Page 62 of Hunter

I’m confused as hell, and my adrenaline is still pumping like crazy, but I’m pretty sure thatTheAstonishing Racefound out that Isabella and I were sleeping together and planned tonight to “out” us. And in the process, Isabella was groped without her permission, and I assaulted two men on camera.

“Astonishing Racenation,” says Nat, channeling Stanley Tucci’s Caesar Flickerman fromThe Hunger Gamesmovies, “you already know Izzy from Team Primos! But it’s time to meet her lover, Hunter, who works on our production team! About a week ago, a little birdy whispered in my ear that these two were an item. At first we didn’t believe it because we forbid affairs between contestants and the production crew,” he says dramatically, pausing for effect. “But these two knew the rules, and like a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, they broke them!”

I look around the bar for a friendly face, and find Kit nearby, looking sorry as hell. She shakes her head at me, mouthing, “I’m sorry.”

She knew?Fuck me.She knew.

I look around the room and realize that at least a third of the “dancers” I saw on the dance floor earlier are familiar faces from the production crew. I guess I didn’t notice because I was too fired up about the actors hired to sexually assault my girlfriend.

“What do we do?” Isabella murmurs, her voice soft, but frantic.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling lost and confused, and wildly out of my depth.

Nat side-steps to us, standing as close as he likely dares with my wild eyes focused on him and my bruised knuckles still covered in blood.

“Izzy and Hunter,” he says cajolingly, like we just shared a secret of our own volition, instead of having our agency completely subverted and manipulated, “tell us! How long has this been going on?”

I look away from Nat, down at Isabella, who’s looking up at me. Suddenly, her brown eyes flare with fury, and she lifts her chin with purpose. Any tears left in her eyes recede, and she steps away from me, dropping her arms from my waist, and standing tall and solid on her own two feet. She looks at Nat with the disdain of a queen dressing down an unruly subject, then leans forward, her lips all but kissing the microphone.

“Fuck you, Nat,” she says before looking directly into the camera. “And fuck you,Astonishing Racenation.”

Then she takes my hand and heads for the door, dragging me behind her, the crowd parting for us like modern-day Capulets and Montagues, stunned and shamed, tracking the exit of their wayward lovers.

***

Isabella

There was a lot Hunter and I didn’t know.

Seated in a conference room at the Fairbanks River Lodge with Nat and the rest of the senior production staff later that evening, they laid it all out for us.

Apparently, Nat had decided a week ago that the show didn’t have enough “drama” this season. “Find a fucking story!” he’d ordered his crew. “Now! And make it good!”

Enter Rick Jones, who—unbeknownst to us—had caught us making out on the deck between Juneau and Skagway and ratted us out to Nat’s assistant. At first, she’d resisted the notion of pitchingusas the story, knowing that our relationship was against the rules, and we both might be out of a job for breaking them. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that because it was forbidden, it was also TV gold.

She was right. Natlovedthat it was a “secret” love affair and ordered hotels to comp rooms for us and all cameramen to make footage of us their priority.

Since then, they’ve been filming us on the sly.

With cameras attached to room service trollies, hidden in hotel hallways, and cameramen constantly filming our reactions to one another during both challenges and downtime, the show got a well-documented record of the first week of our relationship.

All they were missing was an admission.

When I wouldn’t admit it to Meghan on camera in Talkeetna, the production crew met again, trying to figure out a way to “trap” us into admitting we were an item. Kit adamantly refused to be a part of it apparently, but also agreed not to tell Hunter, in spite of their friendship. Rick, on the other hand, was only too happy to sell out his coworker when they asked for his help getting Hunter to the Spur.

They hired two local actors from the Aurora Light Opera Theater to hit on me at the bar, but never having been on camera before, the guys got there early, drank way too much to calm their nerves, and committed to their parts with aplomb, quickly crossing the line from flirtatious to aggressive.

Nat Keegan apologized to me for that part—the part where I was groped against my fucking will—andassured Hunter that NDAs had been signed by both actors and no charges would be pressed against him for assault and battery.

Then he smiled at us.Smiled.Like his shitty apology to me and promise that Hunter wouldn’t be arrested meant anything to us.

“I wassexually assaulted,” I say. “Those guys touched my backside and rubbed against my breasts without my permission. I don’t care if they were actors playing a part. And I don’t care if they were drunk. They had no right to touch me.”

Hunter cracks his knuckles and reaches for my hand, holding it firmly. His anger is palpable. I’ve never seen anything like the way he dispatched those guys, and while I should probably be taken aback by his savagery, I was so grateful for his intervention and protection, I’m not.

“That was regrettable,” says Nat with a contrite expression. “But you never know what might happen during filming! It’s unpredictable.”

“You set that up,” I point out. “Youmadethat happen. You’reresponsiblefor the fact that I was touched inappropriately without my consent.”

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