Plotting to Win

by Tara Chevrestt

  “Oh my God. I sooo don’t want that one.” Tiffani pointed at a section to their left, containing a hard concrete floor, kindergarten-like pictures on the walls, and a tiny wooden school desk in the center with an old box-like computer sitting on top. Felicity cringed. That, so far, was the worst room, and any writer who got stuck in it was going to be severely handicapped, indeed.

  “That one looks nice!”

  “Check this one out.”

  “Oh my God! This is a bathroom! Who writes on the toilet?”

  Toilet? Felicity had thought it was a real bathroom, though she’d been slightly alarmed that only a black curtain would separate it from the rest of the building. Who, indeed, wrote on a toilet? Surely, that was a joke. A hysterical laugh threatened to burst from her at this new revelation. Did anyone write on the toilet? She knew people read on the toilet but — “Just how are these going to be assigned?”

  “I’m assuming this is where we’re going to write … but, like, for the duration of the show?”

  Questions flew left and right. This time, Ms. Roberts stepped forward to explain, one elegant hand raised to deflect their queries. “Most of this contest is going to be based on your talent and performance. As this is not an official challenge, however, we’re going to base it on pure luck.”

  “Oh shit. Are we going to roll dice, ’cause I suck at gambling.” The horror writer ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

  “We are going to draw names from a hat. You will all write your own names on a piece of paper, place them in the hat yourselves, and each one of you will take turns drawing a name. The first name drawn will do his or her writing in room number one.” She gestured toward the first room on her right, a room that looked like an executive office, complete with plush massage chair, a laptop that looked state-of-the-art, paintings on the walls, carpeting, and a mahogany desk in front of what appeared to be the only window in the cave.

  Whoever got that one would be lucky and content, but that wasn’t the one Felicity had her eye on. She didn’t write about lawyers. She wrote romance. There was another room she wanted, just based on what she had seen thus far — surely the bathroom was a bathroom, not a writing cave — but judging from the oohs and aahs, the executive room was highly desired.

  “So … if this isn’t a challenge, are we being recorded?” Carmen peered around, a suspicious look on her face.

  Ophelia stepped forward and nodded. “You are. This is the first episode. After this, you will be shown to the loft, where you will all reside during the duration of the show, until elimination. In that case, different accommodations will be provided for you, as was already explained.”

  Felicity remembered the contract. It had been pages long. One of the clauses was that if a contestant was eliminated, their elimination had to remain a secret until the airing of the episode in which they were eliminated. Accommodations would be provided in a private hotel and no contact with outside world was permitted during the week it took viewers to be caught up.

  It didn’t sound very appealing, but Felicity didn’t plan on being eliminated.

  “How long do we have to write in our designated cave?” This came from Roy, the military man. The question they were all wondering.

  Ophelia smoothed the waist of her already perfect pink suit jacket as she explained, “You must work in the cave your name is drawn for until the first elimination. When a contestant is eliminated, should another contestant wish for the previous contestant’s cave, he or she may have it — unless,” she raised a hand as mouths opened to question or comment, “unless more than one contestant wants the cave in question. In that case, you must compete for them in a writing contest that will be voted on by viewers of the show. The winner gets the cave. We will go through this after each elimination, unless everyone wishes to keep the caves they are assigned today. Viewers will be allowed to vote on your writing online.”

  “Doubtful. Whoever gets that isn’t going to want to stay there.” Victor nodded toward the school desk. Would he even fit in it, Felicity wondered? The desk looked more suited to an eight-year-old, not a six-foot hunk of muscle — what in the world was she thinking?

  Victor wasn’t here to make friends, and she wasn’t here to pick up men. Felicity was still shaking her head at herself when a square piece of paper was placed into her hand along with a ballpoint pen.

  The literary agent, Allen Brown, instructed them in a brusque tone of voice as he handed out the pens and papers. “Write your name, first and last, nothing else, legibly on the paper then fold it evenly into a square, two folds.”

  Felicity looked for a solid place to write and was surprised to find Carmen offering her back. “Write on me,” the woman said over her shoulder, “and I’ll write on you. I get the feeling if we dare to walk into those sections, any section, before they’re assigned, we’ll get some kind of reprimand from Mr. Constipated there.”

  Felicity laughed, but complied, placing the paper against the other woman’s bony back and scribbling her name legibly on it. She capped her pen and folded her paper into fourths. Around her, the others were pairing up to do the same. Felicity wondered if they were already teaming up subconsciously, and if so, how long would they stay teams before turning on each other?

  “Your turn.” She turned so Carmen could do the same, though she would have to bend quite a bit as she was a lot taller than Felicity. “It does feel like we’re being treated like school children, doesn’t it?” She attempted to make small talk as she felt the pen tip scribbling across her upper back.

  “It sure does. What room you wanting? I saw that Arnold guy almost drooling for the executive office.” The sound of her pen retracting punctuated her last word.

  Feeling as though the ice had broken, Felicity turned and smiled at her new ‘possible partner’. “I write romance, so naturally, I find myself gravitating to that one in the middle over there. From what I can see of it, it has a fireplace, though I think it’s probably electric, but it’s just so romantic. And that plush bear rug in front of it. I can totally imagine a couple drinking wine —”

  “I hope that’s not real.” Carmen sniffed. “PETA will tear this show to pieces.”

  And quick as that, their easy camaraderie was broken.

  Before further words could be exchanged, Mr. Brown came back around, a cowboy hat held out in front of him. “Place your names in the hat, please.”

  Felicity eyed the little white squares as each one was dropped into the hat, making sure no one had folded theirs any differently, but Mr. Brown was watching with an eagle-eye, so she decided she needn’t worry.

  She could hardly believe she was already feeling this paranoid, and the competition hadn’t even started. But there was a lot at stake, and she hadn’t quit her 60,000 dollars a year day job just to come here and lose.

  There was nothing she wanted more than a career as an author, but her savings were dwindling and agents weren’t responding. All she needed was this chance, this boost to her career.

  There was no question she could write, but with ten million others vying for the same agents, it was hard to get noticed.

  “Room one.” Mr. Brown stood in front of the executive office. “Mr. Hancock, you draw first as we are going alphabetical by last names.”

  The handsome African-American bobbed his head and stepped around Victor and Tiffani to stand next to the literary agent. Mr. Brown held the hat in front of him. “Please do not look inside the hat when you draw.”

  Tension mounted. Felicity heard someone suck in a breath as Dez averted his gaze and stuck his hand in the hat. Ophelia stepped forward to take the white paper from his fingers. Nothing could be heard except the sound of the flaps coming apart as she opened it.

  She stared at them, making them wait, drawing it out. Finally, “Carmen Montez.”

  A few dissatisfied grunts sounded through the room.

  “Wow. I didn’t expect that.” The women’s fiction writer raised a fist in the air as she sauntered tow
ard her writer’s cave. “I can write anywhere though, of course,” she added.

  Someone snorted. Felicity assumed it was Victor. Already, she was recognizing the unique sound and mannerisms that were his. Get a grip. Focus. Not here for men.

  “Room two.” Mr. Brown strode a few decent paces until he stood in front of the schoolroom. “Ms. James.”

  Felicity gulped. Now she knew why they were making the contestants draw the names. No matter whose name she drew, that person was going to be infuriated with her. Already, they would have resentment within the group. Great — just great. Why did this have to be number two?

  Being careful not to allow her face to reveal her disconcertment, she stepped forward, trying not to totter on her heels with nervousness. Feeling all eyes on her, she carefully looked away — was that bathroom meant for writing? She fingered a paper in the hat.

  On cue, Ophelia plucked it from her hand as soon as she withdrew the paper.

  Crinkling sounded again.

  “Oh, man,” someone whispered.

  Another contestant shuffled, his shoes making noise on the hard floor.

  “Tiffani Love, you have room two.”

  “What?” The blonde’s mouth fell open and tears welled in her eyes. “You are kidding, right?” She aimed the question in Felicity’s direction.

  Felicity gave her a helpless shrug. “I didn’t see the name on it. I just pick —”

  “Ms. Love, you can see your name on here clear as day. Did you not write your name just like this?” The talk show host held the white piece of paper open for them all to view. Though Felicity had to squint to see it, it did, indeed, say Tiffani Love with big, bold, curly script, complete with a heart on the end of the word love.

  “I-I did, but —”

  “Excellent, Ms. Love, you are next to draw. Room three, Mr. Brown.” And just like that, Tiffani and her tears were dismissed.

  The erotic writer glared at Felicity as she walked past on her way to room two. “Thanks a lot.”

  Felicity didn’t bother to reply. What could she say? She hadn’t known what was on the paper. She caught Victor grinning at her, and she turned just in time to see a dimple in his cheek before his expression became serious once again as another name was about to be called.

  Room three appeared to be a coffee shop with a long table and chair — not very comfortable looking, but not the worst. It had a tiled floor, a laptop on the table, coffee-themed pictures on the beige walls, and a cappuccino machine at one end.

  Felicity smiled. They had been pretty creative with this.

  “Victor Guzman,” Ophelia announced.

  “Cool.” Victor didn’t appear the least bit perturbed. Felicity wondered if he actually did write in coffee shops. Did he go by himself or did he have a lovely woman on his arm? Why was she even remotely curious?

  “Arnold Manning,” the literary agent called.

  “What? Do I get room four? It doesn’t really suit me.” The redheaded horror guy looked panicked, and Felicity could see why. Room four was nice, but wouldn’t help to create a scary story. A daybed with a ruffled floral-printed comforter was against one of the walls. A box seat with pillows under a window — there were two windows, after all — was another seating option. A table with a few drawers was against the last wall. A pink throw rug was centered over wood flooring.

  It was perfect … for a teenage girl.

  “No. It’s your turn to draw.”

  Arnold looked both nervous and relieved. He eyed them as he stuck his hand in the hat.

  Ophelia wasted no time in retrieving his choice and reading off the name. “Felicity James.”

  Felicity sighed but nodded. It wasn’t a very romantic setting, but it could be worse. At least she’d be comfortable.

  “Let’s go to the other side, please.”

  Obediently, they followed Mr. Brown to room five: the cozy fireplace setting.

  Felicity bit back another sigh. She could just imagine lying on that rug, a handsome Latino feeding her S’mores.

  Latino? Wait, hold up. That Victor must be mind-fucking me somehow.

  She allowed herself a quick glance in his direction. He winked.

  Oh, the nerve! He probably knew how badly she’d wanted this room. She glared and crossed her arms, not caring that she was being childish. If she was going to be in a child’s room …

  “Arnold Manning, you have room five.”

  She’d missed the drawing. Oh, well.

  They moved on to room six, and there were a lot of appreciative murmurs, not because anyone wanted the hard park bench, but because it was such a unique idea.

  “This is kind of neat.”

  “I sometimes write in my park.”

  “I’d bring my dog here.” Someone laughed.

  The room’s floor was covered with fake green grass. The park bench sat against a far wall, a large potted tree next to it. A sunny day at the park mural was painted on the opposite wall, allowing the occupant to stare at happy smiling children with their mothers, dogs chasing Frisbees, and birds catching worms.

  But the light was so bright.

  “Shit, is that a hot lamp, like, for a lizard?” Arnold again.

  “Wow. It is. Someone will need some sunglasses,” Dez agreed.

  Carmen was drawing the name this time.

  “Roy Meachum, you are in room six.”

  A few chuckles ensued. Some even slapped the poor guy on the back. Felicity hoped he’d brought some sunscreen. He was one of those really white white guys, and his hair was so short, she could see patches of skin.

  She cast him a sympathetic smile, but he merely shrugged and checked out his new cave. “I’ve survived worse. I was in the war.”

  “Thank you for your service,” Felicity murmured to him as they headed to the last room.

  She was rewarded with a genuine smile, the first real one without malice she’d received since first meeting Tiffani. Yea, Tiffani wouldn’t be aiming any more smiles her way.

  “I guess there’s no need to draw my name as I’m the last one left.” Dez’s shoulders slumped as the other contestants began to laugh.

  Felicity drew close enough and peered around shoulders until her fears were confirmed. There was no mistaking room seven for anything other than a bathroom, with its tiled floor, claw-foot tub, and toilet.

  “You got the best room, actually.” Victor slapped Dez on the back. “You can take care of business while the rest of us have to hold it.”

  “We could just borrow his room when we have to go.” Arnold guffawed.

  “Hell, no. I don’t want all of you stinking up my room.”

  This warranted more laughter. Even the judges were smiling. At least Dez was taking it with good humor. The black man merely stood there, shaking his head, a sardonic smile on his face.

  Felicity decided to join in the conversation. “Just throw a few pillows in that tub, and it will actually be more comfortable than you think. Why do you think us women love bubble baths?”

  Victor aimed his dark, hooded gaze her way, his lips curling up. Felicity’s face heated. Was he imagining her in a tub? Naked? Under bubbles?

  “Authors, you now have your assigned writing caves. These are to be your caves until the first elimination. Only then may you compete for another cave, the newly vacated one.” Ophelia was taking over again. “Now, you shall be taken to the loft, where you will all sleep, eat, and socialize during your time with us.”

  “Thank God I don’t have to sleep on the toilet!”

  Chuckling, good humor mostly restored, they followed punk girl up the stairs to what was to be their home for the next seven weeks.

  Chapter Three

  The beautiful light-chocolate-skinned woman kept looking at him — probably because he kept looking at her. It was a relief to hit the stairs. Victor held back long enough to make sure she was in front of him, allowing him a delicious view of her rear end as she climbed ahead of him. He could look, just briefly, to his heart’s conte
nt, with her none the wiser.

  Or to his dick’s content, as it was certainly forming a hard opinion.

  Every woman with killer curves like hers should wear form-fitting slacks. He’d noticed her from the moment she’d pulled up in the cab. Warm brown eyes, soft curls framing an oval face, pink lips with some kind of shiny gloss. Like he said, he wasn’t here to make friends. But he could look.

  He grasped the bannister as their steps made loud clomping sounds on the wooden stairs. Be hard to sneak out of this place, even if we were allowed.

  Show rules stated they would get all their food, entertainment, and sleep time right here in this loft. Victor didn’t look forward to that part of the show: being confined to one area for so long, but he understood the need to keep the outside world, viewers, fans, and press from getting hints or warnings as to what was happening on the show.

  Then again, maybe being cooped up with the lovely Felicity wouldn’t be too bad, if she stayed as long as he did. He certainly wasn’t going home, not with that badly needed hundred grand at stake. His mother needed it. He couldn’t take care of her anymore, and home healthcare was out of his budget.

  The thought of his mother’s pitiful cries in the night as she woke to realize she’d walked into the living room in her confusion and had mistaken a sofa cushion for the toilet caused his jaw and his resolve both to harden.

  She barely remembered who he was some days. Alzheimer’s coupled with a stroke made her unable to speak now and he couldn’t watch her twenty-four seven. The time had come to admit he had to relinquish some of the responsibilities, but that took money he didn’t have. It had taken a whopper of a loan to provide full-time care while he was on the show.

  In all her years of caring for him, she’d never stopped to take care of herself, never had insurance. It wasn’t until she was hospitalized that he discovered the dire circumstances of his mother’s financial situation. Medicare only covered so much.

  Growing up, his mama had said repeatedly, “Writing, Vic? Writing is not a stable profession. You must have a backup plan.”

  Well, mama, this writing gig is going to take care of you.