Page 9 of Insta Bride
“Oh, he was the only one eye-fucking you.”
“If he did, I didn’t notice.” He what? I tried to still my racing heart and fake nonchalance.
I hadn’t expected to make it this far, but now I had; I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I refused to do anything stupid enough to get me edited as a bitch or a bed-hopper.
No, I’d stay in the shadows. I’d avoid getting between these women and the camera. I’d be back home in Sydney before they’d learned my name.
I wasn’t competition, not for them.
I wasn’t anything at all.
Kye
It was almost cliché.
Being ferried to the island in groups of three males or three females. It meant arrivals were staggered over almost a whole frigging day and then we were escorted one by one to our rooms.
In our arrival instructions, we’d been advised fifteen males and fifteen females would be transported to the island. The Matching Ceremony would be in two days’ time.
The producers wanted to stage the women meeting each other in formal attire at the Hen Hut, as Bree named it. Us guys would do the same, entering the Bachelor Pad three at a time, until we got to our full complement of fifteen.
“Listen up,” Bree said. “Three of you won’t make it to the Matching Ceremony.”
Hell, what the fuck? I looked to my companions who’d immediately lost their bachelor’s weekend glee.
“Any indiscretions, any breaking of the rules, and you can expect to be escorted back to the mainland.”
Okay, this could work in my favor. I could create chaos, be a conversation starter, get kicked off the island and have a head start on all the media.
“For those who don’t care about leaving a party early,” Bree winked at one of my competitors before turning back to all of us to say, “If you don’t make the final twelve, you will be edited out and your non-disclosure agreement will remain in force until the end of the show.”
Fuck.
“They can do that? That’s not fair.” Ex-footballer, Dawson asked after we were left alone. Hopefully, for his partner’s sake, he had half the amount of brains as he had looks. “We turn up, do our shit and then they can edit us out?”
“Mate, dude,” I slipped into Australian slang, “They can edit you any way they want. You did read the papers before you signed, didn’t you?”
Dawson laughed, “You assume I read legal stuff. I used to have a manager for that.”
At least I’d made it to the island. My room was one of the single bachelor pads rooms, overlooking the main beach and jetty. According to the instructions, once we started hooking up with our partner, couples would be moved up to a luxury villa, complete with jacuzzi and vouchers for romantic activities like couples’ massages and beach picnics.
Once a couple started sharing intimate relations, their words, not mine, there were more papers to sign. Condoms to be retrieved and for those special trysts, a different sort of island decadence.
I didn’t know where the fuck we were. Only that we’d left Brisbane airport, landed somewhere, escorted to a ferry for an hour bumpy ride out to an island. Wherever we were, it wasn’t big enough to have a landing strip, but not so small that the cast and crew of our merry adventure couldn’t bunk in together for a month.
We’d been sequestered in our rooms, windows blackened to stop us from peering down to the beach to check out the new arrivals. Even the look of surprise on our faces had to be carefully stage managed.
With time to kill, I lay back on the soft white bed cover, hands linked under my head and wanted to laugh.
My plan was coming together. First step, reality TV stardom. Second step, Instagram world domination. Final step, more money than I could possibly spend in one lifetime.
The Matching Ceremony required two days to film, but I knew would be condensed into a one-hour episode.
Fifteen potential couples meant thirty in depth interviews and diary entries. Starting with the guys, we got dragged off one-by-one to the Diary Tent to get our initial thoughts on the rest of the group and which women we wanted to call dibs on—as if we had a choice.
Luckily, Bree had warned me decisions had already been pencilled in, unless we stuffed it up in person. “Thanks for telling me something I already knew.”
“Kye, you made it this far. Be smart. They want to hold something over your head. A comment or a look that will cause a reaction when we replay it at the right time.”