“Oh shit.” Dez grimaced.
“That’s terrible,” Roy said. “No wonder he was so quiet the last few days.”
And Felicity felt like a fool. Here she’d been thinking it was all about her, like some kind of diva. How could she face him again? Would he want to see her?
Despite what he’d done, she felt like she was in the wrong too, maybe more so. You know what they say about assuming …
And she had made an ass of herself.
“Not to sound insensitive,” Dez spoke up, “but what happens now? Do we skip two challenges they had planned? Do they mix it up some? Have an episode of just drama? What?”
Felicity pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t really care right now.”
“You better if you want to win this thing. Or are you going to just give up now that lover boy is gone?”
“Dez,” Felicity warned. But he was right. Was she just going to give up? Hell, no. Felicity James was not a quitter.
“And then there were three,” Roy stated quietly, plopping his soda can on the coffee table.
“This shit just got real,” Dez murmured.
“Did Victor leave the show because of you?” the cameraman asked.
There was a slight pinkening of dark cheekbones. “No. Victor left the show for personal reasons. I’m not sure we have permission to reveal his personal life. I’d hate to betray a confidence.” Felicity squirmed, appearing uncomfortable on the stool.
“How does it make you feel?”
She licked her lips before replying. “I’m more determined to win this now. I have to win it for him and a very special woman. I want him to know that. He helped me when he didn’t have to, when he had so much at stake, so I’m going to win this in his place.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Good afternoon, contestants,” Ophelia greeted them as they lined up in front of her. Felicity stood in the middle, between Roy and Dez. None of them knew what to expect. It felt strange not to have Victor there, not to exchange a glance, not to be constantly reminded of his kiss — not that she had a hard time remembering it without him there — not to have him there talking smack or irritating her.
She’d hardly slept the night before. Thoughts of Victor, how sad he must be, how tired jarred her awake. Was his mother still alive? Had he made it in time? Part of her wanted to jump on the next flight, but she’d been in his life, and his arms, such a brief time. It wasn’t her place.
Ophelia was wearing gray that day, a much more subdued color than her usual neons. But then, the tone of the show had changed with Victor’s parting. It’d become more somber, more serious.
As Dez had stated, it just got real.
“We are down to three contestants due to Victor Guzman leaving the show. This means we have a surprise for you …”
“Oh shit,” Dez muttered. His lands were clasped behind his back. His face appeared fraught with tension.
Felicity silently seconded that.
Roy, as usual, had no response, just a mere twitch in his jaw.
“There will be no more elimination challenges after this. This is it. This is the end of the road and one of you will be walking away from this last challenge with a hundred grand in your wallet … or purse,” Ophelia smiled in Felicity’s direction, “a contract with Bright House, and the title of the next bestseller.”
“I wasn’t really ready for this,” Dez said with a chuckle, shaking his head.
“Wow,” Felicity agreed. She felt as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus. “So this is it.”
“Okay. Sounds good to me. Let’s go.” Roy smacked his palms together.
“In all the challenges we’ve done, you have only done one writing challenge. The rest of the challenges have been about other parts of being published. If you leave here without the money, you will walk away with more knowledge, ready to face what the publishing industry is going to throw at you when you do make it in that door. But to be the next bestseller, you must be a good writer.”
Felicity nodded, as excitement spread like wildfire through her. Writing is what she loved to do, what she came here to do. It was her time to shine.
“You have one entire week to write a fifty-thousand-word novel, any genre, any story line you want, no restrictions.” Ophelia stood in front of them, arms crossed, legs slightly parted, and waited for the ensuing ripple of shock.
“One week? An entire novel from scratch or can we finish the one we have in progress?” Felicity squeaked. The floor was tilting around her.
“Is this a joke?” Dez asked.
“Oh, b-boy,” Roy stammered.
“One week, all new material,” Ophelia replied, a smug expression on her face. “You sit up there in the loft all day long. You’re not going to jobs or attending functions or even doing your own groceries. Is it really that hard a stretch?”
“Yes, yes it is. How can we put out a quality piece in that short amount of time?” Dez’s voice rose in anger.
Ophelia stared him down. “This is a competition. We’re giving away one hundred grand. Did you think this would be easy? That we wouldn’t throw you something a little tough?”
Felicity took a deep breath, and when that made no difference, she took another. “What if we don’t reach fifty?” Her voice was shriller than she’d like, but she couldn’t help it.
“Then you lose, and you go home with nothing.” Ophelia spun on her heel and paced, her heels making sharp, staccato sounds on the hard floor. “But one of you … one of you,” she stopped again and held up a single finger, “will leave here as the next bestseller. It’s up to you to show me who that is.”
“Fuck me.” Dez groaned and covered his eyes with his hand.
“You may write these stories in your caves or the loft. There is to be no plagiarism.” The talk show host gave them a warning look, reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a stopwatch. “One week. That’s 168 hours from … 12:17 p.m. today and your time starts …” she grinned, “now.”
“What are your thoughts regarding the last challenge?”
Dez wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Wow, man. It’s going to be rough, but I should’ve known they were going to throw something super rough our way. I mean; none of this has been easy, except cover art.” He laughed. “But I’m going to win. This shit is real now. There’s a lot at a stake, and I’m taking the prize, no matter what I got to do.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “No more Mr. Nice Guy, you know? This is officially a take-down, no-holds-barred fight. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, ‘cause Master Dez is taking this.”
Victor clutched his mother’s bony hand and stared. Stared at a once lovely, but now gaunt face, stared at the IV hanging by her bed, at the white sheets, and tried to speak, but nothing came from his hoarse throat. He’d talked himself out. He’d told her how sorry he was for not being here sooner, described the show and its contestants — only the humorous bits like Mr. Brown’s expression of constipation, Dez’s sandwich malfunctions, and the bird head thing. He rambled about his story ideas, and he waited.
What more was there to say?
Was she hearing him?
“Hey, Mama,” he started. “I met a woman. She’s real pretty, dark skin, brown eyes, curly hair, sweet smile, and she’s got brains too. But I was kind of mean to her, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it, you know?”
He heard the sound of breathing from the oxygen mask on her face. Whoosh in, whoosh out.
“Anyway, she thinks we all deserve happy-ever-afters. What do you think about that?”
The hand beneath his moved — or was it just his imagination?
“Mama?” he choked out.
Whoosh in. Whoosh out.
“I wish you’d had a happy ending,” he whispered. “I so badly wanted to give you one. You mean the world to me, Mama.”
Was that a tightening around his fingers? He glanced down at their joined hands, hope flaring in his chest.
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Whoosh.
A high-pitched alarm sounded, causing Victor to jump in shock. The screen to the left of his mother’s bed showed a flat line.
There were no more whooshes.
Not until Felicity was settled in an armchair in the loft did it dawn on her that she had no clue how the work was to be judged. She’d been so surprised by the challenge, she hadn’t thought to ask important questions. Were they looking for anything in particular? Did they want it as edited as possible or was a rough draft permitted? How she was going to write and edit that amount of wordage in just a week was beyond her.
And most of all, she pondered whether the judges had managed to remain unbiased enough to judge these fairly.
She tapped her pen against her lips and massaged her temple with her other hand as she mused on what to write. All new material — newly written, that is, but nobody said you couldn’t use an idea that had been brewing in the back of her mind for a while now. Her notebook was open in front of her. She grimaced at the page.
She’s a horse whisperer. He’s a vet…
Can’t use that one.
She flipped to the next page. What she wanted to write could be misconstrued, considered too easy. She’d have to save that story.
A glance up at the clock informed her she’d already wasted an hour, just sitting here staring at her notebook. Panic rose to clasp her throat. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t waste a single second. She needed to start writing … now.
In her haste to flip the page, she ripped part of it off.
Second chance love was scribbled at the top of the newly revealed page.
A vision of Victor the first day she saw him distracted her. I love sleeping with women. That cocky grin. The way he’d sat on her bed and patiently explained head-hopping. She looks like an angry bird. A chuckle escaped the knot welling in her throat. The other woman is my mother.
The feel of his lips on hers …
I need a second chance, Victor.
Felicity wiped a tear from her cheek, gritted her teeth, and put pen to paper.
“Man, this is hard. What’s your wordage?” Dez asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
Felicity sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I was up until four typing away. My wrist is killing me, my neck aches, but I’m at seventeen thousand. You?” She shoved aside her bowl of half-eaten cereal and pulled her open laptop toward her until it was in a position to be typed on. She was moving around from cave to loft, table to table, trying not to get too bored in one spot.
“Almost fourteen,” he replied, sitting next to her at the table. “Got some frozen peas in the freezer if you need to ice that wrist.”
She chuckled, but there was no heart in it. “I don’t think that helps with carpal tunnel. Three days down, four to go. We’re way behind.”
“Roy ain’t talking. I’ve no idea where he is on his.” Dez shook his head and took a sip of coffee.
“We just have to worry about ourselves.” Felicity rubbed her wrist and winced at the sharp pain. “On that note, I’m off to —”
Before she could finish her sentence, Dez’s coffee mug slipped out of his hand and onto the table in front of them.
Hot brown liquid spread across her keyboard. There was a sizzle and a spark, and her screen went black.
“Dez! My story!” Felicity cried out and jumped from the table, reaching pointlessly for her drowned laptop.
“Oops. My bad. Hope you have some of it saved elsewhere.” There was no sincerity in his tone, only cruel satisfaction.
“You did that on purpose.” I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Lack of sleep has you imagining shit.” He looked at her as though he were disappointed in her, as though she were overacting. Then he casually stood to pour himself another cup.
Okay, okay. I can stand here and waste time arguing with him, or I can buck up, dig out my thumb drive — which thank the Lord I’ve been using — and ask for another laptop.
As quick as her internal pep talk lifted her spirits, they fell again. She had four days left, and though she had been using her thumb drive, she hadn’t saved the manuscript since chapter three — the ten-thousand-word mark. Could she do this?
She had no choice.
It was now ten thousand words a day or bust.
“Welcome back. It is now 12:17 p.m. and one week to the day since you were given your last assignment, to write a fifty-thousand-word novel in one week, all new material. Who did not reach the required word count?”
Silence was Ophelia’s only reply.
The talk show host’s gaze landed on Felicity. “Felicity, you had a minor setback with your laptop. The show provided you a new one with a clean drive. Were you able to salvage your story?”
Next to her, Dez shifted and put his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead. “I did, and what I rewrote came out better. I have Dez to thank for that.”
A smile curved Ophelia’s lips. “Interesting. Glad that worked out.” She stepped back then, away from them, and said in a louder tone, “I suppose you’d like to know how we’re going to be judging these pieces.”
Roy and Felicity both nodded in unison.
“Today is your last test. I’d like you to meet Rachel Snyder.” A sweeping arm gesture preceded the entrance of a young woman — very young — with spiked black hair, frosted red at the tips, holes in places of earring holes, torn tights, a skimpy skirt, and black lip-sticked lips.
Dez’s jaw dropped, and Felicity just stared on in confusion. What did this woman have to do with the literary industry?
The young girl stood next to Ophelia and scanned their faces just as curiously as they were staring at her.
“Rachel is a book reviewer. She’s been reading books since first grade, officially reviewing them for six years. By the time she was fourteen she was reading full-length adult novels with adult content. She has a degree in journalism, and she is number five in Amazon’s top reviewers.” Ophelia paused, giving them time to let this sink in.
Felicity didn’t know what to think. Was this girl going to be judging their stories?
“Rachel, do you have anything you’d like to say?” Ophelia asked.
“Yes. I’m a voracious reviewer. I read about four books a week. I love to get lost in a story. I read everything, horror, paranormal, romance, erotica, and memoirs. I don’t discriminate. And I have a blog with 10,000 followers where I post reviews for these books. I’m known for my frankness and honesty.”
“What’s the name of your blog?”
“Readin’ ‘n’ bitchin’. ‘Cause I read about ‘em, then I bitch about ‘em.” Rachel shrugged. “Unless it’s super good. Then I may have something nice to say.”
Oh my God. Felicity wanted to melt into the floor. She’d heard about these reviewers. They were nightmares. They thought it was funny to tear apart people’s work and make horrid comments.
“And Rachel is going to be reviewing your work from last week. Each day she’s going to pour over one MS and post her thoughts about it on her blog for the world to see. She has no idea who has written what. Your names will not be on the manuscripts. She has not been allowed to watch any of this show before coming here. Your work will be solely based on her opinion as a reviewer.”
Rachel nodded. “You better be able to handle a bad review. I’m not going easy on anyone.”
“Three days, and you’ll have your answer,” Ophelia said. “Now head on back to the loft and relax.”
“Relax? Relax for three days while some snarky Amazon reviewer reads my book and prepares to bitch about it?”
Felicity only gave a noncommittal grunt. She was long done trying to be friends with Dez, had been since that coffee fiasco.
“It’s a good test, really. We’re all going to get bad reviews. Comes with fame. Can’t handle it, don’t release your writing to the public.”
This was a lot of words from Roy. Felicity nodded her agreement and took a sip of her pop.
“But whos
e will be the worst?”
“We just have to wait and find out.” Roy reached for the television remote. Apparently, the conversation was over as far as he was concerned.
Dez smacked the sofa cushion next to him. “Three days of waiting? Three days? Shit! I want that money now!”
Cocky bastard. Felicity bit the edge of her can. She was feeling some anxiety too, but she was really just glad she’d accomplished it. She’d put her best into the story. It was all she could do. The problem with waiting three days for the results was that was three more days she was stuck in this loft … without Victor.
A pang hit her heart. Was he okay?
Felicity stared at the camera, waiting for the question. Bags and shadows were under her eyes. Her hair was more rumpled than sleek. Her clothes looked slept in.
“So … a top reviewer is going to be judging the final round of the competition. How do you feel about this turn of events?” the cameraman asked.
A wavery smile touched her lips. “I think we’re all screwed.”
Felicity’s heart pounded so hard she feared an ambulance would need to be called. She faced the large desk and willed herself to breathe. In and out. In and out. On either side of her stood her fellow contestants, the men she’d been living with, competing with, tolerating for weeks.
She didn’t mind Roy so much. He kept to himself, but Dez had gotten on her last nerve.
She was ready to go home — with that money in her purse.
“This is your last time in front of this desk,” Ophelia spoke from her perch, looking down on them. “Today you will see what Rachel the reviewer had to say about your fifty-thousand-word pieces. Her opinion will determine who leaves here with a hundred grand and a publishing contract from Bright House and who will leave here with … nothing.”
Breath in. Breath out.
“Roy, you’re up first,” Ms. Roberts said.
“Ma’am.” Roy immediately stood in his military position.
The screen behind the romance novelist transformed from the television show’s logo to a page on a blog or website. Readin’ ‘N’ Bitchin’ was displayed at the top along with a sassy-looking cartoon character that bore an eerie resemblance to the reviewer herself.
Plotting to Win Page 14