He rushes out, then returns just as quickly. His mouth hangs open as if he wants to tell me something, but he slowly retreats again.
I fight with everyone else, but I don’t want to fight him. “Hogan, wait.” I sigh.
He slowly faces me. He’s clenching his jaw and I can tell he’s irritated with me.
“I might have been a little jealous,” I admit, pinching my fingers together to show a small amount before closing my eyes briefly. I open them in time to see his lip curl up ever so slightly. He sighs heavily and runs his fingers over his mouth as if he’s trying to stay mad.
“There’s no reason to be. I promise you, you’re all the woman I can handle and I really can’t handle you.”
“You like me because I keep you on your toes,” I say playfully, rocking back and forth on my heels.
“I might like you. I haven’t made up my mind yet.” He pauses and licks his lips. There’s electricity between us and it seems obvious we’re both afraid of it. “I have to go. Good luck today. And so you know, the last thing I ever want to be is a distraction.”
I don’t want him to leave. Before I think too much, I cross the invisible line between us and rush toward him. “You do distract me, but you can’t help it,” I whisper, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and lingering too long. Pulling my lips from his skin is more difficult than I imagined it would be. He’s breathing harder than before. His head turns to face me and I can’t seem to move away from him. He gently squeezes my hip, groaning softly and I place my hand on his neck, pulling him toward me. “Distract me,” I whisper.
Just as his lips part and he begins his descent, the bathroom door flies opens and Carmen enters. “Sam, are you—”
She stops speaking and gawks. Hogan and I part suddenly. One of his hands flies up to his hair and the other points around the room. “As you can see, Ms. Wittaker, there are no cameras here. I can assure you of that.”
“Thank you,” I say breathlessly. “I appreciate you clearing that up for me.”
He turns to leave and Carmen stares at me, her eyes growing wider with each passing second. “What in the F was that?” she says excitedly.
“Nothing. I thought someone had planted a camera in here and I asked him to check.” I pump soap into my hands and hold them to the water sensor. Nothing happens. I hate these things. I move them around until a slight burst of water rushes out. Not enough to even wet my hands, much less clear the soap.
“You are full of poop! Unless those cameras were in your mouth.”
“Carmen, nothing happened. Just let it go.”
She starts singing “Let It Go” as she twirls around me. I continue my pursuit of water, but I can’t help but release a nervous giggle.
“Someday, you are going to tell me the truth.”
Grabbing a paper towel, I stare directly in her eyes. “Someday.”
WE’VE GATHERED IN the boardroom for day two’s challenge. Bryce had to re-film the intro three times to get the right amount of drama. I thought it was fine the first time, but what do I know?
Apparently there were also technical glitches and a filming issue that’s finally been resolved. There were a few tense moments between Herman, Lori, and Hogan. The producers didn’t seem happy with him. It became apparent that Hogan was in charge of the technical side of filming when he ran from place to place, speaking to the crew and checking equipment in an attempt to resolve the problem.
“I apologize for the delay,” Bryce begins, “but sometimes, these things happen. I know you’ve been sitting for the last hour, so let’s take a quick bathroom break. Be back in fifteen minutes.”
I stand and roll my neck before taking a sip from my water bottle and replacing it on the floor beside my chair. I lean on the desk and cross my arms as I people-watch and after a few minutes, I decide I’d better use the restroom in case we don’t get another break for a while.
Something catches my eye as I turn the corner. Stuck-Up is speaking to Jack, the bartender, in the hall. Jack is nodding and Stuck-Up pushes something into his hand. Jack stuffs whatever he gave him into his front pocket and rushes off. Stuck-Up straightens his tie and glances around before moving on. I dart behind a tall fake bush to avoid being seen.
“Who are you hiding from?” Braveheart asks, startling me.
“Fucking-A! Stop sneaking up on me like that.”
“You were spying, weren’t you? Tell me.”
“Not now,” I whisper. “Later. I need to do some investigating before I can say anything for certain.”
He nods. “I like the way you work, Wittaker. I knew you’d be valuable. Tonight then. Me and you,” he says, motioning between us.
“Fine.”
I return to my seat without using the restroom, pondering what I saw and what it meant. Was Jack going to get him the phone to call his dad? Was he paying him off for some information? I decided I would spend more time with Jack to see what I could get out of him. It’s time I put my liquor limits to the test.
“Tricks, cons, bluffs… when do we first learn to lie?” Bryce asks, roaming the room. “Some might say lying or fibbing is just a way of life. We see it in the news, in politics, even in our own families. Learning to conceal the truth might be considered a defense mechanism used for self-preservation. Survival of the fittest liar perhaps? Is lying an art? Can it be mastered? Studies show children can learn to lie by the age of two. Did your mother tell her aunt dinner was delicious, even though she clearly hated it, to protect her feelings? That must be okay. Did your brother blame another sibling for breaking the vase to avoid punishment? When does the casual white lie turn in to something more? Today’s challenge will ask our players to determine lies through the ages. Let’s check in with The Fabulist to find out more.
The screen flickers to life as the lights dim.
“Good morning. Ah, adolescence. Some of the best liars I’ve known began practicing the art as young lads, lying to their mums, maybe their professors, then to the bobbie—er, the police. But in order to understand the lie, you must understand the motivation behind it. Today, I will overwhelm you with truths and lies through the ages. Outside the doors of the Highlight is a bright yellow bus. You’re going back to school, mates. Play nice with the other children. They have spent the last week discussing the importance of telling the truth. With the permission of their parents, of course, some of them will undoubtedly tell the truth, some will explain a bluff they might have told to protect themselves, or perhaps they will say they told the truth when in fact, they did not. You will be listening to the recorded stories of children ages three to thirteen. Perhaps you will meet your fate in believing the lie of a child. Choose wisely, listen closely. If the truth is muddled in a lie, it is a lie. The whole truth is the only truth.
“Some children stop lying when they are caught. Others go on to perfect their craft and become the lawyers of tomorrow. Good luck.”
What in the world have I gotten myself into? I guess I’m going back to school.
Bus travel back and forth to the school and watching the children’s videos takes several hours. Chef Nowar was kind enough to send lunch with us. I think the best part of it was the retro tin lunch boxes we were given. I chose Wonder Woman. I’m totally bringing it home with me.
We finally return to the hotel and before recording our answers in the diary room, we’re told to explain what, if any, lessons we might have learned. I admit in the diary room that while I found several of the children adorably quirky, most made me thankful birth control was invented. If my future offspring are even half as crafty at lying as some of these kids, I think I’ll die early from stress-induced anxiety.
Since the results are going to be announced after dinner, and that’s an hour away, I go up to the room for a quick shower. I have to wear the same clothes for filming consistency, but fresh undergarments would be a nice change. Apparently air conditioning in school buses still hasn’t become a necessity.
Telling Carmen I’ll meet her in the bar i
n twenty minutes, I continue to the elevators. BM is already at the bar having a drink, so I assume she won’t be coming back to the room anytime soon. Hogan follows me with the camera. I guess he’s back to being my cameraman. I try not to let him see me smile. I want so badly to talk to him after what happened this morning, but he’s been busy all day and now I’m not allowed. I wish I could tell him I’m just taking a shower so he shouldn’t waste his time filming me, but I suppose he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. As I think about it, I realize there is an opportunity here to make his day more interesting. I plot all the way to the room.
Once inside, I pull out a new thong and bra, displaying them on the bed. I remove my cardigan and toss it there as well. Pulling my shirt over my head just before entering the bathroom, I make sure he can see my bra and bare skin. I toss the bra out the door, then do the same with my pants and thong. I start the water and close the door but don’t lock it. If he wanted to put the camera down and join me, he could, but I know he won’t. He’s too professional to cross that line. Still, the idea gives me a thrill and I have to make the water colder to get my mind off him. Deep down, I know we have to be careful, but having him around is probably as exciting as the game itself. As I step out of the shower, I wonder if he’ll mind what I’m about to do next. I might be slightly evil, but the idea of making him squirm is too hard to resist.
After drying myself, I wrap a towel around me and open the door to the bathroom wide enough that he can see inside. He’s leaning against the wall and starts to prop the camera on his shoulder when he sees me. He smirks and shakes his head as he turns the camera away. He can’t film me in the bathroom and I know it, but it doesn’t stop him from watching. I sit on the tub and carefully rub lotion on my arms and shoulders before my giving my long legs a bit more attention. Then I slip my underwear on under the towel. I retrieve my bra from the bed and my clothes from the floor and glance back briefly at him and his wide eyes. Laughing, I close the door to finish getting ready.
A few minutes later, I’m fully dressed, and we’re waiting for the elevator in the hall. He’s chewing on another toothpick and filming. Once the doors close, he lowers the camera to the floor and steps forward, placing both his arms on either side of my face and pinning me against the wall.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” he asks, his lips mere inches from mine.
“Driving you crazy, I hope.” I run my finger down the front of his chest and feel every curve of what I imagine to be impeccably sculpted abs.
“So help me God, woman. I hope you’re ready for me when this show is over.”
“I’m ready for you right now.”
The elevator pings. He steps back and picks up the camera. “Be careful what you wish for.”
I’m unable to respond because we’re on the first floor and he’s filming again. I’m needy and breathless. What is it about him that has me acting so crazy? Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t have him. Maybe it’s what’s driving this need for both of us. He said “when the show is over.” Does that mean he plans on seeing me afterward? Nervousness and excitement course through my veins at the idea that we could be more, but at the same time, I’m not sure it’s what I want. How do I know he doesn’t have a wife and kids at home? He’s not wearing a ring, but since when does that mean anything?
As usual, when we arrive at the bar, he plugs in his camera and leaves. Glancing around, I surmise there are enough cameras without him and he’s no longer needed. He deserves a break. Maybe I need one too.
“What can I get for you, Sam?” Jack asks.
Part of me wants to come right out and ask what he was doing with Stuck-Up, but I’m afraid if I tip my hand, he’ll become guarded around me and I won’t ever get the truth. “Let’s go with Jack, in your honor,” I say.
“You got it.”
I decide to nurse it until after dinner, when my real show will begin.
We gather in the dining room. Chef Nowar tells us about his experiences in Italy and how they helped shape our meal for the evening. He shares an amusing story about a client’s dislike of anything with capers, but how tonight he is going out on a limb and making it for us. I feel horrible for him; Stuck-Up and Braveheart are laughing and carrying on as if he isn’t there. Sarge leaves, I assume to use the bathroom, and Cocoa is fixing her makeup. I don’t know what in the hell has happened to having manners. My parents might be crazy, but they taught us to be respectful when someone is speaking. You’d think businessmen would know better. As for Cocoa, well, I don’t think she thinks of anyone but herself.
After dinner, we’re back in the boardroom and I begin my new pattern of second-guessing myself. Trying to determine children’s truths and lies was more challenging than I anticipated, mostly because in some truths, there seemed to be lies, and in some lies, there appeared to be truths. He’d told us it was all or nothing, so a part lie was a whole lie. Hopefully, the time I’d spent hanging out around Carmen’s nephews gave me an edge. Those boys were famous for their tall tales and they loved trying to stump me. But these kids, well, I just don’t know.
After introductions and the usual production stuff, we’re ready to hear from The Fabulist. The screen purrs to life.
“Good evening, lads and lasses. I trust you enjoyed walking down memory lane as you strolled the halls of youth. Some of you may be children at heart. For three of you, this challenge was too easy. For others, well, I suppose if you have a black soul, it’s impossible to understand the innocence of children.”
Damn. He thinks someone has a black soul. I can name a few people off the top of my head who fit that to a T.
“If I call your name, find your place on the chessboard. Carter Walsh, Sam Wittaker, Finola Hawthorne, Courtney Davis, Thomas Moore, Carmen Moran, and Ervin Jennings.”
Pushing up from my chair is difficult. What does it mean? This time my name lights up in the middle of the board. I’m even with Carmen. We stare at each other briefly and I know she’s in as much distress as I am.
“If I did not call your name, your scores indicate you racked up enough points to be safe from elimination. Well played. If you are on the board, you either scored exceptionally well or are an utter embarrassment.”
“Thomas Moore, you received immunity in the last challenge. Please remove the clock and hand it to Bryce.” High-Rise does as he’s told. “How would you have fared without protection? It seems you are a player worthy of your position. While you were not the highest scorer this time, you were in the top three and would have been safe regardless.”
High-Rise returns to his seat. “While three of you had perfect scores, only one of you impressed me with your method of deduction. The player winning immunity for the next challenge is…” The lights flicker and dance across the five of us on the board, landing on… “Ervin Jennings. Well played. For you time has stopped. Cheers!”
Bryce shakes Sarge’s hand as Sarge waves up to The Fabulist with the other. I glance at the screen; there’s no movement. Did he see Ervin wave? Is he watching? Is he recorded or live? Why can we never speak to him?”
“Carmen Moran.” The lights in the room twist to her. There’s a lump in my throat as she crosses her fingers. “You have survived to play another day. You, too, are safe.”
Carmen jumps gleefully and claps her hands. I smile and give her a thumbs-up as she returns to her seat. Courtney rolls her eyes as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. I throw daggers at her with my eyes.
“Sam Wittaker, Courtney Davis, Finola Hawthorne, and Carter Walsh.” Hearing my name snaps me out of my thoughts. “One of you scored very well, another scored well enough to be safe, and two of you are in the bottom. Have you played the game, or has the game played you? If the light beneath your feet vanishes, you are safe.”
The lights flicker and flash before they all turn solid. Suddenly my light and Stuck-Up’s go out. Was I a top scorer or in the bottom? I hate that I don’t know.
“Finola Hawthorne an
d Courtney Davis. It seems you’ve been captured by the lie. You have one minute to make your final plea.”
Bryce steps forward, as Stuck-Up and I return to our seats. “Courtney, you’re first.”
“Personally, I think this challenge offered zero representation of my true talent. I mean, where in business will whether or not a kid is lying be important? It’s not like I’m applying for a job as a nanny.” She rolls her eyes. “This is Finola’s second time at the bottom. Two shows, and two bottom scores. She obviously doesn’t have a clue. This is about who’s equipped for the job. She’s on the last leg of her career, probably her life, and mine is just beginning. Who would you rather have working for you? An old, washed up hag or a woman who knows how to get what she wants? This is a no-brainer; a no-brainer, just like Finola.” She stands with her hands on her hips, looking down on Finola, literally and figuratively.
As much as I try to be impartial, she’s made it impossible. Her better-than-thou attitude in every aspect of her personality makes even her valid points fall on my deaf ears.
Finola turns to Cocoa. “The only thing I can agree with you on in your entire statement is the ridiculousness of this challenge. Give me a room full of businessmen and I can tell you what you want to know, but children have no place in the boardroom.” She faces us once more. “Courtney would have you believe I’m washed up, that I don’t have any fight left in me. But the truth is I’ve fought my way out of more drama than even she’s created in her life. We know she’s an actress and we can all tell from her behavior the last two days that Courtney’s real name starts with a B, and I don’t mean Broadway. I’m smart. I know what it takes. Trust me on this. Keeping her in the game is like asking to be kicked in the face. She’s only good for one thing and that’s not why we’re here.”
I have to sit on my hands to keep from clapping. Bravo, Finola. Bravo!
Bryce steps forward. “Thank you, ladies.” Turning toward the rest of us, he says, “You will have one hour to make your decision. We’ll return here at that time to vote. Courtney and Finola, you have one hour to alter your destiny. Good luck.”
The Fabulist Page 13
