Plotting to Win (2 page)

Felicity waited to see if anyone would applaud the man, but there was only the sound of fidgeting and impatient sighing. She knew what they were thinking because she was thinking it too.
Let’s get on with this and start getting closer to that money and contract!

“Now that you have heard our qualifications, let’s talk about the show itself. Basic rules have been explained to you. Over the course of the next seven weeks you will face two challenges each week. The first challenge will affect the outcome of the second challenge. The second challenge is the elimination challenge.

“You are all writers of different genres and each challenge is made to test any genre’s skill and comfort. Tiffani Love,” Ophelia glanced around, “step forward please and tell us what genre you write”

Tiffani stepped forward, twining a strand of blond hair around a finger. “Um, erotica.” She glanced behind her sheepishly.

Felicity fought the urge to wrinkle her nose. She knew about those writers. They thought they were pushing a good thing, just writing nothing but sex. They called it erotica, but really, when there’s twenty-three pages of straight sex or ménage in a thirty-five page book it was more like …

“Porn,” hot stuff said out loud, disgust evident in his voice.

Wow, hot stuff and I agree on something
.

A warning look was shot his way before Ophelia read the next name. “Felicity James.”

“Here.” She stepped forward and smiled, hoping she looked confident. “Romance.” She stressed the word, not wanting anyone to confuse her genre with erotica. She glanced toward Ms. Roberts, but the woman showed not a single flicker of awareness.

Well, of course, she was a judge. She had to be impartial.

“No better.”

Oh, she wanted to smack hot stuff. That man needed to be taken down a peg or two. She’d sworn she wouldn’t be vindictive and would only worry about herself while on the show, but if she had a chance to eliminate someone …

“Dez Hancock.”

The African-American man stepped forward, pushing his glasses up with a single finger. “Mystery.” He didn’t look at anyone else, but stared straight ahead.

“Arnold Manning.”

“Horror.” A young man Felicity had barely noticed stepped up then. He looked gangly, all arms and legs, topped with a mop of red hair. There was nothing remotely scary about him. If anything, he looked like he should be writing computer code. Felicity smiled to herself. That kid would be no threat.

“Victor Guzman.”

“Crime fiction. Real fiction.” Hot stuff nudged her with his shoulder as he came up next to her and grinned down at her.

Felicity huffed and stepped away, just a little bit.

“Roy Meachum.”

“Historical fiction.” The older man saluted. He was definitely military, Felicity decided, or had been. Most likely, retired.

“Carmen Montez.”

“Women’s fiction.” The woman with short-cropped hair in a spike, high cheekbones, angry eyes, and a straight, thin body placed her hands on her hips and glared at everyone, making a circle with her angry gaze.

“Isn’t that like chick lit?” Hot stuff — Victor asked sarcastically.

This guy is wasting no time in getting folks riled up. Troublemaker
.

“No.” Carmen aimed daggers his way. “It’s women’s issues, about women, for women, by women, empowering women.”

Dez frowned and turned in her direction, lifting a hand as though asking permission to speak. “I must argue. Women’s fiction is a very umbrella genre that actually includes chick lit.”

“And you would know that how, mystery man?” Carmen raised her chin in challenge.

“Let’s not argue yet,” Ophelia interjected smoothly.

Yet. Does that mean she expects us to argue later? Are we supposed to save it?

“This building is the writer’s cave. This is where you will be doing your challenges, and this is where you will also be judged and eliminated. And now, it’s time for your first challenge … shall we say, for some of you, it may be a handicap.”

Tiffani twirled her hair around her finger so tightly, Felicity worried the other woman would cut off her digit’s circulation. Dez rubbed his hands together. Carmen still glared at Victor. Victor was grinning like an arrogant ass. Arnold couldn’t seem to decide if his hands should be in the pockets of his baggy shorts or out.

And Felicity was just holding her breath, waiting.

“Are you ready? What’s about to happen could help or hurt your chances of winning 100,000 dollars and obtaining that publishing deal. Everyone, please look at the black curtains on either side of you and prepare to see your own writer’s cave.”

As if on cue, the black curtains swept open, operated by some hidden mechanism. The contestants all gasped, laughed, or clapped their hands over their mouths.

Felicity was one of the latter. Her eyes widened in surprise. It was genius, and as she looked at each ‘cave’, she had to grudgingly admit one’s writing corner — especially in this competition — could help or hurt.

The main cave had been divided into sections along either side. There were four on one side, three on the other, or two plus a bathroom. She craned her neck to see, but only the back section was within her view at the moment. Floor to ceiling walls separated each one, with one side — the side facing them — open. Previously, the black curtains had covered the main openings.

Now, each room was visible to them.

There were seven of them, so she presumed each contestant would be assigned one — but how were they going to be assigned?

“I can’t believe this.” Victor was actually too surprised to say something sarcastic. Felicity smirked and cast him a sideways glance.

“Oh my God. I
sooo
don’t want that one.” Tiffani pointed at a section to their left, containing a hard concrete floor, kindergarten-like pictures on the walls, and a tiny wooden school desk in the center with an old box-like computer sitting on top. Felicity cringed. That, so far, was the worst room, and any writer who got stuck in it was going to be severely handicapped, indeed.

“That one looks nice!”

“Check this one out.”

“Oh my God! This is a bathroom! Who writes on the toilet?”

Toilet? Felicity had thought it was a
real
bathroom, though she’d been slightly alarmed that only a black curtain would separate it from the rest of the building. Who, indeed, wrote on a toilet? Surely, that was a joke. A hysterical laugh threatened to burst from her at this new revelation. Did anyone write on the toilet? She knew people read on the toilet but — “Just how are these going to be assigned?”

“I’m assuming this is where we’re going to write … but, like, for the duration of the show?”

Questions flew left and right. This time, Ms. Roberts stepped forward to explain, one elegant hand raised to deflect their queries. “Most of this contest is going to be based on your talent and performance. As this is not an official challenge, however, we’re going to base it on pure luck.”

“Oh shit. Are we going to roll dice, ’cause I suck at gambling.” The horror writer ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

“We are going to draw names from a hat. You will all write your own names on a piece of paper, place them in the hat yourselves, and each one of you will take turns drawing a name. The first name drawn will do his or her writing in room number one.” She gestured toward the first room on her right, a room that looked like an executive office, complete with plush massage chair, a laptop that looked state-of-the-art, paintings on the walls, carpeting, and a mahogany desk in front of what appeared to be the only window in the cave.

Whoever got that one would be lucky and content, but that wasn’t the one Felicity had her eye on. She didn’t write about lawyers. She wrote romance. There was another room she wanted, just based on what she had seen thus far — surely the bathroom was a bathroom,
not
a writing cave — but judging from the
oohs
and
aahs
, the executive room was highly desired.

“So … if this isn’t a challenge, are we being recorded?” Carmen peered around, a suspicious look on her face.

Ophelia stepped forward and nodded. “You are. This is the first episode. After this, you will be shown to the loft, where you will all reside during the duration of the show, until elimination. In that case, different accommodations will be provided for you, as was already explained.”

Felicity remembered the contract. It had been pages long. One of the clauses was that if a contestant was eliminated, their elimination had to remain a secret until the airing of the episode in which they were eliminated. Accommodations would be provided in a private hotel and no contact with outside world was permitted during the week it took viewers to be caught up.

It didn’t sound very appealing, but Felicity didn’t plan on being eliminated.

“How long do we have to write in our designated cave?” This came from Roy, the military man. The question they were all wondering.

Ophelia smoothed the waist of her already perfect pink suit jacket as she explained, “You must work in the cave your name is drawn for until the first elimination. When a contestant is eliminated, should another contestant wish for the previous contestant’s cave, he or she may have it — unless,” she raised a hand as mouths opened to question or comment, “unless more than one contestant wants the cave in question. In that case, you must compete for them in a writing contest that will be voted on by viewers of the show. The winner gets the cave. We will go through this after each elimination, unless everyone wishes to keep the caves they are assigned today. Viewers will be allowed to vote on your writing online.”

“Doubtful. Whoever gets that isn’t going to want to stay there.” Victor nodded toward the school desk. Would he even fit in it, Felicity wondered? The desk looked more suited to an eight-year-old, not a six-foot hunk of muscle — what in the world was she thinking?

Victor wasn’t here to make friends, and she wasn’t here to pick up men. Felicity was still shaking her head at herself when a square piece of paper was placed into her hand along with a ballpoint pen.

The literary agent, Allen Brown, instructed them in a brusque tone of voice as he handed out the pens and papers. “Write your name, first and last, nothing else,
legibly
on the paper then fold it evenly into a square, two folds.”

Felicity looked for a solid place to write and was surprised to find Carmen offering her back. “Write on me,” the woman said over her shoulder, “and I’ll write on you. I get the feeling if we dare to walk into those sections, any section, before they’re assigned, we’ll get some kind of reprimand from Mr. Constipated there.”

Felicity laughed, but complied, placing the paper against the other woman’s bony back and scribbling her name
legibly
on it. She capped her pen and folded her paper into fourths. Around her, the others were pairing up to do the same. Felicity wondered if they were already teaming up subconsciously, and if so, how long would they stay teams before turning on each other?

“Your turn.” She turned so Carmen could do the same, though she would have to bend quite a bit as she was a lot taller than Felicity. “It does feel like we’re being treated like school children, doesn’t it?” She attempted to make small talk as she felt the pen tip scribbling across her upper back.

“It sure does. What room you wanting? I saw that Arnold guy almost drooling for the executive office.” The sound of her pen retracting punctuated her last word.

Feeling as though the ice had broken, Felicity turned and smiled at her new ‘possible partner’. “I write romance, so naturally, I find myself gravitating to that one in the middle over there. From what I can see of it, it has a fireplace, though I think it’s probably electric, but it’s just so romantic. And that plush bear rug in front of it. I can totally imagine a couple drinking wine —”

“I hope that’s not real.” Carmen sniffed. “PETA will tear this show to pieces.”

And quick as that, their easy camaraderie was broken.

Before further words could be exchanged, Mr. Brown came back around, a cowboy hat held out in front of him. “Place your names in the hat, please.”

Felicity eyed the little white squares as each one was dropped into the hat, making sure no one had folded theirs any differently, but Mr. Brown was watching with an eagle-eye, so she decided she needn’t worry.

She could hardly believe she was already feeling this paranoid, and the competition hadn’t even started. But there was a lot at stake, and she hadn’t quit her 60,000 dollars a year day job just to come here and lose.

There was nothing she wanted more than a career as an author, but her savings were dwindling and agents weren’t responding. All she needed was this chance, this boost to her career.

There was no question she could write, but with ten million others vying for the same agents, it was hard to get noticed.

“Room one.” Mr. Brown stood in front of the executive office. “Mr. Hancock, you draw first as we are going alphabetical by last names.”

The handsome African-American bobbed his head and stepped around Victor and Tiffani to stand next to the literary agent. Mr. Brown held the hat in front of him. “Please do not look inside the hat when you draw.”

Tension mounted. Felicity heard someone suck in a breath as Dez averted his gaze and stuck his hand in the hat. Ophelia stepped forward to take the white paper from his fingers. Nothing could be heard except the sound of the flaps coming apart as she opened it.

She stared at them, making them wait, drawing it out. Finally, “Carmen Montez.”

A few dissatisfied grunts sounded through the room.

“Wow. I didn’t expect that.” The women’s fiction writer raised a fist in the air as she sauntered toward her writer’s cave. “I can write anywhere though, of course,” she added.

Someone snorted. Felicity assumed it was Victor. Already, she was recognizing the unique sound and mannerisms that were his.
Get a grip. Focus. Not here for men
.

“Room two.” Mr. Brown strode a few decent paces until he stood in front of the schoolroom. “Ms. James.”