Page 66 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
Another thought enters my mind—what does Preston know?
But I quickly push that question away. Preston's on my side,notthe network’s. Again, I look askance at Bellamy, trying to relay my anxiety without broadcasting it to all the viewers and the network.
Act like a ditzy hippy, my mind commands.
Twirling a strand of my hair around my finger, I walk over to Bellamy and elbow him gently while giving hima look. He stares down at me like I’ve lost my damned mind and takes a step away.
Oh, you fucking moron,I think,the man is too obtuse to take the hint.
Clearly his head is in the game.
But there's nothing I can do now, anyway—nothing that I can prove.
It all might be a figment of my imagination.
Giving up, I turn my attention to the room. It's set up like a fortune teller’s parlor. The walls are covered with Wiccan tapestries and on the floor is a thick Turkish rug. In the center of the room, there’s a table with a crystal ball. Ah—this must be the place for us to ‘sleep.’ The network certainly hasn't made this a comfortable situation. The rest of the area is too small to adequately stretch out—even sit.
Argh.
Another rigged moment.
And both of us won’t be able to fit on the tabletop side by side. . .one of us will have to be on top of the other.
I snort.
I guess the network is looking to up its ratings. Well, they say ‘sex sells.’ Clearly, the network is cleverer than I gave them credit for. Also, I still love referring to the network as a single entity. I wonder who the head of it is. . .
“Found you,” I hear Bellamy murmur, and I look over to see him opening his sheet of paper—the question for what he needs to find for his ‘sorcerer’s‘ sign.
Surprisingly, he squishes himself into a traditional yoga pose of meditation on the ground. I watch Bellamy’s eyes glaze over as a trance takes hold of him; then, they flutter shut.
“Are you kidding me right now?!” I screech, completely forgetting that we're on TV, and Bellamy pops an eye open.
“What’s your problem, Porter?”
“What are you doing?” I demand, upset.
He clearly doesn't understand my inner turmoil about the network.
“I'm winning this competition,” Bellamy snaps right back.
“By pretending to be a yoga guru?”
“Tick tock, Porter. Go find your clue and leave me alone.”
“I want nothing to do with you,” I deny.
The man is seriously thick—and I’m not talking about his broomstick. . .
Although, we’ve already established it is.
“Really?” Bellamy drawls, arching a brow.
He doesn't say anything more that might suggest that we've been together and, therefore, have broken the network's rules. But that single raised eyebrow says it all. Realizing that I am running out of time, I quickly reach out again with my magic and search the room. Iaccidentallyknee Putnam in the head as I walk by. He swipes out with his hand, but I've already moved on.
Just when I think that the network hasn’t left me a clue—because the network is a cunt. . . there I go name calling again—something flairs in the center of the room. I race to the table and look into the crystal ball.
Nothing.
