Page 23 of The Best Trick

“I'm going to scream if you don't let go!” I threatened, even though the last thing I wanted was to draw the attention of the police or any authorities of any kind.

“You’re gonna want to hear this,” he said.

“I won’t betray them,” I hissed.

He looked confused. “Won’t betray who? Has somebody else gotten to you?”

I frowned. He wasn’t making a lot of sense, but our enemies were ruthless and not above mind games.

He leaned in. “There is a pale yellow cheddar with notes of brioche bread, nutmeg, and black chocolate that is far and away the best of the five. It has the palest yellow hue of the final five, you understand?” he said. “That is the one that should win. It’s objectively the best one, and I’m willing to make it worth your while to judge accordingly.”

“W-what?” My gaze dropped to his badge. Merona Meadows Dairy. This guy was a cheesemaker. This was about the competition! “I haven’t picked a winner,” I said. “I don’t take bribes. All five finalists have an equal shot.”

“Then who won’t you betray?” he demanded. “Do you have allegiance to one of the other contenders?”

“Of course not!”

He tightened his grip. “Was it Happy Dairy?”

I tried to pull my arm away from him, but he pulled me close to his side and repeated his bit: “Pale buttery yellow in color with brioche bread, nutmeg, and black chocolate notes.”

Zeus had taught me a lot of self-defense techniques: headbutt. Knee to the groin. Knuckle punch the Adam’s apple. But all of that would draw attention, possibly resulting in a police report.

“You’re on your way to being disqualified,” I threatened.

“I doubt that.” He started fumbling with my pocket—creepily.

“Get away!” I tried to wriggle away, but he was weirdly strong.

“Calm down! I just put something into your pocket, that's all,” he said, exasperated, like I should know what he was doing.

“I don’t want anything from you!”

His grip turned steely. “Oh, yes you do,” he said. “In your pocket is an envelope with five thousand dollars cash in it. There will be another envelope just like it in your pocket when the right cheese wins. Are we clear on that?”

“No. I don't want your money.”

“It's five thousand,” he said. “Not five hundred, not one thousand, but FIVE thousand.” This like I was so stupid. “And another five after, to make ten thousand.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Nobody will know.”

“I don’t take bribes.”

“Consider it a gift, then.”

“Forget it!”

“Come on, Sarah. You’re an online nobody who can barely pull together enough students for one class a year. You live in an RV with your boyfriend, whose greatest accomplishment seems to be doing pushups by the Santa Monica Pier. You spend your time needlepointing inspirational cheese-themed art and you’re obsessed with visiting Switzerland someday and touring the city of Gruyere. You could finally do that. Don't pretend that's not important to you. Ten grand can take you there in style.”

I frowned. “I'm not open to bribes.”

Also, needlepointing inspirational cheese-themed art? What the hell was Odin writing in our online bios?

“It's not as if you'd be elevating a substandard cheese—let's face it, the five finalists are all excellent cheeses, but you’d like to choose the very best cheese to be the winner, which is clearly the one with the buttery pale color and the notes of brioche bread, nutmeg, and black chocolate.”

“I'll choose whatever cheese I want, and if you bother me about it anymore, I'm going to report you to the judges and have that cheese disqualified.” I pulled the envelope from my pocket and slammed it into his belly, then I yanked my hand away and ran toward the gate.

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