Page 71 of Most Eligible
“Relax, Casanova,” Lainey says. “It’s a paintball gun, not a shiv. She’ll be fine.”
Lainey’s shoes click away, and Rhett jogs to catch up with her.
I breathe in relief once they’re out of earshot, but this changes everything. After all that’s happened between us—after I told him I know about the hush money, Rhett’s gone and sold me out to Lainey, told her that the phone and jeans were mine… The new tattoo on my wrist pricks painfully at the thought of leaving—but with Lainey out to get me, I might not have a choice.
I push up on the seat of the bench and peek out to make sure that they aren’t coming back. Seeing no one, I crawl out and collapse onto the cool stone floor of the veranda. My body is aching from being squashed up, but I don’t have time to lie here recovering. This might be my last night onLove Shack, and I can’t leave without at least trying to get more intel.
Peeling myself off the ground, I totter in my boots for a second before getting my balance. I tug down my skirt and grab my plastic paintball gun, then dart inside and head straight to the forbidden producers’ wing.
If I’m going to be taken out by Lainey, Iwillbring her down with me.
I’m more grateful than ever for the lack of hidden cameras as I duck under the velvet rope blocking the staircase.
At the top of the stairs, the first door I pass is ajar. I peek in, spot the beard care kit and a pair of Norbert’s familiar cargo pants on the bed, and keep moving, hoping I won’t accidentally stumble upon a sleeping Roland. The next room has a pair of women’s loafers next to the door. I step inside, letting the eerie quiet sink in.
A small open suitcase on the bed. A few pieces of designer clothing hanging in the closet. A huge bottle of industrial-grade hairspray on the bedside table.
I run my fingers over the bath kit in her suitcase. The handle of her toothbrush sticks out, a half-empty tube of toothpaste tucked next to it.
Her things are so impersonal, so lonely, that it takes me a moment to get my bearings. Lainey Williams, the evil producer, squeezes her toothpaste from the middle like the rest of us.
Next to her suitcase, something glints in the light coming through the window: her laptop. There’s no sound from the hallway, so I open it, and the screen comes to life.
Lainey thinks she’s so untouchable that she doesn’t even have a passcode.
I click on her messages app and scroll through the names of her contacts. Six months ago, there’s a conversation with Roland. It’s mysteriously short, like she’s deleted older messages on purpose.
Lainey:Can you give me the name of the doctor who did the test?
Roland sent the name of a Tennis Federation doctor, along with his contact information.
Lainey:I’ll talk to him tomorrow. You have to stay clean if this is going to work—nothing besides the initial prescription of pain meds.
Roland:I know and I will.
Based on what I’ve seen, Roland doesn’t seem to have kept this promise—though maybe what he’s taking now is a new prescription. I try to scroll further, but there’s no more messages in the conversation.
Next, I search for Rhett’s name and scan the results. A short exchange pops up from before we started filming, but it’s just logistics. I scroll further back in time to a year ago.
Lainey:What the hell happened last night? When are you going to grow up?
Rhett:I’m sorry, it was a mistake. Just one night.
Lainey:One night and a hell of a lot of paperwork and money.
Rhett:It’s taken care of?
Lainey:Yes. This is the last time I’m covering for you.
I scroll back to find the date, frowning. A week after I met him. So this must be about the second payoff, not the one that kept my name out of the press. I keep reading.
Lainey:She won’t say anything, don’t worry.
My eyes zero in on the first word.She.
She. She won’t say anything.
No one ever contacted me, so this must be about another woman.
