Page 29 of House of Desire

Tension drains from my body. The part of this process I hate the most is letting these women go. While I know they signed up for this knowing there was a good probability they would be eliminated, I don’t want to hurt anyone.

“Friends?” I ask, holding my arms open for a hug.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, and jumps out of the basket the moment Jim opens the door.

“What would even be the point?”

My arms fall to my sides in shock at the abrupt change in tone and wonder how much of her personality I enjoyed was for the cameras. And how much was really her.

“I think, maybe, you dodged a bullet there, son,” Jim mumbles and I can’t help but agree.

“Marco!” Maya calls out, her eyes closed.

“Polo!” we all chorus back to her.

She spins in a circle toward Carmen’s voice that is closest to her. The stunning woman everyone treats like she’s personally trying to cure childhood cancer by working at a children’s hospital, tries to move slowly to avoid making noise. Maya lunges and Carmen squeals before slipping away in a flurry of waves. Maya tries to follow her, but she’s slightly disoriented with the echoes of the rest of us laughing and misses Carmen entirely.

“Marco,” she calls out again when she realizes her prey has slunk away to safer waters.

“Polo!”

“I don’t think I’ve played Marco Polo in about ten years. I forgot how much fun it is,” Zoey whispers, trying not to call Maya’s attention to us.

“I would have played almost anything today. I was getting really bored. I didn’t think about all the downtime included in this show,” I say.

Looking over at her, I notice a tendril of her blue hair has escaped her bun. Reaching over, I tuck it back up for her so it doesn’t dip into the chlorinated water. Dyed mere days before we came to the mansion, she doesn’t want it to fade too quickly since she’ll be unable to touch it up and that means avoiding the harsh chemicals in the pool. She considered asking for a swim cap on the first day but discarded the idea, sure they would include the footage in the show.

“I did and it was still what I expected. Did you hear about Olivia and Victoria’s fight the other day?”

“Which one?” I ask. While I have no desire to be a part of any drama, with no access to television, I’m desperate for entertainment. There are only so many games we can play.

She snorts as we move away from Maya, skirting around the edge of the pool. “Apparently little Miss Lawyer Barbie Victoria was screaming about Olivia breaking her four-hundred-dollar hair straightener and how she was going to take her to small claims court if she didn’t pay for it.”

“Why would a hair straightener cost four hundred dollars? What does it do one costing less than a hundred dollars doesn’t? It’d better give me a scalp massage at that price point,” I say.

“Fuck if I know, but Olivia ended up sitting on the floor crying about how she can’t be taken to court.”

“Did someone tell her the likelihood Victoria will actually sue her is extremely low?”

“Once they could get her to uncurl from the ball she’d rolled up into, yes.”

“Boredom and this many different personalities isn’t exactly a great mix.”

“Maybe not, but it’s definitely entertaining. For those of us staying out of the drama, that is.” She lifts her hand out of the water for me to high-five as Maya finally catches someone, ending her turn as Marco.

“Oh my God!” Leslie squeals from her sun chair as Sam the Butler comes out with his usual silver domed tray.

“Pardon the interruption ladies, but some of your presences have been requested by Mr. Parker this evening.” His white glove clad hand grips the dome, pulling it off with a smooth, practiced grace.

Leslie rushes over, the gold bangles on her arms tinkling as she grabs the white envelope from the tray and rips it open.

“Gorgeous ladies. I have been able to think about nothing other than seeing you all again. Will Anastasia, Carmen, Zoey, Leslie, and Maya please join me today? Your taste buds will never be the same,” Leslie reads out.

“Looks like you and I are competing against each other today,” I say, grinning to my friend.

“As if I’d ever consider you competition,” she jokes as we lift ourselves from the pool.

The kitchen at the culinary school we are taken to is cold and clinical feeling compared to mine. Everything is perfect and pristine. There is no chip on the corner of the workbench from it being dropped when the installers were bringing it in. There are no stains from dye incidents. Everything matches. And everything is white or stainless steel.

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