‘survival’ situations for the celebrity in order to increase the realism of the show. A survival expert will be on hand in order to help the celebrity, but will not be featured on camera at any time.

A sharp elbow in her ribs made her look up from the paper. She was met with the stern gaze of Agatha Vermont, her agent.

Get on with it, Charlie, Agatha said. We haven’t got all day.

Charlie sighed and dropped the pen back on the table. I don’t know about this. I’ve never even been camping. I don’t think I can survive five days alone on a desert island.

You won’t be alone. The production company assigns someone to help you—one of these tough, military guys. And anyway, you don’t even know that you’ll end up on a desert island. According to the contract, you won’t know where you’ll end up until you’re actually there. It might be the middle of a forest or even on a glacier or something.

Charlie looked around at her luxurious surroundings. The production company had at least forked out for one of the best hotels. They sat in the hotel bar now, all expensive wicker furniture, glass coffee tables, and cream cushions. Lush, green ferns broke up the expanse of the dark wood floor.

She sighed again, imagining the expensive bar replaced by a dirt ground and a multitude of bugs. But this is going to do nothing for my image. She lifted a lock of silky blonde hair. If I don’t have my straighteners, I’m going to end up like a frizz-ball within a couple of hours. And the thought of being on television with no makeup frankly terrifies me.

Agatha leaned forward, her hands clasped between her bony knees, her lips thinning in disapproval. "Charlie, it’s comments like that which confirm to me the exact reason you do need to take part in Celebrity Survivor. The whole ‘It Girl’ thing just doesn’t carry much weight anymore, and an ‘It Girl’ who is also broke is right at the bottom of anyone’s who’s who list."

Charlie’s eyes cast back down to the contract, heat flaring in her cheeks. Her spectacular fall from grace had been beyond humiliating. Her father’s business had collapsed in a dust-filled demolition of national hotels. Her once-blessed life had been spent living off her father’s money, being seen in all the right clubs, and photographed by the paparazzi while wearing all the top designer clothes. She was basically famous for being famous. She wasn’t any good at anything herself, except looking good and being at the right place at the right time, with the right people. Now her father had been jailed for embezzlement and she was broke. This gig was paying twenty grand, and it was money she needed. Sure, she’d been offered decent money to appear half-naked in magazines, but she couldn’t bear the thought of stooping so low.

Okay, so maybe I need the money, she admitted, but I still don’t see how this is going to help my image.

You need to let people see the real you. It’ll be good for the public to watch you struggle, to overcome things, to see the bare-bones of the person who really is Charlie Charleston.

She wrinkled her nose. You’re still not selling this to me.

I shouldn’t need to. This type of thing has turned plenty of nothing celebrities into stars.

Charlie turned to the immaculately made-up forty-year old. Gee, thanks!

"You know what I’m saying. You need this. You should want to do it even if they weren’t paying you. The money is just a bonus."

She sighed and picked the pen back up. It won’t be so bad, she told herself. True, she was pretty happy to have been flown out first class to this five star hotel in Singapore, but if she had it her way, she’d be donning her skimpiest bikini and hanging out by the pool, tanning, and sipping mai tai cocktails.

She certainly didn’t want to be dumped in some remote area with nothing but the bare basics to survive on. Plus, she’d have to co-habit with some Neanderthal brute of a man who probably thought eating raw rodent and taking a crap in the bushes was the height of civilized society.

Charlie shuddered. She couldn’t think of anything worse. Oh, wait, yes she could—having the whole experience filmed and put on national television for several million people to laugh at her misfortune. Now that would be worse!

But Agatha was right. She did need this.

Feeling sick to her stomach, she signed the contract.

Good girl, said Agatha with a smug smile.

Charlie scowled. It was all right for her agent, she’d still get her fifteen percent cut for basically doing nothing. She was the one who had to seriously rough it for five days.

Something caught Agatha’s attention, her line of sight lifting above Charlie’s head and across the room.

A smile lit her agent’s face. Oh, good. Here comes Harry Bournmouth, the producer, and it looks like he’s got the guy with him who’s going to look after you for the next week.

Five days, Charlie corrected in a mutter, but she twisted in her seat to see who approached.

A balding, tubby man in his early fifties strode across the room toward them. Harry Bournmouth, she assumed. But her attention didn’t stay on the producer for long. Walking beside him was six-feet, two-inches of muscle. Wearing faded blue jeans that clung to his thick thighs as he walked, and a gray t-shirt which molded to every muscle of his chest, the guy was ridiculously buff. His dark hair was buzzed short and he was clean shaven, with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. His full mouth was a little too wide and his nose had a slight bump along the bridge where it had been broken once upon a time, she assumed.

Immediately, Charlie’s heart began to race and she quickly turned back around. Surely she wasn’t going to be spending five days in close proximity with that guy? She’d spontaneously combust. Already her cheeks blazed with heat and she hadn’t even been introduced to him yet!

She stared at the glass of white wine sitting on the table in front of her. Beads of moisture had gathered around the outside of the glass, trickling down the side and dripping on the table. Quickly, she picked up the glass and wet her fingertips with the condensation. She applied the cool liquid to her cheeks and forehead, hoping it would help to reduce the redness she was sure glowed from her skin.

Though she became aware of the shape of the two men in front of her, she still didn’t look up. Beside her, Agatha rose from her seat, extending a hand.

Harry, it’s so lovely to see you again, she gushed. This is the star of the show, Charlotte Charleston.

Agatha’s foot hit her ankle and Charlie forced her head up. She purposefully tried not to look at the incredible specimen beside Harry.

The tubby man didn’t so much as crack a smile. We’ll see about that.

Swallowing hard and fixing a smile on her face—the one she reserved for the cameras—she rose and offered a hand to Harry. I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Bournmouth. I’m really excited about us working together.

He took her hand and then dropped it again, his grip limp and sweaty.

Hmmph, the man said, his gaze immediately leaving Charlie’s face to flick down to her breasts. She wished she’d worn something a little less revealing than the light yellow, strappy sundress, and fought against the compulsion to wrap her arms across her chest. I guess you’ll make good television, he said. I don’t want any of those big, kaftan type outfits though. It’s skimpy bikinis, cut off shorts, and crop tops only.

Charlie’s cheeks flared afresh. Surely this guy wasn’t telling her the only reason she’d been chosen to appear was for her body?

At least it means you’re going somewhere hot, a little voice in the back of her mind whispered. She gritted her teeth at her own internal monologue. Even her sub-conscious was shallow.

I can be practical as well, she insisted, wanting to be noticed for more than just a tight waist and a good rack. I once put together a television stand when my handyman let me down.

She felt the eyes of the beefcake on her.

Harry’s eyebrows bobbed up and down, one corner of his thin lips twitching.

Impressive, he smirked.

Charlie balled her fists by her side, resisting the urge to slap the smug prick.

Agatha stepped in. Don’t worry, Harry. Charlie will wear whatever is needed.

I’m not getting naked on camera, Charlie muttered and was rewarded with another narrow-eyed glare from her agent.

No, of course not, Agatha said, a warning tone to her voice. I’m sure that isn’t what Harry meant.

The two women glared at each other, but Harry didn’t confirm or deny his position.

Well, since we won’t have much need for furniture in the wild, said Harry, this is Tyler Janson, currently inactive Marine, and the man who will be in charge of your safety for the next five days. He will, of course, be off camera, but he’ll advise you in basic survival techniques and be there for you should you get into any trouble.

Finally, Charlie forced her attention to shift to the man she now knew was called Tyler. Her insides melted; even his name was sexy.

Tyler fixed her with serious, dark eyes and extended a hand. Ma’am, he said, his voice deep and gravelly.

He held her gaze for too long, as if staring right into her and reading her thoughts. Her insides dissolved into a puddle of mush and her legs went weak. She thought if she took his hand, she might actually melt.

She forced herself together and took his hand. A complete contrast to Harry’s, this man’s grip was firm, warm, and dry. The sheer size of him made her own hand appear tiny, like a child’s, and with her five-feet-two inch frame, he towered at least a foot over her. He could literally pick her up and sling her over his shoulder.

She shivered at the thought. Her eyes traced from the back of his hand, up to a strong wrist and well-defined forearm.

Wherever the production team decided to land her, she’d be alone with Tyler Janson.

The stage would be set for her even before they landed—with remote cameras placed, some of them hidden, all around the area. The final setup was basically like a Big Brother house, but somewhere remote, and of course she wouldn’t have the luxury of housemates to chat to. She’d hoped by the fact they’d flown her to Singapore that it would be somewhere hot. If she was in a five star hotel in Alaska right now, she might be worrying even more. Suddenly, since Tyler’s arrival, Harry Bournmouth’s suggestion of bikinis and short-shorts didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

No, no, no, she reprimanded herself. No men. All they did was sell their story to some crappy tabloid and break her heart. Since the last time, when a guy she’d trusted actually took photographs with his camera phone of her sleeping naked, and the next thing she’d known, she’d woken up to find them plastered everywhere, she’d sworn off men. That sort of scandal was the last thing she needed right now.

Tyler lowered his chin and cleared his throat, and Charlie suddenly realized she was still holding his hand. She dropped it.

Oh, crap! she exclaimed and then immediately covered her mouth with her hand. She really needed to learn how to stop her thoughts coming directly off her tongue.

So, continued Harry, we’ve chartered a small plane to take you out first thing tomorrow morning. There will be a camera crew with you on the flight, but they’ll be leaving you at your location. As you know, the idea of this thing is that it’s just you, surviving alone.

Except for Mr. Janson, she said in a hurry.

Call me Tyler, please, the other man said, his eyes never leaving her face.

She swallowed, hard. Tyler, of course.

Yes, Tyler will be with you the whole time, but you’ll be given a number of situations where you’ll be expected to act alone. The audience wants to watch you struggle, not watch you have everything done for you by someone else.

No, of course not, she said. Did he actually think she was stupid? I’m more than capable of helping myself.

He looked her up and down and said, Hmmm. Anyway, although Tyler will be edited out of the show, except for at the very start, you must always do as he says. He’s in charge of your safety, so if he says jump, you jump.

Was it her imagination, or did she just see the ghost of a smile on Tyler’s face? If so, it was the first she’d seen so far. Did he like the idea of getting to tell her exactly what to do?

A frisson of excitement burst inside her, rippling through her body, at the idea of him bossing her around. Clearly it had been far too long since she’d had a man.

So if everything’s in order then ... said Agatha, taking charge, we’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.

Of course, said Harry.

She gave Tyler a small smile, and he nodded at her in response. The two men turned to leave, Charlie watching Tyler’s tight butt move inside his jeans, the muscles beneath his shirt rippling as he walked away. She waited until they’d vanished out of view and then collapsed on the wicker couch.

Charlie? Agatha’s voice was stern.

What?

No screwing the staff.

I don’t know what you mean, she said, trying to sound innocent, but heat rushed to her cheeks once again. Why did her body always have to betray her?

Don’t give me that.

She shrugged. He’s really not my type.

What, tall, dark, and ridiculously buff? He’s everybody’s type! Even Harry would probably do him, given half the chance.

Anyway, she said, trying to appear innocent, there are cameras everywhere.

Don’t give me excuses, just tell me you’ll keep your hands off him. I saw the way he looked at you too. He’d clearly jump you if he had the chance.

Really? She couldn’t help the little hint of hope in her voice, but Agatha shot her down with a glare.

I mean it, Charlie! This isn’t about your sex life, it’s about getting the rest of your life back on track. Don’t mess this up!

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning, she stood by the hotel’s reception, her suitcase and a small backpack at her feet. Her eyes felt gritty and she suppressed a huge yawn with the back of her hand.

She hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night.

Despite the ridiculously huge bed, with its crisp white sheets and numerous feather pillows, she hadn’t been able to stop her mind racing. Outside the balcony windows, cicadas had chirped loudly, and below that the air conditioner had hummed.

She’d tossed and turned, bashing down her pillows with her fist, trying not to look at the digital display of her clock, which counted down the minutes until her alarm went off at six a.m. She’d known she needed to be fresh for the morning, but every time she’d glanced at the clock, the number of hours of sleep she’d be getting kept getting smaller, and oblivion hadn’t come. It had been her last night in a comfortable bed for almost a week and she had barely slept. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

She’d been instructed only to bring what would fit in the backpack—the same sort she’d take if she was out on a daytrip. Despite this, she’d been told she needed to vacate her room. Promises that the rest of her luggage would be put in storage had followed—the show wasn’t prepared to fork out five nights for a luxury hotel room just to house her belongings.

In a few hours, she’d be deposited in some remote area with only Tyler Janson for company. The thought made her shiver. She remembered his intense eyes, the cut jaw with just a hint of dark stubble, the sheer size of him. How would it feel to be held against that body, to feel so small and fragile and curvy in comparison to his broad, hard plains?

Charlie forced the thoughts away.

She had dressed in khaki shorts and a black tank top. The shorts were short enough to show off her slender, tanned legs, and she’d chosen a top that would look the part while still managing to show off enough cleavage. Funnily enough, she no longer cared about the film crew catching her with too little clothing, but instead cared about what Tyler Janson would make of her outfit. On her feet, she wore a simple pair of flip-flops. She’d pulled her blonde waves up into a ponytail which sat high on her head.

She wished she could have brought her phone or iPad, but she’d been instructed that no electrical equipment was allowed. She had to rough it with none of the securities of contact to the outside world or any other entertainment.

Charlie tapped her foot, pursed her lips, and checked her watch. Where was everyone? They should be here waiting for her, not the other way around.

Movement drew her attention, and Agatha came rushing across the foyer from the elevator, looking flushed and harried.

Sorry, sorry! she declared, holding both her hands up in surrender. I know I’m late.

It’s not like you to sleep in, said Charlie, taking in her disheveled state.

Sorry, she said again.