Chapters 14-18

Welcome back to Murder on Sex Island. Written and read by me, Joe Firestone. This is Episode 5, where I'll be reading Chapters 14 through 18. If you just listened to Episode 4, feel free to skip ahead. But if you need a reminder of what happened in the previous chapters, here you go. We last saw Luella exploring Phil's trailer, where she saw a photo of a woman on the vanity. She then had an unpleasant run-in with Nate and Ethan in the parking lot. Later, after doing some digging...

Her most recent suspect became Isa. Chapter 14. Monday.

Monday morning, our call time was pushed up to 5.30 a.m. When the cast arrived on set, we were told that push was a mistake, that the crew would be arriving at 6 a.m. as usual. Perhaps the cast was being collectively punished for refusing to do the orgy vigil. Issa stormed off to make some passive-aggressive phone calls. That early in the morning, just before sunrise, the sky...

Water and sand all shared the same color palette, some variation on slate blue. It was almost chilly, and there was a new layer of dew on the sides of the trailers. The entire cast was grumbling and cursing. It was only a half hour earlier than usual, but time felt like gold when one had a full shoot day ahead of them. I saw David End kick a tire and then limp away. I noticed Tasha was back on set, seeming a little worse for the wear.

She slumped down to the ground and pulled her sun hat low on her head. Ethan was the first to speak up. Guys, it's only a half hour. Let's just hang here. By the time we get back to our apartments, it'll be time to leave again. Everyone grumbled in agreement. In the morning haze, Ethan had become our de facto leader. I wondered if he enjoyed his modicum of power and if he had ever been tempted to abuse it. Blair tried to get in her trailer.

Finding it locked, she let out a bleakered groan. Phil tried his and found it open. I held my breath. Hey, how come yours is open and mine isn't? Blair asked him. I saw Nate and Ethan look to each other, then look right at me. I don't know. Sucks for everyone else, Phil said as he trotted inside and slammed the door behind him. I was so grateful he was stupid.

The other trailers were locked, so everyone besides Phil milled around within a ten-foot radius. I took this opportunity to approach the ten-inch king. Ethan was sitting on his trailer stairs, cleaning his nails as I approached. How was the rest of your Sunday? I asked him. He gave me the up and down and went back to his fingernails. What's up? Being new, it's a lot to learn, I said.

You shouldn't be on set over the weekends, he said, now cleaning his thumb. Why were you here, I asked. Ethan exhaled. Look, I get that you're coming in pretty late in the season and you're not exactly the show's type, no offense, but I'd mind my own business if I were you. Anything else? I asked. Just avoid alliances. Still, he wouldn't look up. Why? I asked. Liances end badly on the show. He finally looked me in the eyes. Maybe it was the morning chill?

but my upper arms broke out in goosebumps. I wondered if Ethan had wanted David G. dead. What happened with Tasha, I asked. I said mind your own business, didn't I? Now put a sweater on your arms, look weird. With that, he got up and walked toward the beach. What a ten-inch dick. Phil must have left his trailer because when I turned, he was standing right in front of me. I was startled.

Did I surprise you? He asked, smiling. Sure did. He was lightly kicking sand that had made its way onto the parking lot. So you like Ethan? He's fine, I said. Phil cleared his throat. Um, Luella, man, this feels crazy to ask you. He shadowboxed for a moment, then turned to me looking very serious. Would you want to form an alliance with me? What?

He took my hand. I just love your look, and you're so hot, and I think you're really attractive. Okay, it turned out Phil was a poet. I realized my mouth was hanging open in shock, so I closed it and forced a smile. No, do it with teeth, he said. He put his finger between my lips and pushed my top lip up and my bottom lip down. I started laughing, but not because it was funny.

I knew he was the weird one in this situation, but I couldn't help feeling anxious that my teeth would feel false and my lips would feel rough. Crushes really do turn people's brains to mush. If possible, they should be avoided at all costs. Not that I had a crush on Phil. I didn't, because that would be absolutely unprofessional and bad.

Today they're asking us to pair up and have sex and declare our sexual allegiance to another contestant, Phil said to me, maintaining direct eye contact, his fingers still on my lips. He was so gorgeous, I swear I actually felt weak in the knees. His eyes were the color of good coffee. His breath smelled like mouthwash. He wore a baseball shirt, cut off jean shorts, and those awful Prada flip-flops. I noticed his toes were pedicured this time.

Every part of his body was toned and muscular. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I want to say this. I came to this island to find a missing man, and that's what I intended to do. And from an outsider's perspective, I could see how one would start to wonder stuff like... Does she ever work? Is she about to have sex with a 20-year-old? What kind of investigation is this? And how is she swimsuit ready if she just came from a winter in New York City? All terrific questions, really.

The answers are yes, maybe, I don't know anymore, and anyone can be swimsuit ready if they put on a swimsuit and maintain a constant out-of-body headspace. I stared at this young Adonis and considered my options. The question of the sexual allegiance hung between us like subway smell. The sandwiches or the train, either one has the terrific power to linger. Should I have sex with this man? I don't know.

Was I several years older than him, not to the point where I could be his mother, but to the point where I could be his young aunt? Yes. Did he think of me like that woman in the photograph on his mirror? Maybe. Would sleeping with him give me more information? Maybe. Probably. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. No, absolutely not. Maybe. Had I slept with someone since my ex-husband? No.

Did I have horrible, actually awful, gut-wrenching taste in men? Yes. I'll do it, I said to him. Phil smiled and his dimple appeared again. At that point, the dimple felt practically Pavlovian to me. He gave me another one of those sex hugs and whispered in my ear, See you on set. Then he walked off toward the beach, essentially taking my genitals with him. I stood there, realizing what I'd just said yes to.

That's when Issa marched through, proudly announcing she had acquired the keys to the trailers. As she let me in mine, I heard her muttering, Where would any of you be without me? Once I was inside my trailer, I looked in the mirror. I had sweat through my clothes, and my wig was askew. With my finger, I lifted my lips like Phil had done. I felt my Luella teeth, wondering if he'd also noticed how fake they were.

Chapter 15. By 8 a.m., the crew was ready to shoot. Issa escorted the cast to the beach hut. We were placed in a circle and given tropical drinks. Mine tasted like watered-down rum and had a sad maraschino cherry floating in it. Phil stood to my right. His left hand grabbed my right hand and held it there. My palms started sweating, but his stayed cool and dry.

From across the circle, Sarah wiggled her eyebrows at me. Minutes later, the director, George Stryker, strutted in. He wore a button-down shirt completely unbuttoned and a newly minted Manchester United cap. Hello, my children. Sorry about the mix-up this morning. As usual, blame Issa, he announced in his fake British accent. I glanced over at Issa, who was smiling with her mouth, but not her eyes.

I realized Isa probably shoveled a lot of shit around here. I'm George, the director. I see you may be pairing up with young Phil here. Good work. The queen was rolling in her grave. Somehow he had more to say. I always like to get to know the new cast members. Luella, meet me for a pint at my flat after work, 5 p.m. I looked to Sarah and she nodded. Perhaps this was standard procedure.

Sure, 5 p.m., I told him. Striker left me with a slimy feeling all over. He spun around and addressed the group. We're partnering up today, so make good choices, children. And action! Moments later, the cameras were rolling. Phil chose me, Sarah chose David N, and Nate chose Blair. Ethan chose Tasha, which I thought was interesting considering their failed alliance.

Maybe it hadn't failed after all. Each couple was taken to a separate cabana room along with two cameramen and a sound guy. Phil put his hand on my lower back and whispered, This is going to be so fun. It occurred to me then that every decision I'd made leading up to this one had been wrong. I wasn't supposed to be here, not at all. The cabana room turned out to be basically a yurt. Everything was cream colored.

I'd call it asylum chic. The walls, already a generous term, were made of sturdy linen and were tented at the top to form a roof, another generous term. Inside, there was a bed. two small potted palm trees, and a pole. As the pole was not connected to anything else, I presumed it was there for dancing purposes. One of the cameramen positioned us in the bed.

Phil and I were both put on our sides, facing the same direction. Then Phil was pushed closer to me, and I was officially the little spoon. The cameraman draped Phil's arm over my shoulder. checked something in his viewfinder, then came back and brushed some hair out of my face. He went back to his camera and shouted, Whenever you're ready. Camera rolling, the other cameraman said.

Sound rolling, the sound guy yelled. I froze. My brain was blank and my body was numb. I could feel my eyelids start to spasm, always a sign of confidence. I prayed for a natural disaster. If this was being a private detective, I would return to social work tomorrow. I had no plan for this. Why didn't I think of this having sex on TV part?

I could feel the three-man crew growing impatient. Did Phil expect me to make the first move? My breathing got faster. There I was with four men in a yurt who were all waiting for me to have sex with one of them. I'd said it before and I was sure I'd say it again, but this particular moment had to be my worst nightmare. Before I knew what was happening, Phil pulled the bed's duvet cover over us, got on top of me, and moaned.

Then a couple seconds later, he moaned again. He gyrated, he quivered, he grunted, and he called out my name. I double-checked. My clothes were still on, and so were his. He actually hadn't even touched me. Are you close? He gasped. I was utterly confused. Then he winked at me. So it was all fake? A wave of relief came over me. Yes, I said, winking back at him. He moaned louder now and asked again, Are you close? Uh-huh.

I grunted, rolling my eyes back for good measure. He screamed out, Luella, you're pussy! Thank you, I yelled. His air humps were enormous. He gave me the look again. Your dick, your dick is your dick. Yep, that is unfortunately what I said. You can check the tapes. My dick is inside you, Phil added, a real yes and moment. This guy was a true professional. It feels so good.

Then he tapped my shoulder two times, and by some miracle, I understood implicitly what this signal meant. Ah, ah, ah, I said. Oh, oh, he yelled. That's it, I'm coming now, I said, hoping it wasn't as unconvincing as it sounded in my head. I'm coming, he screamed. I'm coming, buckets. And then he gasped and fell beside me on the bed. He rolled over and kissed me on the cheek. In all my life, it was the single best cheek kiss I've ever received. Sleep, he whispered. And so we faked that too.

He spooned me, and there we pretended to sleep for over an hour until our little three-man crew got bored and decided to get B-roll of ocean waves, and if they were lucky, little crabs scuttling over a log. When they were gone... I turned around to face Phil. What was that? I asked. TV sex, he said. It's not real? I asked. I can't speak for anyone else, but not with me, he said. Huh.

I smiled. I felt a strange intimacy with him now. He got out of bed. Come on, let's go get some cold cuts. I need my protein fix. I followed him out, then looked back at what our fake sex had done to the bed.

Pretty convincing, I'd say. Chapter 16 After his protein fix, Phil and I parted ways. He went to work out, and I decided to pay a visit to my second least favorite Sex Island producer. I'd heard John took lunch alone in his office, so I figured I'd meet him there. The producer's offices were in a building I'd visited that first night on the island.

the one with all the beige carpeting. It wasn't far from set, but the walk was entirely uphill, which I couldn't help but feel was metaphoric. John was in his office when I arrived eating an unruly tuna salad sandwich. In a battle of tuna versus bread, the tuna was winning by a long shot. This was the kind of sandwich you ate alone, and if anyone happened to see you eat it, you'd have to kill them.

Perhaps David G. saw John eating an equally enormous tuna salad sandwich, and that is why John— I'm sorry, it's never appropriate to joke about the dead. Rest in peace. John's self-respect. John was so shocked to see me, he quickly wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shoved the remainder of his sandwich in a desk drawer. What's up? He coughed, then cleared his throat three times in a row.

Something was in there, and if I had to guess, it was Tuna. Luella Van Horn, professional detective. I sat down in one of the two chairs across from him. You knew David G. from before. Who said that? John wiped his mouth again. A few people, I said. Why didn't you say anything? Well, we're technically family friends. I didn't think it was worth mentioning. Any bad blood, I asked? No, nothing like that. He was pretty much a baby when I was already in middle school.

I didn't know David G. so well, mostly just his older sister, Frances, and their parents. John started folding a paper napkin into smaller and smaller squares. You still talk to them? John nodded. Yeah, I reached out once the body was found. I should have told him earlier, but I didn't want to worry anybody when he first went missing. I admit, I messed that up. He coughed again. So what brings you in? What's with Ethan, I asked.

John seemed visibly relieved for the change of subject. He's pretty self-sufficient, has good ratings. Last I checked, he was in the top three. Top three, I asked? Yeah, every week we have viewers vote on who they like. John clicked around on his computer. Ethan's been in the top three for the last two weeks. Right now it looks like Ethan's in third, then Phil, and then Tasha. John turned the screen toward me.

It was a line graph with every cast member on the x-axis and audience approval on the y-axis. I knew about the voting from my time on the message boards, but I hadn't realized the extent to which the producers were tracking the data. I vainly scanned the graph for my name and found I'd rated just above Sarah and below Nate. Okay, not bad. David N. was at the very bottom, which didn't surprise me much. He really needed to shave that goatee.

John saw where I was looking. For a detective doing an undercover thing, you're actually doing pretty well. My heart stopped. So it was John who knew about Marie. What'd you say? You're a detective and you're pretending to be a contestant. Did I say something wrong? Right, right, I said, trying to laugh it off. John didn't send the card. Maybe he sent the bouquet. Hey, thanks for the flowers.

You know, usually when a woman thanks me for flowers, I just pretend to know something about it. But in the spirit of transparency, whatever flowers you got weren't for me. Based on today's footage, maybe they were from old Phil. I considered this possibility and tried not to smile. He fakes the sex, I added, hoping this wasn't new information to him. Yeah, I think he's pretty smart. You wouldn't believe what goes on around here.

One week everybody, and I mean everybody, got syphilis. John shook his head. He's the only one, I asked. Yep. The women seem to appreciate it, though. Everyone else does it for real, I'm pretty sure. The things I've seen sitting in that edit bay, he chuckled, then stopped himself. Oh, you want to see something nuts? He clicked around on his computer again, opening a folder marked Confidential.

On the screen was a photo of a young boy in red swim trunks standing on a beach. He looked to be about six or seven years old. He was chubby and rosy-cheeked with long eyelashes, only two visible teeth. and a prominent outie belly button. He looked vaguely familiar. Who's that? I asked. Guess, John said. He was excited now. I don't know, I said.

John put his elbows on his desk and leaned toward me. Would you believe that was Phil? I was shook. I looked again. Were those the same brown eyes I'd just seen an hour ago? It was possible. John chuckled again. As Phil started taking off in the ratings, someone from his past put this online and as you can imagine, it circulated pretty quick. Anyway, he got upset and demanded we control the narrative. His words.

So that's when Ethan's 10-inch penis rumor came out. Not true, I asked, albeit a little too genuinely. No, it's actually 11 inches, har har. John smiled at me. Dirty business, I said. Dirty show, he retorted. How are the ratings after David G. disappeared, I asked. John nervously laughed. Uh, they've been, well, the network has been very pleased. What a business model.

I stood to go. John stood too. Luella, before you go, I thought maybe this could be of some help. He pulled a piece of paper from a file folder and handed it to me. It was a handwritten list of names and apartment numbers. David G. was listed as 7A, then it was crossed out. Ethan originally lived in 7E, but that was crossed out. It said 8A. David N. lived in 7B. Phil was in 7G. Nate was in 7C. Blair was in 7D. Tasha was in 7H. Sarah was in 4D. George was in the penthouse. Stephanie was in 7F.

John was on 2A, Issa was on 8D, and Luella was on the list, originally in 7E, which was crossed out, and 4E was written there. Stephanie said giving this to you would be an invasion of privacy, but I figured it couldn't hurt your investigation to know where everybody lives. I looked it over and thanked him. Hey, uh, what you saw in here today, that's between us, John added.

The tuna, I asked. He turned pink and laughed. Yeah, the Phil photo, the ratings, and also the tuna. I nodded to his desk. Careful, the drawer's getting ripe. Were we flirting? I told myself to stop flirting with the tuna man and to stop it right now. This show was pickling my brain. I left John's office feeling a certain sympathy for Phil.

Here he was years later trying to be some hot guy on TV, but someone from his past wouldn't let him escape. In some ways, I could relate. I felt my phone buzz, and a small part of me hoped it was Phil wanting to hang out or... talk or have a practice round of air sex. I checked and no such luck. Just two texts from Sophie. New guys coming on Sex Island tomorrow. Hot guys, tell your friend. Your stinky cat's still alive. New cast members were being added. Strange, John hadn't mentioned that.

Chapter 17. After meeting with John, I sat on the beach for a while to organize my thoughts. So new men were coming on the show. Why not new women? Was this the producer's messed up way of getting the viewers to move on from the David G tragedy? After learning what they'd done with Ethan's penis, I assumed they were capable of anything. My stomach started rumbling and I looked at the time.

It was already 4 p.m. I had about an hour to eat and change my clothes before paying a visit to the jolly old chap George Stryker at 5 p.m. I ambled back to the apartment complex, smelling the salt in the air. The temperature on the island tended to cool down after 3pm. At that moment, it was a perfect 70 degrees with a gentle breeze and a still warm sun low in the sky.

Despite, you know, a murderer on the loose and the dead 21-year-old found in my bathtub and hell, let's throw in the stifling humidity, it was very pleasant there. I was about 100 feet away from the apartment building when I started to hear footsteps behind me. I paused, and the footsteps also paused. I turned around, but there was no one there.

I walked faster toward the entrance, as fast as I could in 4.5-inch wedge heels. From the sound of my followers' steps, they were wearing a sandal of some kind, maybe a flip-flop. By the time I got to the entranceway, my heart was pounding. I stood there for a moment, bracing myself on the stucco exterior of the building. I couldn't seem to get a deep breath.

My lungs felt shallow, like they wouldn't let my body get enough air. Maybe I was getting too old for this job. I felt like I was at the start of a panic attack or that my knees would give out. Just then... Phil jumped out from behind a large palm. I screamed like I was the first one to die in a slasher film. Sorry, sorry, it's just me, he said, both hands in the air. I don't mean to keep scaring you.

I struggled to regain composure. What are you doing? I pushed my teeth back in as quick as I could. They must have loosened with all the screaming. I just wanted to say great job today. Are you okay? He came closer to me and I instinctively backed away. Why'd you follow me? I asked. I didn't. He seemed genuinely hurt by my accusation.

I saw you coming, so I was hiding here to surprise you. That was stupid, I'm sorry. Hug it out? I nodded, then gave Phil a one-armed hug. I looked past him at the vacant parking lot. No one was there. He turned to see where I was looking. Was someone following you or something? He asked. I shook my head and put on my best smile. I even threw in some teeth. Phil put his arm around me.

You don't look so good. How about we get you some electrolytes? I'll even admit to you where I live. Phil took me to his apartment, which turned out to be on the seventh floor, 7G to be precise. Who needed John's list of everyone's apartment numbers when I could just be invited in for Gatorade? His place had the same layout as mine, but was jam-packed with gym equipment and somehow cleaner-seeming.

Right away, I was hit with the smell of lemon pine saw. Nice gym, I said as I sat down on his small gray couch. Phil laughed as he poured me a tall glass of Gatorade. It was a turquoise flavor. Probably something called Arctic blastoff or glacier shreds. It tasted a little like liquid plastic, but at least it was nice and cold. He sat next to me, but the couch was so small our knees touched.

I felt my face flush and I set the glass down on the table. He swiftly lifted it to put a coaster underneath. Luella, what were you doing in the producer's building? So you were following me, I said. He laughed. Will you chill out? I saw you walking from that direction, that's all. But listen, if you want me to follow you, I can follow you. I just gotta clear my schedule. That damn dimple was out again. John showed me your picture, I said to him.

His brow furrowed. Some people just won't let you forget your past. How'd you do it? Do what, I asked, taking another slow sip. He stood and walked to the little kitchenette. I looked you up. I couldn't find anything from before four years ago. Pretty impressive. My life until four years ago was pretty uneventful, I said, nervously laughing. I finished my Gatorade and put the empty glass down on the coaster like a proper lady.

My stomach began growling again. I really didn't have time for all this knee-touching and cold Gatorade drinking. I should go, I said. I stood and walked toward the door. Phil crossed the kitchenette to intercept me. He looked me in the eyes and put his cool, dry hands on my shoulders. Hey, if my secret's safe with you, your secret's safe with me, he said. I gave him a quizzical look. I wondered what secret of mine he thought he knew.

Then I looked down at my watch. How was it already 4.45 p.m.? I turned to leave just as Phil went in for a kiss. His lips met my ear. Oh, I said sorry. Whoops. Phil laughed. Well, let's just forget that ever happened. He opened the door for me and I darted out of his place like a bat out of hell. Phil shouted after me. Hey, did you get my flowers? I stopped running and turned around.

Those were from you? Yeah, he smiled. You like them? Of course. Thank you, I smiled back. So Phil sent me those flowers. I guess that meant he knew where I lived. If I hadn't awkwardly dodged his kiss and run halfway down the hall, maybe things could have worked out between us. The bigger question was why was I crushing on a 20-something reality TV star? Why couldn't I just focus on the task at hand?

I needed to get my head in the game. The time for food would have to come later. Off to George Stryker's. Hopefully I'd get something out of him.

Chapter 18. If you didn't already pick up on it, Luella is not the world's greatest detective. Oftentimes, people just tell me things they're not supposed to, or they slip up. When I was working as a social worker, I'd listen to people say things they weren't supposed to all day long. That's how I met Taylor Bell. He was a client. He started going to me with basic depression and anxiety symptoms, then...

All of a sudden, his wife, Julia, disappeared. Every week, he'd come in and cry to me. I'd listen to his grief and despondence as his social worker, Marie. And then I'd put on a wig and go investigate his wife's disappearance as vigilante detective Luella Van Horn. For all my aspiring dual social worker private detectives out there, just know this is considered a huge moral no-no.

I wanted to solve his problems. Was that so wrong? Well, yeah, in fact, it was. I do try to cut myself some slack. He was my first psychopath, after all. I was the one who found her body in the Fresh Kills estuary. The police eventually found her ring finger buried in Bell's backyard under the tulip bed. Taylor Bell was eventually sentenced to life in jail.

For the love of all that is holy, I pray he does not make the connection that Marie and Luella are the same woman. Because if he did, he would probably find a way to kill me like he killed his wife. I try not to dwell on the past.

But I must have been reminiscing because I was hungry, and I was hungry because of these stupid teeth, and these stupid teeth were the reason I was in this mess in the first place. Walking to George Stryker's place, I was in a piss-poor mood, to say the least. I hoped this meeting would be quick.

I had big plans to get back to my apartment and eat a panini, a block of cheese, a bowl of popcorn, and a candy bar. Twix. No, Snickers. Snickers for sure. I wondered if there was a way to incorporate gravy. Gravy sounded nice, too. Maybe I would dip the sandwich into the gravy. This meeting would need to be lightning fast. My stomach was audibly churning. I arrived at George Stryker's door at 5 p.m. on the dot.

He lived in the only apartment on the top floor, which looked to be some sort of privilege. Before I could knock, George answered the door wearing a purple houndstooth silk robe. I heard the elevator go ding ding. He sounded like a drunk Mary Poppins. I realized George Stryker was the type of man who prided himself on never wearing a real shirt. I'd done some preliminary research on him. Before Sex Island,

His only other directing work was on an indie movie called Summer Alone, which seemed to be minimally successful in the festival circuit. After an extensive online search, I could only find the trailer, but luckily it felt just as long as the real movie. Black and white. Several shots of waves rushing over bare feet. Your typical pretentious garbage. I could see why Issa and he would get along, artistically speaking. And now he directed the last umpteenth seasons of a reality sex show.

How did this fake British man get there? George seemed happy to see me, and by happy I mean drunk. As a reminder, it was only 5 p.m. Come in, come in, come in, he slurred as he waved me inside. I could smell the rum radiating off his skin. Once we were inside his apartment I took a look around. All apartments were not created equal in this complex. His living room was about twice the size of mine.

and there was a lofted area which looked to be where his bedroom was. I should also mention, the entire place was filled with trash. There were empty chip bags on the sofa. microwave dinner trays piled up on the coffee table, condom wrappers on the floor, a pile of crusty dishes in the sink. I noticed on the kitchen counter he'd lit a candle. The place smelled like old garbage with a hint of vanilla.

He gestured to the living room. Excuse the mess. Want a drink? I said no, but Stryker ignored me. He handed me a frosted tiki glass from the freezer and filled it to the brim with a white liquid from a blender. Cheers, he said, clinking our glasses together. What is this, I asked, taking a small sip. It was genuinely the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted. Coconut milk punch, my specialty.

The way he said speciality gave it four extra syllables. The British accent was becoming more outlandish in his drunken state. I took another sip, trying to remind myself not to drink so fast. Even if it tasted like a milkshake, it was a dangerous milkshake. I brushed a few old chip bags to the ground and sat down on the sofa. New guys coming tomorrow? I asked him.

The striker toddled over to an armchair that faced the couch, sloshing half of his drink on the floor as he went. He sat and frowned. Sex Island hungry, need more flesh, he said, making a claw with his empty hand. That was certainly an odd way of putting it. I had so many questions for this man, but I didn't know where to start. My head was already starting to feel fuzzy.

I wanted to know what his relationship was like with David G. And why he'd been working on the show for so long. And what was with that horrible fake accent. He was drunk enough where I knew if I asked the right questions, he would start talking and never stop. But if I asked a wrong one, he'd clam up and kick me out. You like the producers? I probed, trying to stay casual. He laughed at that. Stephanie and John, adore them.

John's a putz, and Stephanie's the craziest bitch I've ever met. He continued laughing to himself. I figured as long as he was entertained, I could keep asking questions. You guys all friends? He laughed even harder then. Friends? That's rich. He got up and refilled his glass in the kitchenette. So not friends? I called after him. He burped loudly. Stephanie and I have an understanding.

I help her, she helps me, ABC 123. Then he suddenly stopped speaking. I looked over and saw he was standing in the kitchenette holding a large knife. Shit. If I was going to meet my maker, it would not be because of George fucking Stryker. I scanned the surrounding garbage for something sharp and weapon-y, and the best I could come up with was an empty beer can. I quickly flattened it with my shoe to get the edges sharper.

I stood, readying myself for a fight. Was I drunk? I felt drunk. Then I saw George toss up a lime and fail to slice it midair. The lime fell to the ground and he followed suit in a clatter of glassware and garbage. I rushed into the kitchenette to find him flat on his back, the knife still in his hand. Where'd the blimey lime go? he asked me, looking from side to side. His landing robe placement was not ideal.

I tried to avoid looking anywhere near his groin. You could have killed yourself, I said as I tried to wrestle the knife from his hand. He held on tightly. I switched tactics. High five, I shouted. He dropped the knife and high-fived me. Thank you, coconut milk punch. Come on, up, up. I lifted him to his feet and he started laughing again. His cell phone rang. He stood there trying to fish it out of his robe pocket. He finally retrieved his phone and looked at the screen.

then at me, then back at his screen. Suddenly, he seemed sober. Uh-oh, you gotta go. Who was that, I asked, feeling a bit unsteady on my own feet. Bye-bye, he shouted as he shuffled me over to the front door and yanked it open. I stumbled out and he slammed the door shut behind me. I stood in the hallway trying to get my bearings. I felt sick. My head was swimming and my stomach was in knots.

My hair hurt. I needed to get into bed. All I had to do was walk down the hall, then get on the elevator and push a button, then walk down another hall, and I'd be home. First step was to walk down this first hall. I took one step. Then I collapsed. This has been chapters 14 through 18 of Murder on Sex Island, read by the author, Joe Firestone, and that is me. This podcast is produced by Barry Finkel. This episode was edited by Gabrielle Lewis.

Our music is from Blue Dot Sessions. The book will be on sale October 17th. Episode 6 comes out next week. I'll be reading chapters 19 through 23. What's going to happen to Luella? Is she going to be okay? Till next time.