Magic Mansion by Jordan Price (best fiction books to read .txt) 📕

get down to planning the the Zig-Zag Cabinet…and so Iain had ensured the meal was sent out one lingering course at a time.

“It was sad to see Ken leave,” Sue offered up to the room’s silence, and immediately her teammates all murmured their assent.

“It will only get harder,” Bev said.

“True,” Muriel agreed. “The longer we stay here, and the closer we get, the worse it’s gonna feel as they boot us out of here one by one.”

The closer they got? John imagined that between the arguing about the Zig-Zag Cabinet that would shortly ensue, close would be an understatement. More like stifling.

And, of course the one player he did want to get close to seemed a million miles away—even as they stole glances across the table despite their best efforts to keep from being too obvious.

The dessert was served, finally, and as the strangely festive pink parfaits were placed in front of them, Muriel added, “Plus, Ken’s nose-whistle was a hoot. Sometimes I thought his left nostril was gonna break into Stairway to Heaven. Or maybe Freebird. I’ll miss that.”

Jia took two bites of her parfait, then stood up so quickly her chair teetered, and said, “Are we through? Can I go now?”

Iain tapped off his bluetooth headset and sighed. “Do you need me to get you a nicotine patch?”

“I’m wearing one.”

Iain looked at the remains of the dinner, then shrugged and said, “Fine. That’s a wrap. You’ll each have a cameraman in your room to grab more dynamic footage of your strategizing than the ceiling cams would pick up.”

Jia put her hand on the back of John’s chair. “Come have a smoke,” she said quietly.

John almost declined. But since she probably hadn’t presumed he’d picked up the habit over the course of the last few hours, there must have been something she wanted to tell him…alone. John stood. The subtle fidgeting of his other teammates—Kevin clenching and unclenching his shoulder muscles, Fabian realigning his salad fork every few moments—had caused him to be glad enough to stretch his legs. The only one who really took note of him leaving was Ricardo—and Ricardo simply gave him a small but encouraging smile, then went back to the “chitchat” he and his team managed so effortlessly.

They slipped past a pair of stylists who were comparing their latest iPhone apps and let themselves out into one of the less photogenic parts of the grounds, a corner where several ladders were stored on a cracked concrete pad. Jia didn’t bother offering John a cigarette. She lit one up and blew the smoke up toward her forehead, and her hair fluttered. “Slick move,” she said, “getting yourself hurt like that in the garden. I can guarantee they’ll show that blood at least two or three times. I hope you didn’t do it to get out of giving me your answer.”

John hadn’t realized she even thought he’d actually been considering an onscreen romance. “It was an accident,” he said. An accident…which was the very thing that had left John in a cardboard box of an apartment, alone, instead of an artsy townhouse with Casey. Maybe that was the deeper reason John didn’t feel particularly sorry for Ken getting voted off. Or perhaps it was relief over the fact that he now wouldn’t need to decide whether or not to say anything about the alcohol.

“I don’t believe in accidents any more than I believe in luck.” Jia clasped her free hand around her middle, and planted her other elbow against the forearm, cocking her cigarette just so beside her lips. “You designed yourself a solid persona that’ll get better and better as you age. You’re a man. And that’s what happens. With every year that passes, you grow more authoritative, more distinguished, more mature. Not women, though. In the eyes of the world, women just get old.”

John shuddered as if someone had stepped over his grave. Jia sounded suspiciously like his mother—his mother in 1970. She looked a bit like Rose, too. Especially when she took a punishing drag off her cigarette.

“I need to win this. And I could really use your help.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “You’re not my type.”

“It’s not because I’m Chinese, is it?” John didn’t dignify that with an answer, and Jia said, “I didn’t think so, since you’re Hawaiian or whatever yourself. Look, I don’t care if you’re actually into me or not. I know I’m young enough to be your daughter. But I think you’re classy enough to carry off a little pretend-fling without making yourself look like a creep.”

John gazed up through the trees and looked for the stars, but the nearby floodlights blotted out his view of the heavens. “Who else have you asked?”

“No one. Who else is there? Fabian’s married, and Ricardo’s a flaming queen.”

John smiled sadly. “I suppose it’s all a matter of context. In my social circles, Ricardo wouldn’t even be considered particularly effeminate. The flaming queens I know wear short-shorts and sing Barbara Streisand showtunes and call each other ‘Miss Thing.’”

Jia stared at him for the duration of three long drags, then finally said, “Oh. No offense.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

She stewed for a while, then said, “And then the other two straight single guys got themselves eliminated.”

“What about Kevin?” John suggested.

“What about him?”

“I can’t imagine he’d turn down an alliance.”

“I can’t imagine I could resist kneeing him in the balls if he even thought about touching me.” She crushed out her cigarette, pulled out her pack, and shook it to see how many more were left.

“This undercurrent of animosity the two of you have—”

“All the animosity’s on my part, Professor. He’s nothing but nice to me. In a leering, macho, idiotic way that I’m sure he has absolutely no control over.”

“This…tension, then, if that’s what you want to call it. I’m sure it will make much more interesting drama than some trumped-up affair. I think people can tell the difference between what’s genuine and what’s contrived.”

“Says the guy whose livelihood depends on illusion.”

“Well. I still think authenticity