Plotting to Win (4 page)

They’d been so engrossed in each other they’d missed the rest of the grand tour. Though, personally, Victor felt he’d had the best view. Those dagger-shooting eyes, those pursed pink lips, and soft curls he wanted to reach out and tug on and watch them spring up again.

Victor chuckled to himself. That woman was going to be fun to mess with.

Dez pushed his glasses up his nose as he tried to get comfortable on the stool provided. The camera rolled, its light aimed at him.

“How do you feel about what happened today?” The question came from an unseen source — the camera operator?

With a wry chuckle, and a flash of white teeth against dark skin, the African-American writer threw his hands up in a ‘what gives?’ gesture. “I got the toilet, man. It’s a bit disconcerting. I don’t think my writing belongs in the crapper.” He paused to run a hand over his chin. “But I’m not going to let it handicap me. Soon as someone is eliminated, I’m trying for their cave, ‘cause it isn’t going to be me. I’m here to win this thing. I can write circles around them.”

The author looked nervous. Was he trying to convince himself?

“So, I guess we should all introduce ourselves. We are supposed to sit here and talk some, and we are going to be spending a lot of time together.” Tiffani twirled a strand of hair and glanced around expectantly from her perch on the end of the sofa.

“Well, I’m wondering if I can take my blanket down tomorrow for the first challenge so I can curl up in my claw-foot tub.” Dez leaned forward on the armchair and shook his head. His glasses threatened to fall down his nose. “That was quite a surprise.”

“A good writer should be able to write well no matter his circumstances. Sometimes the most trying situations make for better writing,” Roy said seriously.

Victor leaned back in the dining chair and watched. Soon, people would get comfortable, and insults would start flying, throwing everyone’s game off. He didn’t plan to reveal anything anyone could use against him.

“I’m not worried, old man,” Dez said, “but I don’t want to walk about here with a slipped disk either.”

A few half-hearted chuckles came then. The lovely Felicity leaned forward on the other end of the sofa and clasped her hands together where they hung, dangling limply, her elbows on her knees. “Why don’t we talk about why we write what we do? What made us choose our genres? There’s usually a good story behind that.”

Her face looked so eager, as if she honestly wanted to know, wanted to be their friend. Victor felt a tiny stab. She’d have to learn quickly that making friends would be impossible. They would all turn on you in this game.

Tiffani shifted so she was facing Felicity. Her eyes narrowed into slits and her fists clenched. “You just don’t want to talk about how you gave me the shitty schoolroom.”

“I had no control over what was on that paper. I didn’t see it in advance,” Felicity retorted.

“Oh, this should be interesting. Strife between the two sex writers.” Arnold laughed.

Victor cast him a glance across the table before taking a sip from his canned soft drink.

“I don’t write sex. I write romance. Sometimes the stories may have some sex, but it’s not the focus.” Felicity looked flustered, and she tucked a curl behind an ear. Victor thought she was avoiding looking in his direction. “Don’t categorize her and I the same. I’m guessing we write very different things. My characters make love somewhere down the road, they don’t do gang bangs.”

Victor almost spewed his pop all over the table. “Gang bangs?” This he had to hear more about.

Poor Roy. His face was beet-red. One wouldn’t think a military man would be so shy during sex talk. Carmen was watching with wide eyes from the armchair adjacent to Dez’s.

Felicity squirmed. “Um, like, well, five men, one woman.”

“Who writes that garbage?” Carmen wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Why would any woman even want that?”

“Not me. That’s what I’m trying to say.” Felicity was on the edge of her seat, her face animated as she tried to explain. “A lot of people are getting romance and erotica confused. Erotica is pretty hard core, lots of sex, little to no story. Romance is fulfilling and deep and the characters really connect before —”

“Excuse me,” Tiffani interrupted. “I write erotic romance, not garbage, and when five men fuck my woman, they all love each other.” She punctuated her words by poking the middle sofa cushion.

Arnold laughed, and Victor had to chuckle too. “How? I don’t see that working out in the end. You can’t marry them all.”

“We just do. Read one of our pieces and you’ll see.” She crossed her arms over her generous chest and glared.

“It’s not real romance,” Felicity stated firmly. “It’s different. If your characters fall in love and have relations on page two, what kind of buildup is that?”

“Have relations? What century is this?” Carmen ran a hand down her face.

“Honey, my genre happens to be selling like hotcakes right now, and if my readers want an orgy on page two, that’s what they get. That’s what I’ll give them.”

“Is anyone here published?” Dez cut in smoothly.

“I’ve had one piece released with an e-book publisher,” Tiffani answered as she settled back in her seat, pointedly ignoring Felicity.

“Short story in a magazine.” Arnold raised his hand as though they were in school.

“Newspapers,” Victor confessed. That wasn’t something they could use against him.

“Women’s poetry book.” Carmen glared around the room, daring anyone to laugh at her. “For charity,” she added.

“I self-published one,” Roy said.

“So did I,” Dez admitted.

Everyone looked at the one person who hadn’t said anything. Victor raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Felicity?”

She glanced down at her hands in her lap. “Nothing yet.”

Tiffani smirked. “Well, then.”

“I’m waiting until it’s perfect and I have found the right agent.” Felicity raised her chin defiantly. Her lovely eyes flashed. What would those eyes look like in the throes of ecstasy?

“How many have you queried?” Roy asked.

“I haven’t yet. I’m doing this first.”

“Whoa. Are you really that confident?” Arnold grabbed his soda can while he waited for an answer.

“You never know.” She shrugged.

Victor took another swig of his pop, keeping one eye on Felicity. If she was that confident, then she was the biggest threat. He’d have to get her eliminated. Too bad, since she was the nicest one to look at.

“Pssst. Trade me beds,” Victor kept his voice low, hoping nobody else would hear him in the kitchen — namely that Dez wouldn’t hear him as only three of them were getting a late-night snack or drink at the moment.

Tiffany turned to stare at him, a glass of wine half poured. Sure enough, she was wearing a barely there negligee, some pink frock that scarcely scraped her thighs and left little to the imagination above too, but surprisingly, Victor had no reaction, no stirring whatsoever. He chalked it up to being tired and stressed.

He hadn’t left his mother in anyone’s care since she’d had her stroke. He hoped the temporary nurse he’d hired was doing her job.

“Why?” She narrowed her gaze suspiciously. “What’s wrong with the bed you have?”

“Look, that Felicity is going to be easy to rattle and she’s the bigger threat.”

“I think you are totally misjudging me. Maybe I’m the bigger threat.” She took a step closer to him — alarmingly close.

Victor took a controlled breath. He’d have to manipulate this a bit better. Jealousy was running high between these two, at least on this end. He couldn’t quite figure out what Felicity was feeling or thinking.

A glance toward the other counter assured him Dez was still focused on preparing a sandwich — a foot-long by the looks of it.

Victor aimed his most charming smile at Tiffani. “You’re next, but let’s work together on this one.”

“That doesn’t convince me at all.” She paused to take a sip from her wine glass. “But I’d love to see that holier-than-thou bitch taken down a few pegs. Fine. We’ll switch beds. It’s silly for all the girls to gather on one side anyway. What are we, in eighth grade?” She shook her head and scoffed.

My dick sure things it’s in eighth grade again, just not around you
. Victor bit his lip to refrain from speaking out loud.

Tiffani collected her glass, gave him a saucy wink, and sashayed out the door into the living area.

“Hey, man, you want some of this sandwich?” Dez asked, holding up his foot-long before taking a bite.

“Thanks, but no. Enjoy it, man.”
I’m going to have enough trouble sleeping as it is
.

“Hey, what are you doing in that bed? That’s Tiffani’s.” Felicity scowled and tugged up the bed covers to conceal her pajamas, which he’d already seen. The animal-print flannels did nothing to make her any less sexy.

Victor crossed his ankles underneath the covers and placed his hands behind his head as he lay back, getting comfortable, before shooting her a smile. “Tiffani’s over there, we get to sleep together.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Felicity’s curls moved with her head as her gaze found Tiffani at the other end of the room, on the other side, far away from her. Too far away from her. That’s why he hadn’t wanted it. “Shit.” Victor could hardly believe such a word came from those luscious lips.

“What’s the matter? I thought we could have a slumber party.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes at him, but there was also just the tiniest twitch of her lips.

“Lights out. Challenge one is tomorrow. Goodnight everyone.” Ophelia’s voice sounded right before the room went dark.

They really were being treated like kids. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been forced to go to bed at a certain time.

Victor could hear everyone shifting, groaning, sighing, and adjusting their covers.

He wondered how she was sleeping and wished for a nightlight or something, anything to see by. Did she sleep on her side, one hand reaching out? Did she sleep on her back with those lovely breasts making mountains under…?

“Oh, shit. I shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich.” The complaint was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of flatulence.

“Nasty!”

“Oh my God!”

“Nice one, man!”

Victor groaned and tugged his pillow over his head, but he could swear he heard quiet laughter from the next bed.

Beautiful and a sense of humor. Too bad she was the romance type, because Victor definitely was not.

“Welcome to your first challenge. The winner of this test will be able to manipulate the first elimination challenge, which will be in two days. By the end of the week, one of you will be closing your manuscript, so to speak, and going home. One of you will continue on to become the next bestseller, 100,000 dollars richer, with a Bright House publishing contract in hand.”

Felicity nodded at Ophelia’s words, even though it wasn’t really expected of her. Her arm tingled where Victor stood on her right side. Why did he stand so close? She’d hardly slept a wink, knowing the handsome Latino was in the next bed. It had been a long time since she’d slept even that close to a man.

She wondered at times if the lack of romance in her own life is what made her so good at writing it. Was it easier to create a romantic fantasy when you weren’t jaded by heartache and break-ups or burdened with a belching husband and five kids? She wouldn’t know. Though she’d been on a few dates and tried a couple of relationships, that connection she so desired, that she strived to give her heroes and heroines, just wasn’t there for her.

Her musings were interrupted by the instructions.

“Today, you are going to write a query to a literary agent. You will go into your assigned writer’s caves, use the computer or iPad provided in your cave to find an agent suitable for the genre you write, and write him or her the perfect query letter. We have a guest judge with us today who will be judging these queries alongside myself, Mr. Brown, and Ms. Roberts. Please welcome Monique Alexander, the literary agent who represented the bestselling book
Nightfall
.”

A tall blonde woman stepped out from behind a privacy screen where she’d been waiting. She cast a friendly smile and wave their way. Felicity joined in the applause, though she thought despite its bestselling status, the book was a joke, a very ill-written one, but it had made millions, so the literary agent did know what she was doing.

“Hello, everyone!” Ms. Alexander greeted them. “As any published author will tell you, there’s more to being an author than just writing. Gone are the days when one could just sit in front of a typewriter, type their heart out, and send the manuscript to a publisher.” The woman paced a line in front of them, her hands clasped behind her back. Felicity wondered how the cameras were catching everything, as she still couldn’t see them.

“Now, you need a literary agent, especially if you want to get picked up by someone reputable. However, literary agents are flooded. We get up to a thousand emails a day, and I guarantee you only — maybe — one a day will make it to my desk. The criteria are extensive. We have so many manuscripts to look at you must make your query letter perfect. It must stand out over all others. I won’t even look at your story — and believe me, it could be the greatest thing since Coca-Cola — but I won’t even read it if I don’t like your query letter, or more aptly put, my assistants don’t like your query letter.

“A good query letter with a good manuscript lands across my desk, and you could be like
Nightfall
, on the New York Times bestseller list for 235 weeks with 116 million copies sold.”

“Well said, Ms. Alexander.” Ophelia smiled at them as if they were all her little boys and girls. “You have four hours to retreat into your writer’s caves, find an agent suitable for your work, and write the perfect query. Per the rules of the show, your computers and iPads have been assigned and contain no prior research or files from you except for the manuscript you are currently working on. You may use your manuscript for this competition. Whoever writes the best query will be allowed to manipulate the elimination challenge, and your time starts … now.”