Page 6 of Rat Race

Still, it was entertaining, so I’d let it slide. No reason to deny myself life’s simple pleasure of watching a friendless loser lust after a girl totally out of their league, y’know? But seeing them on the screen together? That veered straight intointerestingterritory.

I wished I could’ve caught more of them during Hide N’ Seek. The glimpses that I’d managed were nothing in comparison to the highlight reel they were playing now. Blow after blow. Murder after murder.

That fight in the Mirror Maze? Photo. Fucking. Finish.

And to be invited to commentate on the next event? In the same tournament year?Living legends.

Didn’t matter, though. I’d get in there, kill the cunt, and be home in time to watch the entire weekend on my PVR with some pizza and champagne. Usually, I’d go for some wine coolers, but I figured I could spring for the good stuff since I was about to become a millionaire.

It's the little things.

I’d gotten to the island early in the hopes of catching a bit of the competition live, but the useless bitch they’d assigned to do my makeover was taking her sweet time. At least the highlights were impressive—it was all anyone was talking about in the dressing room. Well, at least the stylists were. Most of the incoming players for Rat Race were either watching the footage, pale and uncomfortable as they realized it was absolutely too late to back out, or, like me, trying to enjoy some peace before the next few stressful hours.

No amount of deep breathing exercises or mindful meditation was going to make running for your life any easier, though. Maybe I should’ve brought a stress ball.

Snatches of conversation floated over to me with the distinct air of gossiping about people so far out of your social strata it should’ve been criminal.

It was pathetic, really. The way these stylists would help the machine run, dressing us up pretty to ship us out to our events without ever having stepped into the arena themselves. Awfully easy to talk about how much faster you’d have shot the person trying to drown you when you’d never had a gun in your hand.

I fucking hate cowards.

“I did theirs,” the stylist said, her manicured finger moving to point at Kohl on the small screen. “They’d look good in just about anything, but absolutely killed the crop top. You should try something?—”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” I questioned with a sickly sweet smile, turning in my chair to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

I needed as many eyes on me as possible tonight. As if I were going to chance astranger’sjudgment on what I should be wearing. No, I’d be choosing my own look, thank you.

The stylist's smile dropped, disappointment flashing across her face for a split second before her hand tightened around my hair. The curling iron paused mid-air as she digested my words, the heat radiating off the black barrel to warm my face. To be safe, I tugged away the strand of blonde hair she was holding, leaning away.

“Let’s not get excited with that iron, hm?” I suggested in an irritated purr. “My face is worth more than your house.”

The last fucking thing I needed was a giant burn to tote around while about a thousand cameras tracked my every move. If I had to spend the next fifty years watching playback footage looking like I lost a fight with a candle, I was going to fucking lose it.

She opened her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it, grabbing the iron out of her hand. Turning back to the mirror with that same, vapid smile.

“My sponsors want a specific look,” I chirped, regaining my composure and transforming back into the doe-eyed doll I’d been hired to play. My gaze caught hers in the mirror, my sick satisfaction at her obvious offense evident. “You don’t mind, do you?”

She let out a shocked gasp that I ignored, beginning to deal with my hair. Passing the hot iron from root to mids before I lightly curled the ends. It didn’t take long for her to fuck off to go find me something to wear—not that it really mattered what it was, as long as it matched the heavy, patch-covered leather motocross-style jacket I needed to wear into the arena.

Part of my contract was wearing my sponsor’s logo.

That was the thing about Rat Race versus something like Hide N’ Seek—since the mortality rate was lower, there was lessmoney in the game itself. Most of the major players built their fortunes off deals with companies, and for girls like me who had an existing social media presence? This was just another commercial shoot.

I’d wear the jacket, cross the finish line at any point, and collect my check. And if I was in the top ten percent, the payout was even bigger.

Paired with the added benefit that I’d finally get to set that useless cunt’s teeth on the curb and stomp, it was a win-win.

Using the mirror, I looked around at the competitors being styled in nearby booths. Though there were many contestants inside the large, tent-like room, the person I was most anxious to see was still missing.

I sighed in exasperation.

“Soon,” I whispered to myself, focusing on making my bangs as bouncy as possible.

In truth, the sponsors didn’t give a fuck about how my hair or makeup was done, but I had a brand, and I wasn’t going to let some hapless beauty school reject make me look like a clown on international television.

No, the corporate boozers that I’d effectively signed my life away to were lucky I’d chosen something from their catalog at all. Given my existing audience, having me wear their logo across my back was the best promo opportunity they could ask for. I’d be at the top of the leaderboard almost instantly as my followers signed on to watch me play, meaning I’d have even more visibility to bring in new eyes.

Thank fuck for my publicist for not having to deal with any of the bullshit back and forth. Nothing irritated me more than when a company reached out on my socials with some fake-ass perfectly curatedHey girly!!message to internet-beg me to wear their cheap, child labor-made jewelry.

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