Page 7 of Rat Race

You always did better with me by sending PR first and asking questions later—at least then I’d already know if I liked your product enough to try and convince my flock of overconsumers to buy the next greatest serum or this season’s must-have lipstick.

Cue eye roll.

After the game, once I made sure to mention that Mantene was the reason my hair was so long and shiny—it wasn’t, half of this shit was extensions, K-tips obviously—they’d all be kissing my feet. Not to mention sending me a fucking Birkin stuffed with cash and an all-inclusive vacation to Barbados as a thank you.

You’re welcome, cunts.

My useless stylist finally reemerged, wheeling a rack of clothes overfilled to bursting with options for me to wear inside the maze. I set the curling iron aside, rotating the chair and hopping out, moving to thumb through it with vicious efficiency.

Outside the Games, flashy clothes weren’t really my thing. Well, unless they’d been sent to me for free. But for this? I needed something loud, exciting.

Eye-catching.

Purple, yellow, black… I was almost halfway through the rack, muttering irritatednoesto myself as garment after garment sailed by on the shrieking metal rail. Before long, I was already at the end of my options.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” I snapped, shoving the rolling rack aside and into the stylist with more force than necessary.

Stomping toward the back in my socked feet, I paused as I saw another entrant’s stylist holding up a sparkly, cropped two-piece set with a mini skirt and built-in shorts in hot pink.

Perfect.

The Devil’s Playground weregames,after all. Reality TV with a deadly twist. That meant there were main characters, fan favorites, and villains. I was going to be all three.

I might’ve had a single motive for participating, but that didn't mean I had to look or behave like every other random loser who decided to play.

Fuck that, I’m a star.

That meant I didn’t follow trends. I made them.

I elbowed my way through the tightly packed room, swiping the outfit out of the other player’s hands before they could touch the vibrant material.

“Uh, hello, bitch? That’s mine!” the brunette whined, her long, straight hair falling over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes, lunging forward and barking loudly at her until she backed up, wide eyes finding the floor.

“What the hell you freak?”

She pushed herself up to a standing position and whipped the dirt off her outfit.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.” She rolled her eyes at that.

“Fine keep it, just know the pink will clash with your blood when you kill yourself,” she said with a scoffHer ego obviously bruised.

“Thought so,” I said with another one of those award-winning smiles and a wink. “Thanks. I think blue is more your color anyway.”

Turning quickly enough that my long blonde hair made contact with her round, moon-like face, I returned to my station to see my stylist throwing her hands up.

“Well, I never! Just—style yourself then!” she huffed, storming away.

“I plan on it!” I called after her, changing quickly and sitting back in the chair to do my makeup. “If you want to help, find me some fucking shoes!”

Speakers crackled overhead, the Devil’s Playground theme song warning the room at large that an announcement was coming. A hush fell over the crowd, eyes turning upward as though they could obtain the information quicker by sight alone.

I grabbed a liquid liner pen from the stylist’s kit, making quick work darkening my lash line. For the most part, I’d already done my makeup before arriving, my permanent lash extensions putting in the work to make me look put together despite the rest of my face being relatively light.

Dewy and fresh was the goal, given I’d probably sweat most of it off in the maze anyway. The last thing I needed was racoon eyes, even if I’d be wearing a mask.

“Players!” a cheery, computer-generated voice called. “Lots will be assigned momentarily through a randomized process. Please refer to your trackers for instructions and proceed to your gate promptly.”

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