Chapter 4: Cora

Perhaps it had been silly—foolishlyhopeful?—of Cora to think she'd settle right into happiness when she entered the manor. She'd had daydreams of romance falling directly into place, of a roommate who was so gone for her they could barely leave their bed. And she'd never admit it out loud, but she'd entertained the idea of falling so in love with her first partner that she would beg to leave the show so they could run away together sooner.

What greeted her when she did finally step into Room One was not romance, at all. It was a boy. He was older than her, she granted, if only by a few years. But those years did nothing to disrupt the absolute air of immaturity.

His hair was close-cropped and plainly brown to match his eyes. His features were softer than she preferred, and maybe that was why she got the impression of youth. His body was exactly what she might expect from a man who would sign up for this show—tall and lean and muscled. He was…fine.

And Cora was trying really hard to not be hurt by it.

By design, she imagined, he was someone who she might find herself with back home. Someone she did not have to try particularly hard for but who still wouldn't want to give her the time of day once they'd been inside her. But the public had chosen this partner for her. She'd had no hand in it, at all.

The whole reason she'd even signed up for this was so she could look at love from another angle. Give it a different sort of try. Hardly twelve seconds in and it was already the same as it had always been.

Did that mean this was what she deserved?

Someone exactly fine who didn't demand anything from her heart?

The only person in recent memory who had so much as whispered for her heart to beat wasn't someone she could have, anyway.

So maybe this was it.

Sitting across the bed, having a conversation she wasn't interested in. With a boy she wasn't interested in. The worst part was that she couldn't even remember the boy's name. She had half a mind to make up an excuse to leave the room so she could read his key again.

He was telling her about his job as a fancy something-or-other in New York, in a way that was probably meant to make him seem well-adjusted and independent but really only sounded like bragging about his income potential.

She only felt a little guilty about interrupting him to ask, "So what do your friends call you?"

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Like a nickname?"

"Yeah, like a nickname." Or just your actual name would be good.

"Um, yeah, I guess I've got a few."

"Hit me."

"Well, some of the guys at work have started calling me ‘Killer.'" He shifted, growing a little excited at the opportunity to craft an answer and forcing Cora to question if whatever he landed on would be truthful. He went on. "Because I've just got this instinct when it comes to the high-yielding clients."

Eye roll. "Oh?"

Killer smirked. "Yeah. But I guess it has another meaning, too."

"You're secretly a serial killer? There's an ax in your duffel?"

His expression made her wonder if she'd somehow sprouted an extra body part but he forced a laugh, anyway. "Ha. No." Had he rehearsed sheepishness in his mirror before arriving at the manor? "They, uh, also call me a Lady Killer."

"Oh," she said again. "Original."

"I swear I'm not."

"Okay."

"Really, I just—my friends sometimes get a little rowdy because women come up to us all the time."

Clearly, Cora's plan was not working out as intended. Now, she'd roped herself into listening to Killer go on and on and on about the New York bar scene. How many times could the guy mention he was from New York? Was that his entire personality?

She wished there was a clock in the bedroom, so she could time how long he was able to prattle. See how much time she was wasting listening to him when she could have been out meeting the others. It was enough time that the early evening sun faded to moonlight, at least. And all that time, Killer hardly taking a breath. Not long enough to let his lungs catch up and certainly not long enough for him to ask Cora a question about herself.

If she didn't know his name, she was certain he had no idea what hers was.

She was grateful when the announcement filtered out the of the unseen speakers, letting the Honeymooners know that they were about to shut off the overhead lights. It was their cue to get up, clean up. Ready themselves for sleep. In Cora's opinion, it couldn't have come soon enough.

Once Killer had locked himself in the bathroom, though, Cora was left to glare down at the clothes left in her duffel. She'd wanted to dress for romance, wanted to wear something enticing to bed. She really hadn't banked on sharing a room with someone she'd hardly even like to fist bump, let alone cuddle.

She chose the least offensive of her sleepwear—a pair of shorts and a silky, cropped tank. At the very least, it wasn't one of her nighties that could slip up in her sleep and offer her bedmate an easy way in.

Killer clearly had no such reservations and strutted from the bathroom wearing only an obnoxiously bright pair of boxers. Ones that left absolutely no crevice of him to the imagination. Perhaps he was expecting her to leer and swoon and admire him but she only gave him a tight-lipped, wincing sort of smile and shut the door behind her.

She changed in the middle of the bathroom, undeterred by the cameras pointing at her after the assurances she'd been given by the producers and the handsome showrunner. She really wished she could find a way to waste a little time. Enough that her roommate might fall asleep while waiting for her to come back. He had to have exhausted himself with all the talking he'd done.

The speakers issued their final warning.

Killer sprawled across the bed, his feet extended to one corner, his head—resting on his propped hand—in the other. Cora couldn't bottle the laugh that escaped her. If this was the infamous Lady Killer, she wasn't sure that he ever closed a deal in his life.

It looked like the cover of one of those old raunchy novels her grandma used to read.

Her amusement clearly sailed over his head, though, because he flashed his teeth at her in what she was sure was intended to be a winning smile.

"Ready for bed, babes?"

Bleh. Maybe she'd learn his name if she asked what she should moan out in bed. Cora dismissed the idea, instantly. With her luck, he'd say something stupid like "God."

No. She had to suck it up.

She could do this. She just had to get through the night. Tomorrow, she would meet the rest of the contestants and she would fall in love. And she would make sure one of them fell in love with her, too.

The lights clicked off, shrouding the room for a few moments before a few smaller lights could come into focus. It was enough to lead her to the bed and under the covers—after she'd wrestled them from Killer—but it wouldn't be enough to keep her awake.

She made a show of a large yawn and pressed herself as close to the edge of the bed as she could get. Every inch she scooted away, though, he scooted closer.

"We don't have to sleep on the edge," he told her.

"I know."

Killer hummed and snaked an arm over her waist before tugging her further onto the mattress, into him. He fisted the bottom of her tank top.

"Do you even know how hot you are?" he whispered. His breath was hot on her cheek. "The whole time we were talking, this was all I could think about."

Another tug and suddenly Cora's ass was fitted into the curve of him, his erection pressing into the flesh of her cheeks.

"Listen," she tried, "I?—"

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, the sensation startling her into halting. Belatedly, she realized that he hadn't technically broken any of the show's conduct rules. Nowhere did it forbid touching—she was sure the later challenges they'd have to face would be impossible if they had—and one of the "shock factors" of the premise was that the contestants might be forced to share a bed with someone they didn't want to.

Killer hadn't yet tried to slip a hand into her shorts. He hadn't let a single finger stray toward her breasts. He hadn't kissed her.

"Let's just go to sleep," she tried again. "I don't want to do anything tonight."

Cora wanted to groan. Fuck her for not saying what she meant. For not telling him that it wasn't just that night that she didn't want to do things with him. Instead, she'd placated him. Given him a hope that she might put out if he bided his time.

She could only hope that he found someone else to sink his attention into before he tried to cash in on that unspoken promise.

"I was ready the moment I saw you," he told her. "I'm ready tonight. Can't you feel how fu?—"

The bedroom lights flickered back to life. Cora didn't even spare her roommate the courtesy of sharing a confused look before she was bolting from the bed and calling behind her that she would see what was going on.

The door slammed shut behind her before he bothered to give her a response and she took the opportunity to read the key on the door—small blessings, she guessed. Maxon. If her frustration hadn't already been through the roof, she would have taken a moment to curse him. Fucking Killer. Why couldn't he have just told her to call him Max?

That sort of buffoonery alone should have gotten him kicked off the show, she thought.

Cora did not have to look for very long before she found an employee. Or rather, one found her, surely looking for an explanation of why she was out of her room. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to remember politeness.

"Everything alright?"

"Hi." She smiled. "The lights in our room came on and I'm not sure why. Can you shut them back off?"

The production member only blinked at her. "What do you mean the lights came on? There are small lights in there to make sure you can get around. Are you talking about those?"

"No," Cora said slowly. Did he think she was an idiot? "The overhead lights. The ones we got warnings about being turned off? They went off for a few minutes but they just came back on."

The producer shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about. Those lights can only be controlled by the master panel."

"Which is where?"

"Why don't you wait here?" he suggested. "I'll get it taken care of."

Cora sincerely doubted he would. She wasn't about to leave this in the hands of someone who didn't even believe her about something as simple as the lights being turned on.

"That's okay," she huffed. She made a show of stomping back in the direction of her room but bypassed it entirely and found the staircase.

The wood was cold on her bare feet as she pounded up the steps, feeling like a fire was trailing her for all the anger she felt. It was probably unreasonable to feel this much over something as simple as lights but she couldn't help it.

She hated that she'd been paired with someone like Maxon. Someone who clearly wasn't there to find a girl to cherish and only wanted one to bang. Hadn't she said, in her introduction, that she wanted to find love?

Was that the only kind of man people believed could love her?

And like their pairing wasn't enough, their room was apparently cursed. She couldn't even escape the boy with sleep, what with those overly-bright bulbs shining down on her face.

Cora was acting on instinct alone when she turned down a hallway on the second floor, scorching a path to find the stupid master panel. She encountered more producers, of course, but they clearly were not in the mood to be burned by her right now. They let her pass, let her slip into a room they'd all seemed to exit.

A familiar face stood over an ominous-looking control board. Cora would have laughed at the sight—like something out of a shitty science-fiction movie—if the circumstances were different. The showrunner wore an expression to match hers and she felt some of her own anger retreating, now that she had someone to carry it for her.

"You're not supposed to be in here," Carter told her. Casual. Professional. Like the sparking behind his eyes wasn't there.

"The lights in my room aren't supposed to be on," she returned.

"Would you like me to turn them off?"

Cora snorted. "No, I wanted to be awake all night in a bed with Killer."

Carter raised a dark eyebrow, impeccably groomed, but didn't say anything else. All of a sudden, Cora was pissed again. What right did this man have to look like that when Maxon was downstairs, sharing her bed? She didn't have any loyalty to Maxon, by any stretch, but she felt jealous of whoever got to share Carter's bed.

Maybe, after they'd first met, she'd imagined it could be her.

Carter still didn't respond to her quip so she sighed. "Yes, please. I would like for the lights to be turned off. Preferably, I'd like you to pump a sleeping gas in there so he's not awake to try anything."

"Why do you think I turned the lights on?" Carter growled.

Cora wasn't sure she could name the feeling that raced through her, right then. Fury? Thrill? Lust?

"You turned them on?"

Carter grunted, clearly more animal than human in that moment. "Thought the fucker might not be so bold if he knew he could be seen."

Cora found herself stalking forward, around the curve of the master panel, just to get into his space. Give into her own animal. "So you were watching us."

"It's my job to watch you." His answer was calculated, rather than defensive.

There that feeling was again. "Then I guess it's my job to give you a show."

"With him?"

"Who else?" she challenged. When he didn't have an answer to that question, Cora reached around him and found the light switch labeled "Room One." She pressed it and turned back to the showrunner. "I know boys like Maxon. I can handle them."

She headed for the door, secretly enjoying the tortured expression she'd left him with. She twisted her neck when she crossed the threshold, calling over her shoulder. "And stop staring at my ass!"

"It's my job," he called back.

And when she got back to her bedroom, finding the lights off and a sleeping Killer, she really hoped that Carter wouldn't follow her advice at all. She rather liked his eyes on her.

Cora found a camera and winked.