Page 18 of House of Deceit

My seat gets jostled, the baby squirming around in anger and the dad fighting to contain them within the small space, as the flight attendants announce we can get up. Accepting that it’ll be a while before my row can deplane, I pop my head over the back of my seat. The baby stops flinging themselves around for a moment, looking at me. I duck back down before popping up again. The wails stop for a second before resuming. I pop over the chair again and this time, I get a watery smile.

By the time my row stands, I am in a deep game of peekaboo that has the baby squealing with laughter. People around us smile at the glee the baby is exhibiting, clapping its hands and gurgling happily.

“See ya later, kiddo.” I stand to grab my things as the father thanks me. I give him a nod and smile before making my way down the aisle.

The baggage claim signs guide me like fairy lights through an enchanted forest. Waking up at four in the morning to catch my plane has made me tired, but my nervous excitement is winning out. Hordes of people wait, jostling for position in a race that is not happening. We all stand in a clump. The siren wails and the light flashes. Grabbing up our carry-ons, we move with a hive-like mind to get closer to the carousel. The spinning metal conveyor belt is the only thing standing between us and the sweet freedom of fresh air.

When I graduated high school, one of my gifts from some relative or another was a set of plain black suitcases. For someone who rarely traveled and only needed them to get to and from campus, I didn’t much mind. But when you’re in a creative major, which is pretty much any major that isn’t STEM, you make even more creative friends.

Courtney and I had very different college experiences. Whereas she was in all the smart classes and absolutely smashed every one, my course load was lighter, not easier, but less demanding. While Court spent most of her days in the library, I spent mine with various people I’d met in some of my electives.

During one ill-fated semester, a painter took pity on me and my horrid attempts at surrealist art. He helped me pass, and I helped him learn where the clitoris is. We were both better for our time together. One night, after our rendezvous, he was bored. Getting out my paints that I had hardly touched once the class was over, he painted my boring black suitcases.

The flower designs are faded and chipped now, but they are still distinct enough that it takes me two seconds to find my bags. I shove through the unmoving wall of sweaty bodies before me and snatch my bags off the belt. Pretty much every piece of clothing that I own, and many that Courtney helped me shop for with a generous loan from my parents, is shoved in these two bags. The list of acceptable items was specific and limited. No visible brands or logos. No words. Evening attire was encouraged for the live eliminations. Shoes of various types, but they would provide any outfits needed for the competitions. And swimsuits. With the amount of downtime, swimsuits were a must.

Of course, we couldn’t bring anything electronic. No smart watches or phones would be allowed in the house but were permitted up to the minute we left for the mansion. Mainly so production could coordinate with us. The only source of entertainment would be provided by the show. Board games, books, and cards. Anything else was prohibited. Thankfully, books were my haven. I just hoped they had some good titles.

The air is hot as I step out of the terminal, smacking me in the face as if I’ve opened an oven, but not smothering how North Carolina is. My skin starts sweating immediately but unlike back home, my normally frizzy hair isn’t growing with each second that passes. I look around for the shuttle to the hotel I will stay at for the next week, counting down the moments until I can be alone in my room, the last place I’ll have a moment alone for who knows how long.

The hotel is impressive. Giant chandeliers hang throughout the lobby, casting a soft, candle-like glow on the room below. Classic black-and-white checkered marble sweeps through the vast space. The bar is to my right. No TVs hang above it, encouraging the patrons to talk to one another. A woman in a red dress sits, lonely, sucking the olive off a stick before taking a drink.

“Hello, welcome to the Wagoner Hotel. How can I help you?” The receptionist has a hint of an accent I can’t place. Her braids are long, and various gold and silver jewels hang from them. Red lips are set in a serene smile, and immediately I’m at ease.

“Hello, the last name is Price.” Her long-nailed fingers start clacking away at the keys. “I’m not sure if it’ll be under my name or not. Or maybe the company’s name?” I’m more talking to myself; the woman’s eyes haven’t lifted from her screen since I first said my name.

“Charles Price?”

“That’s me.”

“Yes, Ms. Price, we have you right here. We have you for five nights. Is there anyone staying with you?” Still the serene smile, the beautiful eyes.

“No, just me, thank you.”

She taps around again before feeding a card into a machine. She folds it into a little holder and then hands me a small piece of paper.

“Here’s the Wi-Fi password. The dining room serves food twenty-four seven and there is room service. Per the booking, anything you would like is included. Just bill any food or services to your room. Now, if you’d like to enjoy the pool, it’s right here.” She points to a map she pulls from the counter by her computer. She shows me the various amenities, gym, pool, and bar, before telling me my room number. Before I know it, I’m on the elevator riding up to the tenth floor, my brain muddled from all the different directions.

I snap awake, hair plastered to my face. My legs are numb from passing out with them hanging over the edge of the bed. After dropping my bags right inside the door, I was devoid of enough energy to fully climb into bed before exhaustion beat me into submission. The sun is setting, a golden glow sliding down the wall. I move to stand up and immediately drop to the floor. I lay there for a moment like a starfish, giving my legs time to wake up. As sharp tingles run up my legs, I wonder if this is how Ariel felt when she received her land legs.

I get up and stumble to the bathroom. My skin feels covered in grime, so I quickly strip and hop into the shower. The water has great pressure and I groan in ecstasy, washing my hair so it has time to air dry before I meet my wrangler in the morning. A list of various activities that I have to complete sits in my inbox. After I climb out of the shower, the air cold against my warm skin, I brush my hair and put on a simple outfit. Keeping my face bare, I grab a copy of my favorite fantasy book. I slip the room key into my back pocket and make my way down to the bar.

The bartender stops wiping the bar and walks over to me. Flipping the white towel over the shoulder of his black vest, he sets a coaster in front of me and hands me a menu.

“Good evening, gorgeous. What can I get you to drink?” His dimples wink at me from the quintessential boy-next-door face.

I smile at him. “A glass of red wine would be great. Whatever you think is best.”

“No problem,” he says, moving away.

He comes back after a moment and sets a glass in front of me, the maroon liquid catching the last dying rays of sunlight through the window.

“Can I have the grilled chicken salad, please? With the dressing on the side?” I ask him.

“Anything for you.” He winks at me, touching my hand slightly as he takes back the menu. My cheeks heat, causing him to smile. As the minutes tick on, the bar fills with people. The bartender is swept into the dinner rush while I sink down in my book. The cover and a good chunk of the pages are taped together.

At the top of my check, long after my two glasses of wine and dinner have disappeared, is a phone number and an imploring “Call me.” I leave the receipt on the bar. After Scott, I have no intention of dating for a very long time. And that includes one-night stands. When I get back to my room, I immediately fall into the arms of sleep like a lover welcoming me home once more.

I hesitate outside the room, deep in the bowels of the hotel where my first interview will be. Seated right in the middle of a black, matte backdrop surrounded by many studio lights is a camera. Nerves hit my stomach like a battering ram. Questioning what the hell I got myself into, I move toward the closest person to me in a headset.

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