Page 10 of Stream & Scream
The screen shows a steady stream of information—my heart rate, my location (marked as a red dot on a topographical map), and a small camera icon that reminds me I'm being watched by millions of strangers right now.
I tap the screen and nearly jump when it responds with a small menu. Camera controls, emergency button, basic settings. The camera can apparently be adjusted for different angles, though it defaults to pointing outward from my wrist. Right now, anyone watching my feed is seeing what I see—the fire, the stream, the darkening forest beyond.
"Well," I say quietly, addressing my invisible audience, "this is cozy, isn't it? Just me, the great outdoors, and a few million voyeurs getting their survival porn fix for the evening."
My voice sounds strange in the deepening dusk, too loud and too intimate at the same time. I wonder what the viewers think of me so far. Probably disappointed that I haven't tripped or screamed or done anything particularly entertaining.
I'm settling in to wait out the first few hours when I hear someone running through the forest nearby. Heavy footsteps with no attempt at stealth.
Riley Torres emerges from the trees like a sweaty, shirtless mess, his perfect smile still firmly in place despite the scratches covering his torso. He ditched his tracksuit jacket somewhere along the way.
He’s a fucking idiot. It’s too cold out here for that.
"Well, well, well," he says, that practiced charm oozing from every pore. "Look who found the good real estate."
I don't stand up from where I'm sitting by my fire. And I don't acknowledge him beyond a flat stare that I hope conveys exactly how unimpressed I am by his presence.
"Smart thinking, setting up by the water," he continues, apparently immune to social cues. "Mind if I join you? We could make a good team, you and me. Strength in numbers, right?"
"This isn't a team sport," I say flatly.
His smile falters for just a second before snapping back into place like a rubber band. "Come on, don't be like that. We're all in this together, aren't we? Besides," he steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, "a pretty girl like you shouldn't be out here all alone. There's no telling what kind of dangers are lurking in these woods."
Pretty girl. Jesus fucking Christ.
"The only danger I'm worried about right now," I say, my voice level and calm, "is the overgrown man-child who thinks flexing his pecs will hand him anything he wants."
Riley laughs like I've just told him a hilarious joke instead of an insult. "You're feisty, I like that. It'll make good TV." He moves closer, close enough that I can see the camera on his wrist is angled to capture both of us in the frame. "What do you say we give the viewers what they really want to see?"
He reaches out like he's going to touch my face, and every instinct in my body flares to life.
I move faster than he expects, grabbing a log from my firewood pile and swinging it hard into his outstretched hand.The crack of wood meeting flesh echoes through the clearing, followed immediately by his howl of pain and surprise.
"What the fuck!" He cradles his hand against his chest, his perfect smile replaced by a snarl of rage and wounded ego.
I stand slowly, the log gripped in both hands like a baseball bat. "Touch me again and I'll use this to turn your balls into paste," I promise. "And trust me, I know exactly how much force it takes to rupture a testicle."
It's a bluff—I have no idea how much force it takes to rupture anything—but he doesn't know that. His face goes pale beneath his spray tan, and he takes several steps backward.
"You crazy bitch," he spits. "You could have broken my fucking hand!"
"That was the idea, dipshit."
"Fine. Fuck you then!" His voice rises to a near-shriek. He’s embarrassed. "Good luck surviving out here on your own, you uptight cunt! You'll be pressing that emergency button before midnight!"
He storms off through the trees, still clutching his injured hand and muttering insults. I watch him go with a sense of satisfaction that's probably not entirely healthy.
"Well," I say to my wrist camera, "that was lovely."
I'm just settling back down by my fire when I hear voices approaching from the other direction. Female voices, high and shrill with the kind of artificial excitement that reminds me they’re here to perform for the cameras.
Lexie and Tara emerge from the tree line, both of them somehow managing to look perfectly put-together despite having spent the last hour running through the woods.
"Oh my God, Olivia!" Tara squeals, like we're old friends meeting for a coffee date instead of what we really are. Competitors. "There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you!"
That's a lie. If they'd been looking for me, they would have found me sooner. They probably just followed the smoke or the sound of Riley's tantrum.
"We saw that little drama with Riley on our feeds," Lexie says, her smile sharp. "Very entertaining stuff. Really good television. I bet your follower count jumped because of that alone."
