“Thank you,” she murmured, hoping that was an end to the criticism.
“I think you all learned a lot from your cover art session today,” Ophelia said. “Please retire to the loft and when we’ve made a decision, we’ll call you.”
Was it safe to breathe yet?
A rush of air escaped Felicity as she cast one last glance at the covers on display behind the judges’ heads.
Whose was the worst? She didn’t think hers was all that bad, but the word boring wouldn’t leave her alone.
“There are three of you that sucked. It could go either way between you,” Dez pointed at Felicity from his chair, “you,” his finger aimed toward Victor sitting casually at the table, “or you,” he finished by aiming at Carmen. “Roy, man, you’re starting to irritate me. I didn’t see you as a threat until now. I need to send your ass home.”
Roy only gave him a tight smile. It was hard to get Roy going.
“I think it’s Victor. If it’s not, I’ll raise a ruckus. What’d she say about yours?” Carmen lifted a hand to her ear as though listening intently. “Oh, yea, Sherlock Holmsy, not Godfathery.” She snorted. “But, wait, Felicity’s was boring.”
Dez laughed. Felicity cringed. Victor said nothing. That was quickly becoming the norm.
Could the judges come collect them any sooner?
A knock on the doorjamb broke the tension filling the room. “We need to see Dez, Carmen, Felicity, and Victor. Roy, you’re going to be alone here,” Ms. Roberts informed them. “Let’s go.”
“Hello again, guys.” Ophelia nodded from behind her desk — or throne as Felicity was coming to think of it. “Your assignment was to work with a cover artist on designing a cover for your manuscript. One of you excelled. The other three did not impress us overly much, and it’s from this three that we are choosing someone to go home.”
Felicity couldn’t stop her sharp intake of breath. Boring cover. Shit. If she went home, she understood she deserved it, but oh, please …
“I don’t feel there’s any need to go over your cover critiques again, so I’m going to cut straight to the heart of the matter.” Ophelia shifted and tapped her fingers on the table. Behind her, their boring covers glared at them from the screen. On either side of the talk show host, the other two judges sat in stoic silence, the guest judge was nowhere to be seen.
Felicity stared at her boat with a couple in it, a barely visible couple, a boring cover, and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to tamp down a rising sense of panic. That cover could be her downfall.
On her right, Victor stiffened and clenched his jaw. How had they once again ended up standing together? His nearness perturbed her.
“The judges have decided …” Ophelia paused. “Dez.”
Dez’s eyes widened, and he visibly gulped, his Adam’s apple moving up and down. “Yes.”
“You just may have what it takes to be the next bestseller, and you are moving on to the next round.”
“Oh shit, man.” Dez ran a hand over his face. “Had me scared there for a minute.” He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow.
Oh, man. This is killing me. Felicity shifted from one foot to the other, not sure what to do with herself. Finally, she shoved her hands in her jeans’ pockets.
She briefly pictured how this must look to viewers. Did they have dramatic music during these long, suspenseful pauses?
“The other three of you … your covers didn’t wow us, but we had to pick the least favorite,” Nicole said.
Ophelia nodded solemnly. “Carmen …”
Felicity waited, breath held. Were they going to say ‘you may have it what it takes’? Use another stall tactic to increase their discomfort?
“… you do not have what it takes to be the next bestseller. Please close your manuscript and go home.”
“Fuck you, fuckers!” Carmen roared.
Chapter Twelve
“What are your thoughts after this elimination challenge?”
Carmen sneered from where she straddled the stool backward. “Fuck. You know what? Just fuck. The judges are brainwashed and in love with that Victor dude. Even when he does something fucking shitty, they let him stay. Everybody’s entranced by that fucker. Even Felicity. Stupid chick, being fucking sidetracked by a man. Women like that …” She shook her head. “I’m not falling for that bullshit. I’m too strong. This was a conspiracy. They wanted me gone.”
The voice came from behind the camera. “The judges are brainwashed? Even Mr. Brown?”
She nodded and crossed her arms over the top of the stool. “Why the fuck not? This is 2013. This is the time for women and gays, if only the women got their heads out of their fucking asses and …”
She prattled on, and the cameraman sighed. “Going to be a lot of bleeps in this feed,” he warned the sound technician to his left.
“That was intense. They really stressed me out,” Dez said.
“That was kind of a cruel trick,” she agreed, sitting on the loveseat adjacent to his perch on a sofa. They were settled in with popcorn and soda, prepared to watch the second episode recorded the week before.
“It was vicious. I thought I was gone.” He tossed a handful of popcorn into his mouth then spoke around it, “At least I got her writer’s cave. Surprised none of you challenged me for it. Toilet was starting to leave a ring around my ass.”
Felicity shut her eyes at the vision that popped in her head. Why in the world would he have the lid up?
“I wish I’d been there.” Roy shook his head and chuckled. “I can imagine the look on your face.”
“Where’s Victor?” Dez reached for the popcorn bowl on the coffee table again as the show’s opening credits started.
“Hm. I don’t know.” Felicity avoided his gaze. The screen was displaying pictures of all the contestants in thoughtful writing poses. The pictures had been taken a week before the show started. She’d been advised to wear solid colors, no trademarks or logos, and her shot was with her thoughtfully chewing a pencil as she sat at a desk, a pile of paper in front of her. It wasn’t her most flattering pose, but she understood what they’d been doing as the different contestants and their pictures quickly rolled across the screen. Carmen was tossing papers in the air, a gesture of a frustrated writer. Victor was arching a brow from behind his laptop, only his nose and sexy eyebrows visible. Victor … that man was infuriating.
Finally, the credits ended, and soon they were all watching and listening to themselves talk about Arnold being eliminated. Tiffani came on screen, on the dreaded stool, where they made them talk about the show. She had lots of snarky stuff to say — namely about Felicity. Never been kissed? Really? Felicity scoffed. I’ve been kissed in ways that rocked my world. Just last week … oh, shit. She hoped it wouldn’t be on TV. Should she get up and leave the room just in case? No, that would make her look chicken shit.
A commercial break, then it switched to Dez making another of his sandwiches, the group groaning and throwing pillows at him.
Felicity, Dez, and Roy made offhand comments about how they looked on camera or wished they’d said this or that instead as they watched the second elimination go down on the screen. Felicity marveled that it was so easy to pack so many events, so much of what they were feeling throughout the week into an hour episode.
A prickling on the back of her neck alerted her to his presence. She glanced up and turned slightly to see Victor standing in the game room doorway, watching them, his arms casually crossed as he leaned against the jamb. His white shirt was slightly open at the collar, allowing a few black hairs to show.
Despite what he’d done, she felt her heartbeat increase.
A startled sound from Dez alerted her that something interesting was the television, and she swung around in time to see her and Victor lip-locked for the entire world to view. His mouth was on hers, and she was definitely not fending him off.
“You two … what the fuck? That can’t be right. They can’t allow this shit,” Dez said in an
accusing tone. “What the …”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Victor spoke quickly from the doorway. “It was mine.”
“I don’t see her pushing you away, man.” Dez gestured at the screen with his arm.
“It was nothing. I’m still here to win.”
And with those words, he cut her to the core again. There was nothing she wanted more than to rant, rave, tell him how she really felt, but she’d be damned if she gave the cameras anything more. Screw the ratings. This was her life.
She held back her tears, firmed her jaw, and stared straight ahead at the TV screen, ignoring Dez’s complaining, ignoring Roy’s gaping mouth and wide eyes, and refusing to look at Victor Guzman again.
Sleeping next to him, just a bed away, working next to him … was going to be pure torture. The man was a prick, but despite it all, he still had her entranced. But this was not the time or the place to have it out with him.
She wondered if there would ever be a time.
“Victor, Felicity, we need to see you downstairs.” Ophelia’s voice surprised the four contestants as they sat around the dining table eating their breakfasts.
Roy merely raised his eyebrows over his coffee mug. Felicity set her spoon down in her cereal bowl, the tinkle of metal on ceramic the only sound she made. Victor cursed under his breath and threw a slice of half-eaten toast onto his plate.
Dez was another story. As Ophelia’s bulk — covered in fire-engine red that day — left the doorway, he couldn’t shut up. “Oooh. You two are in hot water. I don’t know what they had in the fine print about having love affairs, but you two — whoa.” He shook his head and adapted an air of pretend self-pity. “You two …”
Victor heard the man chuckling and carrying on as he followed Felicity down the stairs. She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d told her there was another woman. Every time he caught her looking at him, she quickly looked away.
He told himself it was for the best. He couldn’t afford the distraction, but he felt guilty as hell for how things were playing out. She was a good woman and deserved so much better … better than a man who was an epic failure. If he couldn’t take care of his own mother, how could he take care of her?
And in the few weeks they’d been around each other, living with each other, sleeping beside each other, competing against each other, he’d come to want to take care of her.
It was a dangerous feeling.
Their feet made noisy stomping sounds on the wooden staircase, hers softer than his.
He almost said something, something like “Felicity, stop, I want to apologize. I didn’t mean it. That kiss rocked my world. I kissed you because I’m intensely attracted to you. I want to get to know you outside of this show. I want to kiss you all over, make love to your body, hold you close to me …”
But he didn’t dare.
Because then he’d have to say “I lied because I’m a horrible son. My mom is in the hospital and I’m here on a show trying to win money. It doesn’t matter that I’m trying to take care of her as soon as she gets out. I can’t bear seeing that judgmental look on your face, can’t bear to see your disgust.”
He said none of it, merely clomped his way to the bottom, dying inside a little more with each step, aching with every whiff of her perfume.
Ophelia waited for them right inside the office.
This time there were five chairs at the table.
“Have a seat,” Mr. Brown commanded.
Whether it was reflex or just his subconscious wanting to comfort Felicity in any way he could, Victor pulled a chair out and glanced at her, making it clear he was holding it for her.
She averted her gaze and pulled the other chair out, sitting in it instead.
Victor nodded to himself. Point taken. He deserved the brush-off. The last thing he’d said to her was ‘It was nothing’.
It hadn’t been nothing, but now they were in trouble for it.
He clasped his hands on the table and waited for the judges to get to the point. Ophelia sat at the head and Nicole watched them, a tiny smile on her lips.
Victor was glad someone at least was getting some amusement out of this situation.
“Are you two sleeping together?” Ophelia cut right to the chase.
Victor felt his face flush. I wish. “No,” he and Felicity said at the same time.
Victor raised a hand. “Look, this was all me. It was me who kissed her. She was just sitting there. I won’t apologize for it, but if one of us has to be punished, it should be me.” Just please don’t kick me off the show. “But,” he added, “I can swear this has no effect on our competing. We’ve been giving each other a run for the money.”
A chuckle came from the talk show host. “Oh, nobody is in trouble. On the contrary. This show got more tweets that night than any show on the network did all week.”
“You two lit up the screen and airwaves. We’d like to see some more of that,” Nicole hinted. “Felicity? You seem to have a bad reaction, but —”
Felicity was staring at them, a look of revulsion on her pretty features. “Are you kidding me? You want me to fake shit for the sake of ratings?” She shook her head, and her voice wavered. “Hell no. I want nothing more to do with this guy.”
Victor felt as though he’d been slapped, not that he didn’t deserve it. He’d dug himself such a huge hole here. How — even after the show was done — was he going to get himself out of it? With a sinking heart, he realized he couldn’t. Felicity James was never going to want to see him or talk to him again, no matter who won the money.
A knock sounded on the closed door as he sat there trying to gather his thoughts.
“Come in,” Allen called, raising a hand to silence Ophelia, Nicole, and Felicity, who were all speaking at once.
The blonde punk girl poked her head in. “Got an urgent message for Victor. Want me to take it up — oh, he’s here.” She smacked her gum, opened the door the rest of the way, and stepped into the room. “Here.” She held a pink piece of paper out to him. “This is pretty important.”
Victor accepted the paper, bowed his head, and read. The girl left the room, the door thumping softly behind her. The seconds on the wall clock ticked, and his heart fell into his stomach.
Felicity watched the emotions flash across Victor’s face in rapid succession. From frustration as they turned to look at punk girl, to worry as she said his name and handed him the slip of paper, to devastation as he read it.
What was going on?
“Victor,” Ophelia prompted softly, a note of concern in her voice.
Mr. Brown leaned forward, a frown on his features.
Felicity felt like the odd woman out, and something told her whatever was going on had nothing to do with their kiss or ratings, not now.
After what seemed like hours, but was really only minutes, Victor handed the paper to Ophelia. His hand shook, and his face looked tired and sad. “Ms. West, there will be no more kisses, not for ratings, not for anything, not unless Felicity sees me when the show is over. I’m leaving The Next Bestseller.”
Felicity clutched the chair arms as she tried to fully comprehend what he was saying. He was leaving the show? Did he want to see her off it?
He looked at her then, his dark eyes boring into hers. “The other woman I spoke of is my mother. She’s in the hospital, in a coma. Last week, the prognosis was good, all things considered.” His voice hitched, and she longed to reach out to him. “But now … they don’t expect her to live past the night. Her kidneys are shutting down. I don’t expect you to understand my reasons for having stayed, and I’m not going to sit here and waste time apologizing or trying to make anyone understand.”
He turned toward the judges. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ve learned a lot during my brief stay. Thank you for having me.” He rose then and held his hand out to the literary agent, who stood to comply.
“I’m sorry, Victor, and if I gave you the impression —”
“You did,” Victor interrupted,
“but there’s a lot of reasons why I stayed. This money was going to take care of her when she came home. Now I don’t need it.” Sadness caused his shoulders to stoop slightly.
“Victor, it’s been wonderful getting to know you and your work.” Ophelia ignored his hand and enfolded him in a tight embrace. “You take care. Maybe you can come back for season two.”
“I am so, so sorry.” Nicole also hugged him, tears welling in her eyes.
Felicity couldn’t believe it. All this time, she’d been thinking the worst of him, and he’d been afraid she would think badly of him. She couldn’t condone how he’d treated her after their kiss, but the turmoil he had been feeling — was still feeling — rolled off him in waves.
Finally, he came to her. “Felicity,” he said softly, “I’m sorry for what I did. My excuse is lame, but I had my reasons, as weird or wrong as they may be. Look me up if you ever find yourself in Miami.”
“Victor, I’m sorry.” And she was. She was sorry they’d had a misunderstanding, sorry she’d been unable to see past his exterior, sorry he was leaving, and sorry for his mother. She wanted to say more, but the death of her own parents flashed in her mind. Time was of the essence. She could wait. “Go be with your mother. It’s the most important thing right now. If I’d just had ten more minutes …”
Before she burst into tears and made a fool of herself — this was about Victor, not her — she stood on tiptoes and placed a soft kiss on his slightly stubbled cheek.
He blinked, smiled sadly, and then he was gone, leaving a cloud of cologne and a feeling of sadness in his wake.
“Victor’s gone.” Felicity plopped down on the sofa, feeling the cushion beneath her deflate as much as her spirits.
“He came up here real quick, grabbed like just his wallet, keys, and computer, and was gone. Are they just going to ship his clothes and stuff to him?” Roy asked.
“He wouldn’t talk either. All this for a kiss?” Dez laughed.
“It’s not funny, Dez. It had nothing to do with that kiss. His mother is dying.” Felicity couldn’t let them sit there and laugh.
Plotting to Win Page 13