Plotting to Win (17 page)

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.

“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.”

“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?”