The table was silent. We stared at Roza, waiting for her to burst out laughing. You’re all so serious!
“Anything else?” she asked instead.
“Any restrictions regarding the content?” Keira’s tone verged on casual.
“Up to you.” Roza pushed back her chair. “Of course, you know what I like, based on what got you here. But if you want to try sci-fi or whatever, that’s up to you. I lied about the day off; please come up with a one-paragraph proposal by our first meeting tomorrow. No need to share beyond the midpoint unless you’d like to. Print out copies for everyone; we’ll discuss them at two.”
“Oh god.” Poppy looked stricken. “That’s fast.”
“That’s the game, darling.” Roza stood, picking up her glass.
“What if you don’t like it?” I asked. “The story idea.”
Roza studied me. “Then you’ll have to come up with something else.”
Being the focus of her gaze was like nothing else I’d ever experienced: like being pinned down as she cracked open my skull, staring impassively, considering the slimy things inside.
Then she grinned and it was friendly, almost jaunty. The switch jarred me.
“So, my dear.” Her voice was light. “Make it something I like.”
Chapter 10
After dinner, we returned to our rooms. The earlier camaraderie at dinner had dissipated and we were silent as we climbed the marble staircase.
Halfway up the stairs, Taylor broke the silence. “Well, fuck.”
“Guess the party’s over.” Keira pursed her lips. “That was fast.”
“Do you guys have ideas yet?” Poppy’s large eyes were veined with red. “Because I am freaking the eff out.”
Keira squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I was thinking of trying some freewriting. Seeing what comes up.”
“That’s a good idea,” Taylor said.
“What time is it?” I asked.
Only Wren wore a watch. “Ten thirty,” she said without looking at me.
I felt a curious remove from the situation. It was like all the stress of the past two hours had completely shut me down. Seeing Wren and finding out she was engaged. Roza messing with me in front of everyone. And now having to come up with an entire novel idea when I hadn’t been able to write anything over the past year.
I hadn’t expected it to be easy. But maybe not quite so punishing?
Still, the stakes were admittedly high. As Roza had said, I now had a one-in-five chance of a million-dollar publishing deal. The idea of that much money didn’t even compute.
But it would certainly mean I could quit my job. And even if I didn’t win, I’d still have a new novel, one that Roza had helped me write. Any way this shook out, I’d end up in a place infinitely better than where I’d started from.
If I could keep up, of course.
It was a relief to shut my door. I took a hot shower and blasted myself with cold at the end, trying to shake the drowsiness from the heavy dinner, wine, and weed. The night was not over yet. Wrapped in a heavy robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, I settled at the desk and opened my laptop. It was time to get to work.
* * *
An hour later I moaned and pressed my forehead onto the desk. I’d come up with a list of ideas, and they were all awful. Worse than awful: boring.
I knew what it felt like to have a good idea. The concept would trigger something, a little ember deep down in the belly. You’d have to be careful not to hold it too tightly. But you could feel it—the expansive glow of all the possibilities.
But these ideas were dead. Inert. I was digging around in the mud but finding nothing.
I imagined Wren bent over the paper, her lips curled into a sneer as she read my synopsis. From the beginning of our writing group, Wren had been harsh. Her written notes would litter my pages like little bombs: Boring. Get rid of this. She would never do this in a million years. Ursula would call her Sweeney Todd for her ruthless cuts.
I jumped up and slammed the laptop closed. I needed a break. I needed to calm down. An idea would come; I just had to be patient.
Something I’d done, back when I could actually string words together, was to always have a mug of tea on my desk. In the rhythm of writing, it was helpful to be able to pause and sip and consider before jumping back in. Maybe that would help.
Roza had told us to feel free to use the kitchen. There had to be tea there, right? I slipped into clothes and pulled open the door. Light shone from the cracks beneath everyone’s closed doors. They were off to the races and probably significantly further along than me.
Someone had turned the hallway lights off, and I grabbed my phone to use the flashlight. The marble statues cast sharp shadows in its beam. A chill tickled my lower spine. I felt like I was in a video game, walking down this dark and opulent hall, waiting for something horrific to pounce.
I headed to the landing, marveling at how unnerved I was. For someone who loved horror books and movies, I was way too easily spooked. At the top of the stairs, I hesitated. Something was pricking at me. A noise. I stood still. There it was. The faintest of sounds, but they were somehow clear.
Faraway whimpers, like someone was being hurt.
They were coming from the other side of the landing. I crept towards them, passing a hall that went straight back, towards the rear of the house. The sounds came not from down there but from the other wing, across from our rooms. There was a beat of silence, and then it rose up again: a sharp yelping.
I slipped down the hall, chest tight, feet sinking into the plush rugs. This was a double of our own hallway, also flanked by paintings and punctuated by statues.
The cries were louder now, rhythmic and obviously sexual. Oh. I slowed, but then I continued. The hall ended in a red-painted door. I touched the wood and leaned in. It had to be Roza. Was she alone? The now guttural grunts seemed somewhat exaggerated for a masturbation session, but who was I to judge?
But she wasn’t alone. Somehow I knew there was someone else there.
The visual reared up in my mind: Roza writhing, bucking, crying out as a silent, shadowy figure—Ian?—held down her hips, his tongue moving against her, unrelenting, dominating.
Now her groans escalated, quickening, amplifying. I remained frozen at the door, eyes wide, a pulsing in my own groin. It felt like there was something in the sounds, a code to crack. Because they contained passion and pleasure, sure. But there was also something else. A knowing smile at the edge, somehow tinged with disdain. Maybe even hate.
She came with a keening wail.
Then there was silence. Maybe she’d killed Ian, crushed his head in between her thighs as ecstasy flooded through her. Maybe she was sitting up, examining the mixture of skull and brain, still breathing hard but calming every second.
Ugh. What a mess.
The image was so visceral that terror leapt into my throat. I backed away from the door, then jumped as something cold poked into my thigh.
It was a statue of a rearing horse; I’d bumped into one of its hooves.
I turned and fled back to the safety of my room, trying to shake the disturbing images from my mind.
* * *
I woke early the next day. I’d forgotten to close the drapes, and bright sunlight beamed straight into my crusty eyes. I slipped out of the bed and goose bumps pebbled my arms from the chilly air. As I got ready, I thought about the night before. After scurrying back to my room, I’d crawled under the covers and watched calming downloaded shows on my phone until I’d fallen asleep.