The sun hung low over Bikini Week, casting long, honey-gold rays over the chaotic town as Mr. Pearson, clutching what remained of his dignity, adjusted the last shreds of his once-immaculate business suit. His tie was long gone, his blazer hung off him like a cape in tatters, and the trousers he’d paid a small fortune for were now missing everything below the knees. Somewhere along the way, he’d swapped his Ferragamo loafers for a pair of cheap flip-flops he’d found abandoned on a jet ski rental dock.

He squinted through the chaos of the carnival, his sharp eyes tracking the sprinting figure of Emily—or Bunny, as everyone seemed to call her now. He’d been shadowing her for hours, watching her ricochet from one absurd escapade to another like a pinball with cleavage.

And yet, something had shifted.

“She’s... not like the others,” he muttered, chewing the end of an unlit cigar.

The thought startled him. At first, Emily had been just another variable in the chaos of Bikini Week—a pawn, a player, a minor subplot. But as he’d followed her from the milk vats to the tattoo tent to the popsicle inferno, he couldn’t help but notice something different about her.

Unlike everyone else, who seemed to succumb entirely to the town’s bizarre, lust-soaked gravity, Emily fought against it. Sure, she stumbled, she got swept up, she even enjoyed it at times—but she fought. And watching that fight stirred something in Mr. Pearson, something he hadn’t felt in years.

Respect.

Well, respect mixed with... other feelings. He wasn’t dead, after all.

Standing atop a makeshift tower of milk crates, he adjusted his sunglasses and peered down as Emily stumbled out of the tattoo tent, a wild, painted vision of defiance and exhaustion. Her fishnet bodysuit clung to her, streaked with paint, her skin shimmering with a mixture of sweat and humiliation. She clutched the “#1 Milkers” sash like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to sanity.

Pearson smirked, the corner of his mouth curling around the cigar. “Hell of a dame,” he muttered, then grimaced as the crates wobbled beneath him.

As Emily bolted through the carnival, her coconut bra clacking with every frantic step, Pearson hopped down from his perch and gave chase, his flip-flops slapping against the ground in a farcical rhythm.

“Why am I doing this?” he muttered under his breath as he weaved through the chaos, narrowly avoiding a banana-eater swinging her fruit like a sword.

Deep down, he knew why.

Emily wasn’t just surviving Bikini Week; she was resisting it, defying its pull even as it dragged her deeper into its absurd, hypersexual whirlpool. She was fascinating.

She was human.

Pearson’s reverie was interrupted when he collided with a runaway parade float—a giant, glittering milk carton on wheels. The impact sent him sprawling into a dunk tank, his shredded suit finally giving up the ghost.

He surfaced with a splutter, coughing up water as a crowd gathered to laugh at the now-soggy businessman. His once-pristine trousers floated away like a defeated flag, leaving him clad in nothing but a red Speedo that clung far too intimately to his middle-aged frame.

Pearson groaned, running a hand over his face as he climbed out of the tank, dripping and humiliated. “Fine,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “Speedo it is.”

But as he scanned the crowd for Emily, he saw her again—running barefoot down the street, her head held high despite the chaos around her.

And damn it if she didn’t look magnificent.

Her movements were frenetic but determined, her eyes wide with panic but burning with a fierce will to keep going. She wasn’t Bunny, not entirely. She was something rawer, something more real—a girl caught in a nightmare but refusing to give in.

“Gotta hand it to her,” Pearson muttered, pulling his Speedo up with as much dignity as he could muster. “Kid’s got guts.”

Pearson tailed Emily through the winding streets of Bikini Week as everything colluded in a colossal fubar of epic proportions.  It wasn’t just one shenanigan, it was five or six all colliding with each other.  Even in all his years of Bikini Weeks, he had never seen anything like it.   

“Damn freak show,” he grumbled, sidestepping a vendor selling “erotic avocados” and nearly tripping over a statue shooting at least a gallon of breast milk out of its ta-tas. . “Where the hell is all of this even going?”

His answer came when Emily stopped abruptly, her painted body heaving with exertion as she stared at something in the distance.

Pearson squinted, following her gaze, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

A portal.

It shimmered, a jagged tear in reality that flickered and sparked like a glitch in the universe. Beyond it, Pearson could see flashes of another world—a mundane world of offices and apartments, gray skies and fluorescent lights.

Emily stared at it, her lips parted, her body trembling.

As Emily reached out, her fingers trembling toward the portal, Pearson felt a pang of something he hadn’t felt in years—something he couldn’t quite name.

Protectiveness.

Pearson’s heart stopped as he stared at the portal. His first instinct had been to brush it off as another piece of Bikini Week’s insane theatrics, some neon-lit distraction meant to sucker in tourists or fuel another risqué competition. But the flickering edges of the tear in reality told a different story.

He muttered, his voice low and sharp. He stubbed out his cigar with a trembling hand, his normally cool demeanor cracking at the edges.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. The rules of Bikini Week were simple—seduction, indulgence, transformation. The narrative bent, yes, but it always held. It was elastic, resilient, like the perfectly calibrated suspension of a luxury car. But this?.

This wasn’t a game.

This was destruction.

And it wasn’t the first time he’d heard about it. .

His mind flashed back to a conversation he’d had years ago, one he’d tried to forget.

The refugee from Camp Morning Wood.

Years ago, in a smoky corner of The Wet Spot, Pearson had met someone who didn’t quite belong. A man—or maybe a woman; the details were hazy now, distorted by time and the narrative’s influence—who had spoken with a haunted edge, like someone who had seen things no one was meant to see.

The stranger had claimed to be from another world. Not Emily’s world.  The stranger’s eyes had been wild as they recounted the fall of Camp Morning Wood.

“It unraveled,” the man … or maybe the woman had said, their words teetering on the edge of hysteria. “We all thought it was just a fluke at first—an overambitious counselor trying to spice things up for one week. But it spiraled. She tried to do it all, man. Everything. Like she was trying to be the camp itself but ALL AT ONCE!”

Pearson hadn’t believed him at the time, dismissing it as drunken rambling. But now, years later, the refugee’s words echoed with haunting clarity.

“She was the camp cook, dishing out stew by day and sneaking off to ‘seduce’ the counselors by night.

“She organized the panty raids but also played the girl being raided. She dressed in one of those lacy, impractical numbers and screamed when the boys burst in, only to wink and start a pillow fight that somehow turned into a strip tease.

“She wanted to play the plucky underdog in the softball game and the sexy referee who got ‘accidentally’ pantsed.

“She was the mysterious midnight skinny-dipper and the horny ghost haunting the camp’s abandoned boathouse.

“She was the camp nurse, faking sprains and bruises so the guys would have excuses to strip down and ‘recover.’

“She hosted the talent show, did an erotic ribbon dance as a ‘surprise act,’ and somehow ended up the judge as well.

“She organized the prank wars, played the ‘innocent victim’ of a prank gone wrong, and then plotted the revenge schemes, complete with water balloons full of whipped cream.

“She crashed the girls’ slumber party in nothing but a towel and a devilish grin, then ran across camp to crash the boys’ circle of truth, where she dared everyone to kiss her.

“She was in every cabin, every scene, every gag—playing prude one moment, seductress the next. She even set up a mock wedding between herself and the camp mascot—a stuffed bear named Chesty—and made it a full-on bachelor party fiasco that ended with her and the entire softball team who needed motivation to win the big game.”

The refugee had stopped then, his face pale, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “She was too much. She did too much. And the world couldn’t take it.”

Pearson had scoffed. “The world couldn’t take it? Come on, buddy, what are you, a screenwriter pitching me a flop?”

The refugee had fixed him with a dead-eyed stare that sent a chill through Pearson even now.

“It wasn’t just the camp that unraveled,” the man had whispered. “It was everything. Every single trope, every gag, every cheesy 1980s sex comedy cliché—it couldn’t keep up. She darted through the portal and once that happened our world was doomed.”

The Emptiness. Pearson had chuckled at the term back then, but the refugee’s haunted look had stuck with him.

“It started small,” the man continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “The edges of the camp got... fuzzy. People would walk toward the lake and never come back. Then the fuzz spread. The softball field turned to static. The cabins went next, vanishing one plank at a time. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late.  Then it wasn’t just fuzzy, the Emptiness came and it devoured it all. Counselors, campers, the lake, the cabins, the campfire—it swallowed them whole. Friend and foe alike, wiped out in minutes.  I can still hear their screams as they just.. became Empty.  A hole would be something.  Blackness would be something.  They just became Empty…”

The refugee had downed his drink in a single, shaking gulp, his eyes glistening with tears. “I ran. I ran like hell. The Emptiness was everywhere—eating the counselors mid-kiss, the campers mid-prank. The pranksters themselves, caught with pies frozen halfway to their targets. Even the camp legend—the guy with the chainsaw and the creepy hockey mask? Gone. Swallowed by the Emptiness.”

The man’s voice cracked as he gripped the edge of the table. “I could hear it coming. Like the sound of a tape rewinding, getting closer and closer, faster and faster. The camp was shrinking, collapsing in on itself. There wasn’t going to be anything left.”

He’d paused then, his face pale, his hands trembling. “And that’s when I saw it—the TV in the owner’s cabin. ‘My Dumb Bikini Summer’ was on. Some dumb movie playing on the camp’s only channel, static flickering at the edges. I thought... maybe. Maybe if I dove through it...”

Pearson had leaned forward, unable to look away. “And?”

The man let out a bitter laugh. “And I woke up here. In Bikini Week. Alive, sure. But no one here knows me. No one cares about who I was. I used to own the camp. Now I’m just another guy.”

He’d looked up at Pearson, his eyes hollow. “As far as I know, I’m the only one who made it out.”

Pearson had shrugged it off then, figuring the guy had been through some bad acid trip or, more likely, was just a washed-up nobody spinning tales.

But now, as he stared at the shimmering portal and the world beyond it, those words came rushing back.

If Emily went through that portal, she might not just leave Bikini Week.

She might tear it apart.

“No…,” Pearson muttered, his blood running cold. “Not my world.  Not to my girls, not to my guys, not to my life.”

And he ran, sprinting after her as the carnival lights blurred around him, his feet slapping against the damp pavement.

“Not again,” he whispered, his breath ragged.

Unlike the refugee he wasn’t running from the Emptiness.  

He was running to stop it.  And Emily, already having seen the portal collapse while he was frozen in shock, was running to Blaine.  She had to be.  If he knew he was part of the narrative’s main drive, she had to as well.  Blaine was the center of this world, the axis around which everything spun. If anyone could stop Emily, it was him.

He didn’t hesitate.

Pearson’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he pushed himself to keep up, his aging body screaming in protest. The streets blurred around him, neon lights smearing into streaks of color as he focused on the girl ahead.

Her painted skin gleamed under the flickering glow of the portal, her fishnet bodysuit a net of shadows and light. She was everything this world loved—over-the-top, ridiculous, a mix of sexy and absurd.

And she was going to destroy it all.

“Damn it, kid,” Pearson muttered, his feet pounding against the pavement as he forced himself to run faster.

He thought of the refugee again—the haunted look in the man’s eyes, the way he’d clutched that bottle like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Pearson wouldn’t end up like that. He’d fought too hard to build a life here, clawing his way from obscurity to relevance in a world that thrived on spectacle.

And as much as he hated to admit it, Bikini Week had grown on him. The absurdity, the chaos, the endless parade of contests and parties—it was home now.  He at times hated it, sure, but who loved their job every second of every day?  

He wasn’t going to let it fall apart.

Not for her. Not for anyone.

Pearson’s flip-flops skidded against the wet cobblestones as he veered down a side street, his heart hammering in his chest. He needed to reach Blaine before Emily did, needed to warn him about the portal, about what she might do if she made it through.

Blaine wasn’t exactly... nuanced. He was a force of nature, all muscles and swagger and unshakable confidence. Would he even understand the stakes?

Pearson clenched his fists, his mind racing. If Blaine couldn’t stop Emily—if he couldn’t stop Emily—then Bikini Week might end up like Camp Barely Clothed.

And this time, there wouldn’t be any survivors.

No. Pearson shook the thought from his head, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Hang on, Blaine,” Pearson muttered under his breath. “I’m coming.”

–

Blaine's world had been an enticing pair of ivory tits, encased as they were in a shimmering gold dress.

Then all of a sudden, the world had come to him.

His little beach bungalow was crowded with urgent visitors: Veronica. Pearson. And of course, and of course...her. Bunny was so much more than the woman he remembered her being, but also everything he'd always known she was. The contradiction would have been enough to give any man a headache. Wesley would've taken that headache on, for sure. But Blaine was, increasingly, an uncomplicated man. The ideas skimmed his surface like the kiss of a well-waxed board on the tide, with nothing weighty to plunge deeper.

Because how could he contemplate anything other than the heaving yellow titties in her ridiculous coconut bra? How could he possibly focus up on the larger implications of what was going on when there were big letters on Bunny's body that said she belonged to a white boy like him, deserved to be used by a white boy like him? BWC Only? He was BWC!

Dimly, he felt an urge to dig deeper into it. Or at least, an idea that he should want to delve deeper. It was the last gasp of something else in him, something that was rapidly losing purchase as everyone yelled at him about who to fuck. At least they'd picked a subject where Blaine could have some well-formed opinions.

But it was getting too complicated. And Blaine...Blaine was a simple man now.

"Everyone shut the fuck up."

If the movie hadn't already richly earned its R-rating, his delivery would've done the job. It was utterly commanding, the kind of masculine assurance that came from knowing that he was in his domain, in his element. Not just his house, but this beach, because he owned this Bikini Beach. He was this Bikini Beach.

He pointed to Charlotte the Harlot first. "You. One sentence, go."

She looked surprised by the restriction of the one sentence, but quickly composed herself. "Fuck me right now as a binding contract to sign over your property to Mr. Pearson and make you very rich in the process."

Blaine nodded. That seemed reasonable enough. He saw Bunny wanted to speak next, but he let his blue eyes skip over her. She was obediently silent. Good girl.

He pointed next to Pearson. "You. One sentence."

Pearson, who had somehow wound up in a speedo that he couldn't pull off nearly as well as Blaine, looked apoplectic. "The existential crisis we're facing cannot possibly be summed up in a single sentence, but if you stick your dick in that bitch, we're all gonna get rewound into the empty void before the video tape."

He looked like he wanted to say more, but a scowl from Blaine stopped him from speaking. He at least seemed to understand that billions of dollars wouldn't help you against someone sufficiently motivated and musclebound.

Veronica Valmont broke in. "I just want a chance to--"

"Yeah, whatever, Side Character," Blaine said rudely, turning at last to Bunny? Emily? Bunny?. His mind kept flickering back and forth between the two, as if he were seeing a dress in both black-and-blue and white-and-gold configurations at once. Both there, both plainly visible to him, both real.

But only one could be true.

"Fuck me, Blaine." And that was it.

That was all it had to be.

Because she alone had a hold on him, no matter how desperately the other bitches on this beach threw themselves at him. Her exquisite almond-shaped eyes, her delicate porcelain-doll frame, her cartoonish cleavage, her increasingly oversexed face and body language...all of it wasn't just an invitation to the world. It was an invitation to him, specifically. The tattoos said it all, didn't they? They told him exactly what kind of girl she was: the best kind of girl. His.

He was ready to make the choice.

He reached for his girl, grabbing her not especially gently by her slender shoulders. Her wobbling tits sent his white cock straining against the bounds of the magenta speedo made for a man much more modestly endowed than he. He started to lean down to her, feeling her body already beginning to melt into his musculature. That assent made him want to descend upon her like he was a predator and she his exquisite prey.

He could see the mounting terror in Pearson's eyes, knowing full well that a lunk like Blaine would always, always think with his dick. He could see the mirrored despair in Charlotte's and Veronica's faces, as they both mourned getting their shot with a stud like him despite their different reasonings for it.

But before he opened his mouth to give her his assent, he stopped.

Behind those sexy eyes, he saw something. An awareness. A cunning, even. And its presence there was enough to give him pause. Because cunning was the opposite of giving in. And that was what they were supposed to be doing, right? Giving into the tension that had been building for this entire story? Letting the wave wash over them, rather than trying to ride it to some destination?

He blinked his bright blue eyes. And his lips stopped barely a centimeter from hers.

"No," he said, with a little uncertainty.

She looked up at him, completely stunned.

"I...I don't want to fuck you." Carefully, Blaine slipped his hands off her body and began to take a step back. "You're Emily. I don't want to fuck Emily." He addressed his words directly to that glint of intelligence in her eyes, the simplicity of his statements lending them added weight. "I want to fuck Bunny."

—-

Emily stood in Blaine’s bungalow, her bare feet pressing into the smooth, cool tile, her pulse drumming a chaotic rhythm in her ears. The air was thick with the heat of the setting sun, the scent of sea salt and his cologne lingering like a challenge. Blaine was there, towering, golden, his bright blue eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her stomach churn in equal parts excitement and dread.

His lips curved into that cocky smile, the one that screamed I always get what I want. And she knew what he wanted. It wasn’t Emily. It wasn’t spreadsheets, shy smiles, or tentative half-steps into the world. It wasn’t the quiet, unsure girl she’d been clinging to as her last anchor to the life she used to have.

It was Bunny. The bombshell. The bimbo. The queen of this ridiculous, impossible, perfect place.

Her breath hitched as he stepped closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing. The warmth of his body radiated against her skin, the weight of his gaze making her shiver. He raised a hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, and she felt her resolve teeter on the edge of a knife.

She didn’t know if she wanted to lean into him or run screaming into the ocean.

Emily. Remember Emily, she thought desperately, even as her body betrayed her, arching subtly toward him, her thighs pressing together as if she could deny the ache building there. This isn’t you. You’re not… her. You’re not Bunny. You’re just pretending to be Bunny so you can get out of here. You’re playing the part.

But the lie tasted hollow, even in her own head.

Because wasn’t she? Wasn’t she Bunny now, in every way that mattered? The fishnet bodysuit clinging to her skin, the coconut bra squeezing her chest into two obscene globes, the glittering sash draped over her hip like a mocking crown—every inch of her screamed that name. Bunny.

And Blaine wasn’t looking at her like she was pretending. He was looking at her like she was exactly who she was supposed to be.

He wants Bunny.

Her breath hitched, and her thighs clenched again as the truth settled over her like a second skin. If she wanted to keep him on her side, to keep this ridiculous plan moving forward, she had to give him what he wanted. She had to be Bunny.

But the thought sent a ripple of fear through her, because once she let Bunny take over completely, would there be anything left of Emily to save?

Blaine’s hand trailed down her arm, his touch firm but achingly gentle, and she felt a traitorous moan rise in her throat. She swallowed it down, her mind spiraling.

Think, Emily. Think.

There had to be a way to do this—to play the part, to give him what he wanted, without losing herself entirely.

Her mind raced, cataloging everything she knew about Bunny—everything she’d become over the past few insane, surreal days. Bunny wasn’t shy or hesitant. Bunny didn’t worry about what people thought. Bunny wasn’t afraid of wanting, of being wanted. Bunny was all big hair and big tits and even bigger confidence.

And Blaine wanted that.

If she gave it to him, if she gave herself to him, she could keep the illusion going long enough to escape. She could be the perfect, bouncy bimbo he thought she was, let him worship her, let him lose himself in her until he was too dazzled to see the cracks in the facade.

But as the thought settled in her chest, another voice whispered in the back of her mind, soft and insidious.

But what if you like it? What if you don’t want to escape?

Her hands trembled as Blaine stepped closer, his fingers brushing her waist, his touch burning through the thin fabric of the fishnets. Her body reacted instinctively, her hips shifting toward him, her lips parting on a gasp she couldn’t suppress.

Her mind screamed at her to pull back, to push him away, to run.

But instead, she smiled.

It was a slow, sultry curve of her lips, a smile she’d never worn before Bikini Week but had perfected here. Bunny’s smile.

“Something on your mind, big guy?” she purred, her voice lower, huskier than Emily’s had ever been. It was a voice that dripped confidence, that promised secrets whispered against bare skin and laughter shared under neon lights.

Blaine’s smile widened, his hands sliding to her hips, gripping them firmly. “You,” he said simply, his voice a rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

Her heart raced, her mind a blur of warring thoughts. She could do this. She had to do this. She could give him Bunny—give him everything he wanted—and still hold on to the last threads of Emily.

Couldn’t she?

She tilted her head, letting her hair cascade over her shoulder, her fingers trailing up his chest. “You don’t waste time, do you?” she teased, her tone light, playful, every inch of her screaming Bunny even as her mind scrambled to hold on to Emily.

He chuckled, his grip tightening on her hips, pulling her flush against him. She felt the hard line of his arousal against her stomach, and a rush of heat pooled between her thighs, her body betraying her again.

He wants Bunny. Be Bunny.

She let her hands roam over his chest, her nails dragging lightly over his skin, her lips brushing against his jaw. “I like that about you,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly with the effort of keeping up the act.

But was it an act anymore?

Her mind spiraled as Blaine’s hands explored her body, as his lips found her neck, as her own traitorous body melted into his. Every touch, every kiss, every gasp and moan felt like a nail in the coffin of Emily.

But it also felt good. Too good.

Maybe this is who you were always meant to be, a voice whispered in her mind, soft and dangerous.

Her nails dug into Blaine’s shoulders as he kissed her, his lips hot and demanding, his hands mapping every inch of her body as if he owned it.  And didn’t he? 

Emily—no, Bunny—was pressed so tightly against Blaine that she could feel the heat radiating off him like the sun beating down on the sand. His hands moved with unrestrained confidence, sliding from her hips to cup her ass through the sheer fishnet of her bodysuit, squeezing firmly. She gasped, her lips parting in a breathless, delighted moan that filled the bungalow like a siren’s call.

"Goddamn," Blaine murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear. The group that had stormed his bungalow—Veronica, Mr. Pearson, and the rest—stood frozen, caught between outrage and fascination as the golden god of Bikini Week grabbed Bunny, who looked like she was almost hot enough to be the Queen of Bikini week. 

“You’re making it really hard to concentrate on saving the beach,” Blaine drawled, his bright blue eyes locking on hers.

She laughed, a tinkling, girlish sound that wasn’t hers, couldn’t be hers, but fit Bunny perfectly. “Well, you’ve got these hands all over me,” she teased, wriggling her hips in his grasp, “and they’re so big and strong and… oh!” Her voice turned higher, breathier, her head tilting back as his palms slid upward, settling possessively over her breasts.

“Like these, huh?” Blaine grinned, squeezing, his fingers digging into the plush, exaggerated curves of her chest.

Her response was immediate, shameless. “I love it!” she gushed, arching her back to press her tits further into his hands. “God, my big fake tits were made for this, weren’t they? For your big, meaty hands to just grab and squeeze in front of everyone and—ohhhh, Blaine!”

The room collectively inhaled, their shocked silence somehow louder than any gasp. Even Veronica, who had been alternating between jealousy and thinly veiled disdain, looked momentarily stunned.

Blaine’s grin widened, but a flicker of something passed behind his eyes—hesitation? Doubt? He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “You’re good, babe. Really good. But is it real? Are you Bunny? Or are you just playing her?”

Her stomach flipped, and for a moment, Emily threatened to break through, her mind screaming. He knows. He can tell. He can feel the cracks.

But Bunny took over. Bunny knew what to do.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and need. “Oh, I won’t tell you the answer to that . . . I’ll show you,” she purred, her voice low and dripping with honey. She glanced around the room, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “I’ll show everyone.”  And bunny pushed the on button on the radio.  

The first grinding beat of "Cherry Pie" exploded from the speakers, because of course that was what happened to be playing on the radio the second she turned it on. Fog hissed through the bottoms of the doors to the outside, curling around her ankles and spreading across the floor like a rolling tide, lit by neon laser lights that pulsed in time with the music. Pink and blue beams cut through the haze, flickering over her skin and turning her into a living mirage. Overhead, a disco ball spun slowly, scattering shards of glittery light across her curves.

She smiled—slow, deliberate, dangerous. "You wanted Bunny?" she purred, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. "You’ve got Bunny.  More Bunny than Bunny"

The bass thrummed through her body as she rolled her hips, each motion smooth and measured, every movement crafted to draw every eye in the room. The fog clung to her legs as she strutted forward, her heels clicking against the polished floor like the countdown of a clock.

Her gaze locked on Blaine. He was sitting back in his chair, legs spread wide, looking every bit the beachside king surveying his kingdom. But there was something new in his expression now: heat. Hunger. Challenge.

Make him believe, she told herself. Make them all believe.  Make YOURSELF believe.  

Her hands found the hem of her coconut bra, teasing it upward just enough to reveal the barest hint of skin. She caught Blaine’s gaze again, letting her tongue dart over her lips. “You all want this?” she cooed, her nails dragging over the straps, catching on the fishnet that hugged her body. “You want to see what Bunny’s all about?”

Whistles and cheers erupted from . . . somewhere, but Bunny barely heard them. She was locked on Blaine, her every move a taunt, a promise. His smirk faltered, replaced by something darker, sharper. Good.

She spun away from him, letting the music take her. Her hips swayed, her arms tracing sensuous paths through the air, her hair spilling over her shoulders in waves. Lights flickered across her skin, highlighting the curve of her waist, the arch of her back, the swell of her breasts. She turned sharply, finding a floor lamp in the corner, and with a wicked grin, pulled it to her like a partner in a dance.

Gripping the makeshift pole, she wrapped a leg around it, her thighs pressing tightly as she arched backward. Her hair cascaded in a glittering waterfall, her moan mingling with the screams of the crowd as she slid down, slow and sinuous. Her hands gripped the lamp, the metal cool against her palms as she threw herself into the performance, flipping her head back with a dramatic gasp.

The music pounded louder, and Bunny let go of the lamp, sauntering back to the center of the room. She dragged her hands down her thighs, hooking her fingers into the torn edges of her fishnets. With a sharp tug, the fabric ripped, the sound cutting through the beat. She gasped, letting her voice echo, her moans exaggerated but sultry as she revealed more skin, inch by tantalizing inch. Her thighs were bare now, the cool air against her heated flesh sending shivers up her spine.

The crowd's roar grew deafening as Bunny reached for a bottle of champagne, standing conveniently on a nearby table. She grabbed it, holding it above her head with both hands before shaking it vigorously. The cork popped with a loud burst, and the liquid erupted in a sparkling spray. She let it drench her, the cool fizz rolling down her chest, gliding between her breasts, soaking her fishnets until they clung like a second skin.

"Oops," she murmured, running her hands over her soaked body, spreading the liquid with slow, deliberate strokes. She moaned softly as her fingers teased over her curves, her thumbs brushing her nipples through the damp fabric. The noise she made sent Blaine’s knuckles tightening against the arms of his chair.

Somewhere, a chair screeched across the floor, and Bunny turned to grab it, flipping it backward before mounting it with a practiced swing of her legs. She straddled the seat, her knees pressing into the backrest, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she leaned backward, arching her body into a perfect crescent. She felt the tension in the room spike, the air thick with heat and desperation.

"Still doubting me, Blaine?" she asked, breathless but triumphant.

The music surged, and Bunny kicked herself upright, her hair whipping through the air like a black jade whip. Lights burst overhead, a kaleidoscope of color that mirrored the crowd’s frenzy. She tossed the chair aside, spinning back toward Blaine, and then, for the final act, grabbed a slice of cherry pie that was oh so conveniently there.  

She bit into it, the juices dripping down her lips, sweet and sticky. Her tongue darted out, catching the crimson trails, licking them away in slow, deliberate motions. The room was a frenzy of noise now, but she barely noticed. She ran her fingers over the pie, smearing it across her chest, letting her hands glide over the mess, spreading the sweetness with shameless abandon.

As the final beats of the song approached, Bunny took one last leap into the air, throwing her leg high. She landed in a split with a triumphant cry, her hair fanning out around her, her chest heaving, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk. She looked up at Blaine, who was now on his feet, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes blazing with something primal.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Bunny’s world had narrowed to one man. Blaine stormed forward, shoving aside anyone in his path. When he reached her, he held out his hand, his jaw tight, his voice a low growl.

Behind them, the faint strains of "Cherry Pie" faded into silence, leaving only the echo of Blaine’s commanding presence.

“Alright,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise, commanding instant silence. He strode toward her, his movements deliberate, his presence dominating. “That’s enough. You’ve proven your point,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You’re Bunny. All the way.”

Her breath hitched, her body arching into his touch. “Does that mean you believe me?”

He smirked, leaning in to brush his lips against her neck. “It means you’re coming with me. We’ve got a beach to save.  As for the rest of you,’ Blaine declared, “Show’s over.”

Veronica crossed her arms and glared. “Are you serious? After all this, you’re just going to shove us out so you can...what? Screw your little pet project?”

Mr. Pearson held up a hand. “Now, let’s not be hasty. There’s a lot at stake here—”

“I’m not leaving until I get what I came for,” Charlotte interrupted, her sultry tone undercut by the steel in her voice. She sidled up to Blaine, placing a manicured hand on his arm. “And trust me, darling, you’ll want to hear me out.”

Blaine didn’t even look at her. His eyes stayed locked on Bunny, his grip on her hip tightening. “I said,” he growled, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, “show’s over.”

The air shifted. Blaine’s presence filled the room like a storm cloud, and for a moment, even Veronica looked uncertain.

“You can’t seriously expect us to just leave!” Pearson barked, recovering from his hesitation. “The entire goddamn nature of our existence is on the line, Blaine! And this - - -—this... Bunny—is at the center of it all. I’m staying!”

Blaine sighed, running a hand through his sun-streaked hair. “Fine,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “You want to stay? Cool. Let’s make it simple.”

In one smooth motion, he grabbed a spare outfit of Bunny’s that was lying on a table, and then scooped Bunny into his arms, her squeal of surprise turning into a breathless giggle as he carried her toward the door. “I’ll go,” he said, throwing the door open with a slam that rattled the walls. “And she’s coming with me.”

“Wait—” Veronica tried again, but Blaine silenced her with a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. 

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he said. “You’ve got questions? Fine. Stay here and talk to the walls. Bunny and I have a contest to win.”

Charlotte threw her hands up in frustration. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” Blaine’s smirk returned, cocky and unbothered. “But I’m the one with the girl, so...”

Mr. Pearson opened his mouth, perhaps to deliver one last protest, but Blaine didn’t wait to hear it. He stepped out into the sunlit chaos of Bikini Week, Bunny cradled against his chest like a trophy. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the protests and leaving nothing but the roar of the beach ahead.

Bunny looked up at him, her heart pounding, her mind a whirl of excitement and terror. “I can walk, you know,” she said breathlessly, her voice tinged with playful sarcasm.

Blaine grinned down at her. “I know. But this way, everyone sees you’re mine.”

The words sent a thrill through her, even as Emily screamed somewhere in the back of her mind. He doesn’t own you. You’re doing this for a reason, remember? For the plan.

But Bunny didn’t care. Bunny preened in his arms, arching her back just enough to make her breasts press against his chest. “You like showing me off, huh?” she teased, her voice sweet and syrupy.

“Damn right I do,” Blaine said, his grin widening. “Now let’s go win this thing.”

The Bikini Car Wash Roller Disco Aerobics/Breakdancing Boombox Battle BBQ Muscle Surfing Tug-of-War Jet Ski Racing Wet-T-shirt Contest of Liberation awaited, and Bunny knew, deep down, that this was it. Her moment. Her chance to cement herself as the Queen of Bikini Week!

No, wait!  It was her final chance to escape.  Wasn’t it?