Author's Note: This story is rated T due to sexual situations, violence and language. Please do not read if these things offend you, or if you want to remain pure from my horrible mind. To the rest of you sickos, thanks for reading.

I do not own Dead Island. It's just a fun game to play.

Tan Lines

By Sebastian Sebastian

Act I

Madison

Chapter One

Girl On Film

Right now, I'm rethinking my career as an actress.

Sadly, I'm not the kind of actress you think I'm suggesting- the ones cloaked in glamour, that parade down the red carpet all shiny and squeaky clean, getting blinded by paparazzi camera flashes, dating asexual-mannequin-men just to use them as arm candy. No, I'm not the girl who needs wardrobe changes between television interviews, or getting talked about freely on primetime TV every time she accidently gives the perverts a crotch shot.

I wanted to be, though...at one time or another.

There are things I don't talk about, and so I'll spare you the sorted tale of my demise. Let's just say I didn't have the best childhood and I dreamed of nothing more than being a red-headed TV vixen. MTV told me, or at least I translated it so, that the easiest way to reach fame was by using my sexuality; I could attain the American Dream by making sure my lips were extra pouty and my breasts extra perky. I sure as hell went for it. I was sixteen when I broke up with my boring boyfriend, ran away from the trailer park and moved to Los Angeles with the hopes of turning everything around, but no... Things never work out the way you plan.

Six years later, here I am. I'm standing before Dillon, the sleaze ball, who has mutton chops and a soul patch. This combination of facial hair makes me rather uneasy, especially when he's telling me to undo my bikini top.

"Ginger," he calls me in a tone that makes me cringe and moves the camera towards my face. "The audience is waiting."

I force a smile and giggle, as the sea air whips my hair towards the shoreline. Waves slap against the sides of the yacht, and seagulls squawk in the sky. It's gorgeous out and I love the feeling of the sun on my bare shoulders, but I'm concealing unhappiness. I glance down and notice an excessive amount of body-glitter on my stomach. I hate body glitter. It's too hard to wash off.

The captain, who I notice, is smiling at me weirdly as he steers. He licks his lips and I want to curse at him, but instead I smile and offer a small wave. He gets a free show, doesn't he?

A smaller boat motors by, and the other four girls are now topless and bubbling the way certain girls do. They jump up and down and yell at the male driver, who has his own scantily clad guest tanning on board. She laughs at the nudity, stands up and undoes her top as well. Good for her, no tan lines. The driver laughs and toasts us. I'm almost blinded by his stark white veneers.

Everyone's so much better at partying than I am- all four of the girls with me are drunk and at least two are possibly high. They're supposed to be that way, you know, that whole Girls Gone Crazy! thing- we're supposed to be drunk, making out with each other and telling the world how much we hate our daddies, but... I don't drink much these days. I like to keep my senses to me, especially being so far from home.

"I'm shy," I say, honeying my voice, setting my wide-eyed expression on the camera and putting my manicured fingers to my lips as if to say oops.

I have to get it through my thick skull, I wasn't Madison anymore. I was Ginger Slaps, the innocent-looking red head with the big green eyes, thick thighs, wearing a butterfly tattoo on her ribs, and humble breasts. Unlike the real me, she's a naive college freshman studying to be a marine biologist. She is from a well-off Christian family, but is bored of her wholesome upbringing and wants a taste of naughty adventure.

"Don't be shy, baby," he says, putting his hat on backwards with his free hand and crouching down to get a better view of my athletic body. "Show daddy what you got."

"Ok," I whisper innocently, my hesitance isn't acting, but Dillon doesn't know that. "I guess I could for a moment."

Slowly, I move my hands behind me to start untying my top. I can feel the secure string start to unravel, one more tug would expose me to the world. Why do I care? I have done this countless times before, but this time is different...

"Dillon, I can't-" I say dropping my wide eyed I've-never-done-this-before persona, and retying the string. I place my hand on my stomach and sigh, I've actually done this one too many times.

"What? What's wrong?" Dillon puts the camera down and looks at me with concern. The girls stare at me strangely. I realize they don't like me much. "Are you getting sea sick? If you're going to puke, please do it over the railing."

"I don't feel comfortable with this," I say. "I don't want to do this anymore."

The other four girls, whom I don't really know, look rather annoyed. They roll their eyes and grab for their tops.

"Let's go pop another bottle of champagne," one of the girls huff. She shoots dirty looks my way, but I ignore her. Unsatisfied by the interaction, she growls and picks up her bikini from off the ground. "I can't work like this. I'm just so sick of her."

"She's a prude," says a plastic looking blonde girl with a higher pitched voice. She's following behind and swiveling her naked hips. "She's not going to last long in this industry."

The girls disappear below deck to drink some more before they have to start filming again.

"What do you mean, you don't want to do this anymore?" he asks. "God, Ginger, we just flew you to effing Banoi, for God Sakes. It's beautiful here. You don't even have to touch the other girls, all you gotta do is get drunk, have fun, and get naked. You've done it a thousand times."

"This time is different," I say. "I'm not sure if this is for me anymore."

"You're not sure?" Dillon says angrily, wagging his finger in my face. "I've had enough of this. We're done here. We're done because you're fired."

I don't say anything in return. I don't like the way his finger is so close to my head, and I want to break it. I wish I could walk away, but that's kind of hard to do on a boat.

"Captain," Dillon shouts at the disappointed-faced boat driver. "Take us back to shore."

Dillon looks at me as if he wants to punch me in the face. He probably would if he thought he could get away with it.

Don't do this, Dillon. I'm warning you.

"YOU'RE DONE, YOU HEAR ME," he's gaining fuel. "You're finished. You'd better find your own way back home, because I'm not paying for you to act like you're freakin' Princess of Titsylvania, Ginger."

"My name is Madison," I say through gritted teeth.

Just let this be, Dillon, please...

"You have no name," Dillon spits on me when he screams. I can feel the hotness of breath. He's too close to me now. "You're dead to me. You're a loser, a reject. That's why Max doesn't want you anymore. No wonder he beat you. He's going to love hearing about this. Good luck finding something to do other than this. The only skill you have is being a complete waste of-"

I hit him in the wind pipe, and he falls the ground with a thud. He's coughing, painfully struggling for air. I don't feel any better, really, but he shouldn't have screamed at me that way.

I guess that was my official resignation.

Right now, I'm rethinking my career as an actress.