“I would expect a boy smart enough to consider serving his country would have the mental capability to grasp some bigger words or at least, look them up, sir.” It was apparent the military man was ruffled. It wasn’t possible for his face to get any redder, but his stance and tone of voice implied he was somewhat insulted.
“Last I checked the Army and the Marines didn’t have high IQ requirements.” Mr. Brown glowered smugly.
“Whoa. That’s harsh and uncalled for,” Victor murmured.
Felicity could only blink in surprise, both at what the judge had said and over the fact Victor had once again managed to get right next to her without her noticing. In this, she had to agree. Any respect she’d previously felt for the literary agent dropped a notch.
“Sir, I disagree.” Roy’s jaw tightened, and his hands fisted at his sides.
If the judges are trying to get under our skins one by one, they are succeeding. Roy had been the only one until now who’d remained unfrazzled.
“Tiffani,” Ms. Roberts broke the ice forming over the room.
“Yes.” Tiffani stepped forward, a bounce in her step.
“Your genre was erotica. Let’s talk a bit about your genre. Erotica is sexually arousing, yes. It contains lots of sexual elements and bedroom play, some of which may make readers uncomfortable. You have that part down.”
Tiffani preened. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she tossed her hair — an annoying habit. “Thank you.”
But Nicole was not done with her yet. The romance writer shifted in her chair and appeared to be coming up with the right words. “But … erotica must also have a solid story. If it doesn’t have a solid story, it becomes porn, which, sadly, is what you delivered to us today.”
Felicity couldn’t help it. She grinned. On camera, she knew it would look like gloating, and she also knew she could be at the receiving end of harsh criticism the next time around, but damn, it felt good.
“You have a man and woman meeting in a bar. There is no back-story at all. Almost from the get-go, they are tearing each other’s clothes off with their eyes — something not anatomically possible, by the way — and somehow in 3,000 words, the heroine not only fornicates with this man, but four others. What exactly happened here and where is the story? What’s the conflict? From what I can see, the only conflict is ‘who do I spread my legs for next?’”
A choking sound came from Victor. Felicity bit her lips to keep from doing the same. Carmen outright sniggered. Roy shook his head.
“I write this for a living. I know what sells,” Tiffani retorted.
“It’s rubbish,” Nicole stated flatly. “I won’t even get into the errors I found. The story is rubbish. It’s not a story.”
“Everyone, please retire upstairs while the judges and I make a decision. When you are called back, one of you will be closing your manuscript and going home,” Ophelia spoke in a firm voice.
The contestants, some red-faced, some with shoulders slumped, all of them nervous after the criticism was doled out — except maybe Victor, who had his cocky stride, trudged up the stairs to await their fate.
“This contest is bullshit!” Tiffani declared angrily as she threw herself on the sofa. “That woman wouldn’t know a solid erotica if it bit her on her fat ass!”
“She’s sold millions of books. How many have you sold?” Felicity couldn’t bite back the comment. It left her lips almost as soon as the thought formed.
“If you can’t take criticism, go home and save us all from your temper tantrums. You signed up for this. You knew you would get your work torn up. We’re here partly to learn.” Dez pushed his glasses up his nose.
“I’m not going home. That kid is.” Tiffani pointed at Arnold.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself,” Victor cut in smoothly. He caught Felicity’s gaze, and she quickly looked away. He was in cahoots with the porn writer. They could have each other.
“I’d like to know where you get off writing about a woman in the mall searching for pink shoes?”
A groan sounded through the group. Carmen wasn’t going to let that go.
“Girl, I’ve shopped for pink shoes. I don’t see what you are getting so upset over.” Felicity raised her hands in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture.
“There’s a thing called stereotypes, and —”
“I think Roy was insulted the most. Where did that guy get off insulting two branches of the military?” Victor changed the subject. Felicity slumped back in the cushion. They were all wound up and worried and taking it out on each other. Only Victor seemed calm and collected. Even she found herself getting caught up in the angry drama. How was she going to survive another six weeks of this?
She was losing sight of the bigger picture here.
The door opened, and Ophelia’s yellow suit filled the doorway. “We need to see Victor, Felicity, Arnold, and Tiffani.”
Oh Lord. Am I the one going home?
“Your challenge was to write a 3,000 word short story using a specific sentence to start it and write it in a certain genre. Two of you excelled at this. Two of you did not. One of you will be closing your manuscript and going home.” Ophelia’s dark gaze rested on each one of them as she spoke.
Felicity shut her eyes tight and willed her insides to calm down. She was so nervous she might need to make use of Dez’s writer’s cave.
“Felicity,” Ophelia announced.
Oh no. Was this head-hopping that bad? Aloud, she said, “Yes.”
“As we said earlier, great job. You excelled at combining your genre of choice with the genre you were assigned. You descriptions were spot on. We all felt as though we were there.”
Okaaaaay. Am I going home or not? She could only give them a nod as words had left her.
“Victor.” Ophelia aimed her gaze his way. “Excellent work. We have no complaints. The story was engrossing and well done considering how short you had to keep it.”
The Latino grinned proudly. “Thanks.”
“Arnold.”
The redhead was nearly quivering with nerves as he stepped forward from Felicity’s left.
“You did not excel in this. You do not grasp what literary fiction is. In all fairness, you were given the hardest genre to write. It takes a strong writer to pull off literary fiction, and you are not it.”
He stared at the ground and said nothing. The time for excuses was past.
“Tiffani.” Ophelia sighed. “If you want to excel at your chosen genre of erotica, find the line between erotic romance and porn and stay behind it. You had the chance to excel here and there really is no excuse for this … this … whatever it is.” Ophelia poked a pile of white sheets in front of her.
Tears welled in Tiffani’s eyes, making them large and watery. Felicity felt a stab of pity and glanced away. The judges were right, but that was quite a beat down.
“The winner of this challenge is by mutual agreement Victor.” Ophelia smiled at him.
Felicity stiffened. If he won, who lost?
“The judges have decided …”
Sharp intakes of breaths could be heard. Fists clenched at their sides as three of them waited their fate.
“Arnold, you do not have what it takes to be the next bestseller. Please close your manuscript and go home.”
Chapter Six
“Who came back?” Dez was craning his neck around his armchair to see who was walking in the door.
Victor cast him a wave. “I’m still here.”
“As am I.” Tiffani sauntered in behind him. “Barely,” she added.
Felicity brought up the rear. She didn’t look happy though, and Victor wondered if she’d grown fond of the redhead. He hung back and waited until she was next to him to speak. “You okay?”
He was expecting a brusque brush-off, but to his surprise she just sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know. I … feel guilty for being relieved it wasn’t me. He was a good guy who got a bad assignment. I don’t think I would excel at literary f
iction either.”
Victor laid a hand on her elbow and followed her to the sofa. Tiffani had wasted no time in taking Arnold’s vacated chair at the table, and he didn’t want to sit across from her.
“So … Arnold, huh? How did he take it?” Roy crossed one ankle over the other and glanced at the three who had just come back.
“Hard to say, they just asked him to close his manuscript and go home, and he turned around and walked to his writer’s cave, and we were told to come up here. No drama,” Felicity informed him.
“What did they say to you guys?”
“Well, mine was impeccable, Felicity’s was runner-up, and they tore Tiffani’s apart again. ‘Find the line between erotica and porn and stay on one side’,” Victor mimicked.
“Shut up, you arrogant prick,” Tiffani shouted, silencing everyone’s laughter.
“They should have sent you home. I’d be careful not to get sent up there again.”
Victor did a quick double take, surprised at not only the words coming out of Felicity’s mouth, but also the ferocity behind them. She was sticking up for him?
“How dare you?” Tiffani rose from her chair, anger radiating off her. Her hands were shaking where they rested on her hips. Her cheeks were red, her bosom heaving — literally. Victor laughed as the overdone romance cliché came to mind.
“You make a mockery of romance writing, and that’s all I’m going to say. I am tired of defending my genre because of people like you crossing that fine line. Romance is about love, not sex. Get your shit together or get off the show before you do my genre more damage.”
Victor felt Felicity’s body tense, saw the tightening around her mouth. She really meant what she said. The woman was passionate about what she did and wrote, and she made a good point, something he’d never thought about before. He was one of those who just threw all kinds of romance books in the same bin: worthless and unrealistic. For the first time ever, he was rethinking his attitude. There were apparently different divisions and classifications of romance.
“I don’t have to listen to you,” Tiffani stated coldly before turning and stomping out of the room.
Victor let out a whoosh of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. He’d been afraid there would be a nasty fight and that Felicity would be hurt, not because she couldn’t hold her own, but because she was too nice a type to harm another, even in self-defense.
And again, why the hell did he care? He felt like a blow landed in his solar plexus as he admitted to himself what he hadn’t wanted to think about: he was seriously starting to like Felicity James.
Uncomfortable with this train of thought, he scooted away from the object of his attraction.
Finally, Carmen broke the awkward silence. “Well, Dez, you going to put dibs on Arnold’s writer’s cave, or are you going to stick with your crapper?”
“How do you feel about being eliminated today?”
The redhead shook his head. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the floor instead of the camera. “I feel pretty disappointed. I feel like I didn’t even have a chance to show what I can do. We’re not tattoo artists. We shouldn’t have to be versatile. You choose something you want, you write it, and if you’re lucky, someone buys it.” He shrugged, glanced up finally, his lips downturned. “People don’t come to us saying, ‘write me this’.”
Silence greeted him. He blinked rapidly. “I’m going to keep writing though. Someday, you’ll see a book out there with my name on it.”
“A head-hop is a sudden point of view switch.”
“What?” Felicity glanced up from the book she was reading — one of Nicole Roberts’s. She’d actually packed it, having no foresight whatsoever that the woman she’d long admired was going to be judging her.
Victor sat on the edge of her bed, turning his body just enough to face her where she was propped against the headboard. “Like, if you are in Mookie’s point of view and you’re telling us how Mookie feels … that Mookie desires Dookie with a fierce passion he’s never felt before and then you suddenly switch over and tell us what Dookie is feeling … you’re switching POV. It can be jarring to a reader. Some publishers allow it. Some don’t. It’s something to watch for in your genre of writing.” He watched her intently as though waiting for her response.
Her book discarded in her lap, Felicity didn’t know what to say. She was unnerved by his sudden kindness and also by the fact he was on her bed, next to her, and he looked good enough to … no, no.
He blinked at her and apparently assumed she didn’t comprehend, because he continued, “Mookie and Dookie are … are eating sandwiches. Mookie is thinking his salami tastes too peppery and doesn’t Dookie look funny with her hair all messed up? And then suddenly Dookie is thinking Mookie looks like he’s tasted something bad. Basically, you have to choose one point of view, Mookie’s or Dookie’s, and stick with it. Say you choose Mookie. If Mookie can’t see it, hear it, taste it, feel it, touch it, he can’t tell us about it.”
Throughout his explanation, his hands moved animatedly, pantomiming different things: eating a sandwich, having messy hair, the act of hearing, but Felicity couldn’t get past one thing.
“Where the hell do you come up with your character names?” She chortled with laughter. Her insides hurt she laughed so hard, and her spirits lifted. Tears ran down her face. He looked bewildered momentarily and soon joined in, his dimples flashing.
“I mean, those names are sooo unromantic. I have no words,” she finally gasped out when she got control of her wits.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m a guy.” He spread his hands out, palms up.
Felicity turned serious, thinking about what he’d said. “So, the five senses? Like, if I’m narrating a scene and you don’t convey something, I can’t know what you’re thinking, unless you say it aloud or something in your body language tells me. I have to hear it or see it myself to tell the reader about it.”
“Exactly.” And suddenly, before she could react, he reached out and tenderly touched her cheek, brushing away an escaped tear.
Felicity held her breath. His touched burned a trail on her face. She fought the urge to close her eyes and just savor it, this second of … of … whatever was between her and this guy. If she could capture the moment and bottle it, she would. She’d dab the feeling all over her body every day.
She cleared her throat as his finger left her face. “Why are you helping me?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was strained, tired. His expression was one of bewilderment. What was going on behind the brown depths of his gaze? “But I’m not in cahoots with Tiffani. I want to just get that out of your pretty head right now.”
He thinks I’m pretty? Aloud, she said, “Then what was that about? Yesterday? What Tiffani said?” She crossed her arms over her chest, the only barrier she had at the moment, but what was she protecting? Her pride? Her heart?
He sighed and stared at the floor next to her bed. “I was a fool and ended up hurting myself more than you. The extent of our corroboration is switching beds. I thought my nearness — yes, arrogant ass, I know — would throw you off your game, ‘cause, frankly, I see you as the biggest threat.”
“Um…” He’d managed to insult her and compliment her at the same time. Felicity couldn’t stop the wrinkle marring her brow. “Okay, well, ‘thank you’ and ‘what the fuck’ both come to mind.” She released an uncomfortable laugh and fingered the pages of her novel. They’d all be dog-eared by the time she was done. Hopefully, Ms. Roberts wouldn’t see it.
He offered a sheepish grin.
“So you thought my game could be thrown off as easily as that? I’m not some high school girl. I’m a grown-ass thirty-year-old woman, and I’m not easily sidetracked.” Well … she bit her lips to stop the smile that threatened to emerge.
His t-shirt pulled against taut muscles as he pushed himself off the bed. The urge to reach out and grab him, to pull him down until his long body covered hers almost overwhelmed her. Hot fire built in
her lower belly, and she was grateful for her dark skin. If she’d been a pale woman, the heat and desire within her would be evident as it burned through her flesh.
“I realize that now.” His voice was low and husky. He had his hands in his pockets as he turned away from her bed.
“Wait,” she called after him. “How did you end up hurting yourself?”
“You snore,” he said over his shoulder. “I can’t sleep a wink with all that racket.”
“What?” Felicity gaped at his retreating back and before he got too far away, she hefted her pillow and threw it in his direction. It landed on the floor next to him, and he laughed all the way out of the room, great, shoulder-moving gusts of laughter.
“Before we go on to the second round of challenges, does anyone wish to compete for Arnold’s writing cave?” Nicole Roberts stood in front of them, near the lone vacant dining chair, hands clasped in front of her, patiently waiting.
Oooh, the room with the fireplace … dare she? Felicity was doing just fine where she was though. Would she change her luck if she moved?
“Me. I want it,” Tiffani rushed to get her name in.
“Oh, hell yea.” Dez stuck a finger in the air. “I could use a change of scenery.”
“What happened to ‘I can write anywhere, I’m just that good?’” Carmen snickered.
“Thought about it,” Roy said, “but thanks to the sunscreen, I’m all right. It’s a nice spot. There’s even a tape or something that plays the sounds of birds.”
“Anyone else?” Nicole glanced around, waiting, giving them — giving her — a chance. Felicity bit her lip. She did want the room, but, really, Dez had to sit on the toilet, and while she wouldn’t mind beating Tiffani, she didn’t want to stir up more trouble. The woman was glaring at her from across the room.
There were six more rounds to go, and she didn’t want to worry about being murdered in her sleep.
Victor caught her eye, and she shook her head.
“All right then. Tiffani and Dez, come on downstairs and get the official instructions on your writing challenge for the cozy fireplace room.”
Plotting to Win Page 6