Plotting to Win (15 page)

She was so close to the truth, too close.

So he said the one thing that popped into his mind that he knew would throw her off and away from him. “There’s no room for another woman in my life.” There, the truth with a twist. He ignored the surprise and pain that flashed across her features and casually picked up his magazine again, as though his heart wasn’t thumping and his throat wasn’t tightening.

“
Another
woman? You never said there was a woman. You kissed me … on national TV. What will she say … this woman?” Felicity’s voice became shrill, and she lifted her arms at her side as if to say ‘what gives?’.

Victor wanted to tell her that if his mother saw it and understood what she was seeing and who, it’d be a wonderful blessing and he’d be a happy man, but it was no one’s business. He didn’t want to see that judging expression on her face, the way the judges had looked at him: harsh, condescending, and appalled. The look that said “your mother, the woman who gave you life and raised you, is in the hospital and you are still on this show? What kind of son are you?”

He couldn’t bear it. Not from her.

Until you’ve walked in my shoes …

So he merely shrugged as though he didn’t give a shit, and she left him. Most women would have continued harping, thrown some curses in his face, or begged for an apology, but not Felicity.

Too proud, too graceful, too strong to grovel or make a scene, the woman he had come to respect, admire, and desire the last few weeks, walked away from him, and he let her go.

He was a fool.

“Welcome to your third elimination challenge. Today, one of you will be going home. The other four will be one step closer to 100,000 dollars and a publishing contract with Bright House as well as the title of the next bestseller.”

Next to her, Dez took a deep breath and bobbed on his heels. Everyone was getting more nervous. Normally, Felicity would be too, but Victor’s words had thrown her for a loop, and after she shed a few tears on the balcony, she’d toughened up even more.

She wasn’t going home today.

Ophelia was still speaking, pacing in front of them in a purple suit. Behind her the table was set up with pencils again. “You’ve probably noticed by now that we have been addressing different stages of the publishing process. We’ve done queries, chosen publishers, written outside our comfort zones, worked with an editor, done online promotion. Today, we get to have a little fun.” The black woman stopped and smiled at them. “Today you are doing cover art.”

“Whoa.” Dez nodded enthusiastically.

On her other side, Roy sighed. Felicity refused to look Victor’s way, choosing instead to stare at the table of pencils set up in front of them again.

“Today we have a well-known and respected cover artist who will be guest judging. Please welcome Staci Perkins.”

Polite applause rang out as a tall, slender, and smiling African-American woman stepped from behind the screen. She lifted her hand in a wave as she stood next to Ophelia.

“Ms. Perkins has designed some of the covers for top-selling paranormal romances as well a cover for our own Nicole Roberts. She has fifteen years’ experience. Ms. Perkins.” Ophelia nodded toward the other woman.

“Thank you, Ophelia. A good cover needs to draw the eye, hold the reader’s attention long enough for them to read the blurb, be easy to read, and convey the book’s genre. Above all, it must be tasteful and not amateurish.” The cover artist moved her hands animatedly as she spoke, and her voice and facial expression conveyed excitement for her craft. Felicity immediately felt as though they were in good hands.

“Some of you may choose to self-publish in the future, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” She looked earnest. “But just because you self-publish doesn’t mean your book needs to look self-published. Always hire someone if you don’t feel you can do an excellent job yourself and never be afraid to ask to see a portfolio. Think of it as getting a tattoo. Would you let someone ink your skin without getting a feel for their work first?”

Felicity found herself nodding her agreement.

“Your cover art should be the beauty backing up your brain. It represents your creation. And that, I’m sorry to say,” the woman cast them a sheepish smile, “is all the advice I’m allowed to give you at the moment, because …” She swung around to stare at Ophelia, a silent cue.

“… because your task today is to design cover art,” Ophelia finished.

“I don’t know how to use Photoshop or nothing,” Carmen immediately protested.

“Yikes,” Felicity agreed. She didn’t either. Even making a banner on Facebook was a chore for her.

“I am so in my element on this,” Dez bragged, rubbing his hands together.

“Hold on, hold on.” Ophelia raised a hand. When they quieted down, she said, “You don’t make the cover yourself, but you will each have a cover artist, and you will tell the cover artist what you see in your mind, what you want. You will go through stock art images with your artist. Your artists are to act like robots and not give advice or input, merely do what you tell them. Your will have four hours to make a cover for your manuscript.”

“Oh, wow,” Roy murmured.

“I’d rather do it myself.” Dez grunted and crossed his arms.

“Cover artists, please step forward with your portfolios,” Ophelia commanded.

Four men and one woman came from behind the divider, notebooks in hand.

“Roy,” Ophelia stated, “you won the last challenge, giving you manipulation rights in this challenge. Please take a look at the portfolios and assign each contestant, including yourself, an artist, using the pencils on the table.”

Heavy breathing, sighing, papers rustling, and shoes scuffing the floor were the only sounds while Roy perused the different portfolios one-by-one. There were to be no introductions this time, no name exchanging. It was very down to business.

Felicity used the time to muse over her cover. Tons of possibilities ran through her mind. It was a pleasant distraction from Victor, the other contestants, and the tension that had been in the air since Tiffani went home. She tried to remember the covers of the recent romance bestsellers. Maybe she could mimic one. How hard could it be?

Finally, Roy clapped his hands together and announced, “Done.”

Ophelia nodded. “Excellent. Cover artists, please read the names you have on your pencil.”

“Victor,” a very overweight man said.

“Roy,” an artist with a long mustache read as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look like much, but Felicity figured he must have a great portfolio for Roy to have chosen him.

“Felicity.”

Felicity allowed herself a tiny sigh of relief. A woman artist would know what romance was.

“Carmen.”

“Dez,” the last man said.

“All right,” Ophelia boomed. “You have four hours to make your covers. Remember, the artist is just doing what you tell him or her. They are not offering any input or advice. Please head on over to your writing caves. Your time starts … now.”

“My hero has short dark hair, he’s well-muscled, and it’s contemporary. I sort of envision him leaning over a picnic table, a laptop in front of him, and across from him — I am seeing this from a sideways view, you know? — sits the heroine. She has short red hair, and she’s leaning over her laptop too, also on the picnic table, and they are kissing over their open laptops. Can you do that?” Felicity finished in a rush, almost gulping for air. In her haste to get her artwork idea out, she’d almost forgotten to breathe.

For the first time in days, she felt excited and rejuvenated. She wasn’t thinking of Victor. No, she sure wasn’t.

Her artist, a petite woman with large glasses, gave her a tight smile and began to type on the laptop, her fingers flying rapidly over the keys.

Felicity peered over the woman’s shoulder at the tiny table that had been set in the writer’s caves. On the screen of the laptop, a website appeared with tiny photos all over it.

“If you can find that exact image in the hair colors you just described, we’ll use it. In the meantime, we search, and you think.”

The woman typed on the screen,
couple, picnic table, kissing
.

Photos of picnic tables or men and women kissing, some men kissing men, just about everything
but
the image Felicity had visualized popped up on the screen.

“Um, how many of these websites are there?” Felicity asked, chewing her lip.

“Many. Shall we look at another one?” The artist clicked the mouse again, showing another twenty-five images, none featuring so much as a dark-haired man kissing a redheaded woman.

“Can’t you just … draw it?”

The artist shook her head. “Nope.”

Crap.

“Time’s up. Please save your cover art and take your fingers off your keyboards,” Ophelia instructed as the curtains swooshed open. “Prepare to convene in front of the desk in half an hour for judging.”

Victor sighed and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Well, that was educational.” He rose and shook his artist’s hand. “I never realized there were so many fonts and pixels.”

He paused outside his writer’s cave. He’d gotten used to talking to Felicity during their half hour waits and felt bereft at the loss of her company, despite the fact it was all his doing. Shrugging off the melancholy, he followed the others up the stairs, being careful not to walk too close to Felicity — not that it was necessary. She was keeping her distance. And why wouldn’t she, after what he’d said?

He’d just continue to stick to himself. It was nobody’s business what was going on.

As they sat in their respective places in the living area — him back in the chair by the table now that Tiffani was gone — there was a heavy silence. He glanced around. He knew why he was quiet, but Dez? Carmen? Was the seriousness finally hitting them?

“I think I got this in the bag,” Dez finally broke the silence, just as Victor suspected he would. “But I coulda done better had he let me do it myself.”

“I love mine. You and I are going to be facing off on this one,” Carmen said with her trademark cockiness.

“And Roy. I’m sure he gave himself the best artist,” Dez stated sarcastically.

“Wouldn’t you do the same thing?” This came from Felicity. With her focus on Dez, Victor was able to watch her without her knowing. She looked tired, but still determined.

He felt a pang of guilt. Though he wasn’t arrogant enough to think he was the sole reason she had puffiness under her eyes, he knew he’d played a part.

This is better. No attachments, no distractions, and a hundred grand in the bag —for my mama
.

He kneaded his tense neck muscles and worried about his mother’s situation while the competitive banter went on around him.

He just wanted to get this over with. Win, and get it over with. Too bad he couldn’t speed up the competition.

The sooner it was over, the sooner he could see his mother, set her up with a nice caregiver at home, buy all the equipment she may need, and then he could maybe call Felicity and … and what?

Fool. Stupid fool
.

“Everyone, come on down and hear your critique,” Nicole said from the doorway.

Only then did Victor realize he’d been sitting there worrying about the wrong thing. Instead of fretting about possible elimination, he’d been fretting about Felicity and her feelings.

“Many of you are wondering why we are doing so many non-writing related challenges to find the next bestseller.” Ophelia eyed the contestants from her perch behind the desk. “That is because it’s no longer about writing a quality piece. Your job doesn’t stop with writing. You are responsible for finding the best home for it, for working with an editor and artist, for marketing many times. Your job is not just to write. It’s important for any author seeking to make it in the business to understand that.” She leaned back in her chair, a smug expression on her face. “Or you could go home.”

She shuffled the papers in front of her. “On that note, today, your job was to work with an artist on designing a top-quality book cover. The worst cover is the one going home. The other four will be one step closer to a hundred grand and a contract with Bright House. Ms. Perkins, would you like to begin the judging?” She turned to the woman on her right.

“Absolutely. First up I believe is Roy.”

“Ma’am.” Roy stepped forward, hands at his sides, face straight ahead.

“Your cover is for a military book, correct? And I’m guessing Vietnam?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct.”

“You did a good job conveying that. The stock image screams Vietnam War to me. You managed to merge a few images into a collage of sorts with protestors, soldiers, and also Vietnam landscape. There’s no doubt in my mind what time period and topic this is, but it’s kinda busy. I can hardly find your name on here. Where is your name?” A large TV screen behind the judges’ desk suddenly activated, displaying Roy’s cover for everyone to see.

“In the bottom corner, ma’am.”

“Mistake. I need to see your name. Your font is nice and large, but your name is barely visible. Do you not want people to see your name, remember it, and look for it on other books?”

“Point taken.” Roy nodded.

“Victor.”

Felicity watched him from the corner of her eye. As usual, he gave a casual nod, nothing more.

“Is this a murder mystery?” Staci asked. The screen behind her changed, showing the appropriate cover.

“No, no. Dez writes the mystery. I’m crime fiction slash suspense. I write crime drama, not so much whodunits. I mean, you know whodunit, but — never mind.” He shook his head and gave a frustrated sigh. “What’s wrong with it?”

“First of all, your name is over the graphic. Second of all, the man you chose for the front looks like Sherlock Holmes. That screams mystery, not crime suspense. The third thing wrong is you have no background at all. It’s literally just a man on plain black. This tells me nothing and doesn’t attract my attention at all.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “I was going for a Godfather type look.”

“I can see where you’re coming from, but it’s missing the mark by just a bit. Pay attention to where your artist puts your fonts.” The cover artist smiled at him sympathetically. “Carmen.”