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

quota to fill. You know how it is. Token black. Token Asian. And those Tongan guys on the last few seasons of Weighty Matters were a big hit among several demographics, so a Pacific Islander was a big score for the Mansion.”

“What are you saying…you picked me because I’m Chamorro?”

“Not me, personally. The executive producers. Plus you’re older, too. And gay—Ricardo hadn’t signed on yet at that point. They wanted to represent a wide range of races and ages and everything else, half women, half men. You, Bev, Jia…quotas. Remember how I said you wouldn’t win? That’s because nobody expected anyone other than the young white men to still be standing this far into the game. Well, except Jia—she’s got a pretty vocal following and a reputation for being a good performer and a smart businesswoman. You, on the other hand, haven’t made any big waves lately in the magic community—and yet, here you are. Which just goes to prove that you never can tell who’s going to crumble under the pressure and the competition, and who’s going to thrive.” She screwed the top back onto the scotch, and said, “Believe me, Professor. You’re thriving. But this week, you’ll need your strength. So cut yourself some slack and figure out how to go to your happy place. Without this.”

John allowed himself a small smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Marlene held his gaze for a long moment, then reached into the pocket of her black cardigan, and pulled out a key. She dangled it in front of John.

“What’s this?” he said.

“Since you’re not on the Red Team anymore, no sense in you bunking with Kevin.”

Frankly, that was the best thing John had heard all day…but he’d never had access to a room that locked. It didn’t make sense. Not with the dorm-style arrangements and the players and staff going in and out. While Marlene was friendly enough with him, he sensed a test of some sort…especially right on the heels of her warning that he keep his hands to himself when it came to Ricardo. “And what have I done to merit a lock?”

“Only four dorm rooms were set up—the other big bedrooms had problems that couldn’t be patched up with a few coats of paint, but the servants’ quarters are still in pretty good shape. I’ve had your stuff—and Bev’s—moved down there so that each player is truly on their own now. But it’s pretty far off the beaten track. We wouldn’t want any interns stealing your underwear and selling them on eBay. So…they’re locked.”

Most definitely a test. Probably another night-vision camera.

Still, John was eager to tuck himself into bed without waiting for Kevin Kazan to accuse him of some sort of nonsense in the middle of the night in that ridiculous, trumped-up ghetto patois of his.

Marlene led John past the crowded kitchen, through the catering crew, into a plain, sturdy hallway with several small bedrooms branching off either side. Two rooms across the hall from one another had a paper star taped to the door: one had Mrs. Austin written on it in marker, and the other, Mr. Topaz.

“We’re sending dinner to your rooms tonight. Chicken, fish or veggie?”

“Fish, please.” John supposed he should be glad his meal wouldn’t consist of painted pegs.

While he waited for dinner, he checked his things. Everything appeared to be intact—even his underwear. His new room didn’t have much to explore. There was a narrow twin bed that smelled of mothballs, a plain bar on which to hang his wardrobe, and a nightstand. At least there was a small window, and it looked into an overgrown part of the yard that John could potentially pretend was anywhere. The solitude was the thing he welcomed the most. And he hadn’t allowed himself to fully acknowledge how much he’d been missing it.

The mattress squeaked as John lay down with his dog-eared Hemingway, but despite the bed’s discomfort, he felt more at home, more relaxed, than he had since he’d first arrived. He read, but only perfunctorily. Mostly he listened to the sounds of the house: the dry wind outside, the rap of the pneumatic nail gun in the yard, the clatter of gear being shifted, the rise and fall of crew’s voices down the hall. He was half-asleep by the time he realized that the rapping had changed, and it was no longer the construction crew outside, but someone tapping on his own door. Marlene, no doubt, making sure he hadn’t gone back for the scotch. Or maybe his new neighbor Bev, seeking to form an alliance with him.

What he really hoped was that it was Ricardo. Despite Marlene’s cautions. And despite the fact that he was doing his best to pretend he didn’t. He opened the door, and yes—it was Ricardo…who slammed the door behind him and threw his arms around John’s neck, silencing the protest John was about to make with a lingering kiss.

Though John regretted it, he was the one to turn his mouth aside, and say, “Wait.”

“My tongue’s a lot better today—almost good as new.”

“Not that. I’m sure we’re being taped.”

“There’s no camera in here. I asked the gaffer. He said there wasn’t.”

John touched Ricardo’s hair. It was free from styling products, soft and natural. Without makeup, in his jeans and his T-shirt, this would be how he would look at home, just him and John. The anticipation was a tantalizing pang in John’s chest. It seemed as if he’d forgotten how to look forward to something…until now. “We can’t be sure. And whatever we do in these next few days, these last few challenges, could affect us for the rest of our careers.”

“Why would anyone care about us?”

“You never know. The less gossip we provide people with, the more we can keep the focus where it needs to be. On our talent.”

“Talent?” Ricardo scoffed. “This show doesn’t even have anything to do with magic. If there was one thing I agree with Faye about, it’s that. Magic Mansion stunts aren’t about anything but dumb