Page 27 of Down and Dirty Celebrity Edition

An image suddenly swished into her head: that scene from The Silence of the Lambs where Buffalo Bill stalked Clarice in the dark using green night-vision goggles. What if someone were watching her right now? What if one of the production crew members was actually a serial killer, and she’d literally just given him or her the perfect opening they’d been waiting for all season? Savannah hated horror movies, but Stella had made her watch The Silence of the Lambs anyway. For two weeks, she’d kept every light on in her apartment until sunrise.

She was suddenly desperate to get back to camp. But how? And where the hell was camp?

She turned one-eighty, hoping to backtrack toward the beach. But was that even one-eighty, or had she just turned herself around in a full, stupid circle and was about to walk deeper into the dark? “Why didn’t you just go sit on the beach like a normal night-blind person?” she huffed. “This is your—”

Her words cut off just as her right foot sank into something wet and squishy. She quickly yanked it out, but no, it was thicker and stickier than mud. It pulled at her flip-flop with a sickening shluck. Savannah stumbled backward just as the thong snapped.

Then something warm brushed against her arm.

A hand.

A fucking hand.

Outlast Her’s version of Buffalo Bill was going to wear her skin as a jacket.

Savannah screamed.

Then two arms snatched around her waist, hauling her backward against a soft chest, and all she could think about was the headline: Outlast Her Contestant Abducted On Set. Body Washed Up On The Shore The Next Day. Serial Killer Pretending To Be Camera Crew.

“It’s just me,” a soft voice hissed directly into her ear. Warm breath fanned across Savannah’s neck, which made the goosebumps on her skin have goosebumps. “It’s Amy. Stop screaming, you’re going to wake everyone up.”

For a second, Savannah wasn’t sure if an actual murderer would have been better. At least a murderer offered a quick, merciful end. Hopefully. Whereas Amy was torturing her slowly. Death by distance. Death by lying low.

“What the hell are you doing?” Savannah spat, her mouth cottony dry. She was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Hadn’t they lived this exact scenario once before? Dark night? On the beach? Amy scaring the crap out of Savannah before she promised she wasn’t following her like a stalker. “Why are you following me?”

But the question hung in the air like ghost breath.

Amy didn’t say a single thing, and considering Savannah couldn’t see anything, she got a sickening stomach-drop sensation at the thought of Amy turning around and walking away.

Then, finally, Amy cleared her throat. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Savannah was hit harder by those six words than a slap in the face. It didn’t matter that she had been dying to hear Amy say something similar. In fact, Savannah had fantasized about Amy saying that under a dreamlike sky, a sunset bathed in blush pink, soft honey, and coral, and they would kiss while the world turned golden. Savannah didn’t even care that it was a cliché, that after reading and critiquing hundreds of books, she had started rolling her eyes every time an author used golden hour as an excuse to force two stubborn idiots into admitting their feelings.

Amy’s fingertips brushed lightly against Savannah’s arm. The touch was almost ghostlike, yet heat streaked across her bare skin in its wake. Darkness always sharpened Savannah’s other senses, making even the slightest contact feel startlingly intense.

“Did you hear me?” Amy asked.

Savannah wondered how long she’d been spaced out thinking about sunsets and the golden hour. For one reckless second, she considered cracking open her own ribs and letting every humiliating feeling spill into the dirt. She fell for people too fast, and somehow falling for Amy had happened even faster and hit even harder.

Instead, her defense mechanisms snapped into place, and when she spoke, her tone came out icy cold. “Are you only saying that because you’ve run out of inspiration?” Amy sighed, and then there was the crunch of a stick.

Shit. Savannah had come off too defensive, too sharp.

But instead of Amy moving further away, she was edging closer. Heat wafted off her skin like a radiator. “No,” she said softly. “I don’t care about inspiration anymore. I...I—”

“What?” Savannah interrupted. “What do you care about?”

“I care about you, Savannah,” Amy said, her voice soft and breathy. “I panicked when I thought Luna found out what we did. I saw my career as an author flash before my eyes. I was worried that if I wrote a book after the show, you’d tell everyone that I used you for inspiration. But I don’t care about any—”

“Why would I say that?” Savannah interrupted.

Amy didn’t say anything at first, but she didn’t have to. Savannah remembered Maeve’s comments. Amy was right. Her previous mistakes would follow her if this got out, even if Savannah didn’t say anything. Even though Amy had only broken one heart for inspiration—that Savannah knew of—she’d always be the girl who traded lovers for plots.

“This isn’t the same,” Amy muttered, her voice dropping lower, and Savannah knew she was talking about Maeve again. “I... I...” But the words weren’t coming out.

“I know,” Savannah said, nodding.

Then Amy’s fingers found the dip of Savannah’s hip and the heat of her palm seared right through the cotton. When Savannah finally found her voice, it sounded raw. “I feel something for you too.”