Page 15 of Room 710 (The Scarlet Hotel #15)

Elijah

Week Four

I should’ve been at the studio with the live audience that night, but ever since Garfield’s accident, I hadn’t been able to peel myself away from the house for more than a minute.

I kept envisioning all the horrible things that could happen to Ziggy.

He could drown in the pool, be jumped by a crazy fan sneaking on set, get electrocuted by that damn heated blanket he liked to cuddle up with in the evenings.

He seemed comfortable with kitchen knives, but he could be stabbed by someone else when they slipped!

And sleep? What was that? I refused to even close my eyes at night until I heard Ziggy’s soft snores through the speakers.

I hadn’t expected a fire, though—on live national television to boot! Thank the gods I’d been there, though. Who knew what would’ve happened! Seriously, someone needed to surround these omegas in bubble wrap.

Once we had the house clear and the fire trucks had arrived, we’d gathered on the lawn to record a segment to put up on the website. Clark and Marty came down with a camera crew, and everyone sat cross-legged with the smoldering house in the background.

“Well, it doesn’t seem fair to pick a winner, since you didn’t get to taste all the cakes, but I’m afraid we still need to send someone home,” Marty said, though his expression was pinched as if he had some personal opinions he wished he could share about this season so far.

Several of the boys seemed ready to go at this point. It had been a rough day.

Ross was openly sobbing that it was his cake that had started this mess (it could just as easily be blamed on Rune, though I distinctly noticed he wasn’t taking any of the blame), and I would’ve been absolutely fine sending home the man who’d put Ziggy’s life in danger, but Devon was far more forgiving than me.

He hugged Ross and told him it was okay, that he didn’t blame him.

I’d had to clench my teeth to keep from correcting him—it was absolutely his fault.

In the end, Devon sent Stuart home, once again throwing off my predictions.

I mentally crossed another name off the list.

Stuart couldn’t even go back inside to collect his belongings, which no doubt stank like smoke, so it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as usual to walk off, seeing as they were all already outside.

We’d all watched as he walked down the driveway and got into the car waiting for him at the curb, arms hugged around his waist. There were no tears over his departure—everyone seemed too shocked to cry.

The house would take some time to repair, deep clean, and repaint as needed, but we had a schedule to keep, which was why I currently found myself in another bartering session with the owner of The Scarlet Hotel, Monsieur Emerson Holland.

We had just come to an agreement about closing off an entire floor of the hotel for cast and crew so that we could continue our filming schedule while the house was fixed up.

This meeting, however, was for the use of their kitchen.

“Just for one hour,” I told him, bringing my hands together in a pleading gesture.

His lips were pinched in a flat line that made his chin cleft deeper, his blue eyes icy.

“You’ve currently booked an entire floor of our hotel for your contestants because of a kitchen fire, and now you want to borrow our kitchen for one of your challenges.

Please tell me you understand why this sounds like an awful idea. ”

“All precautions will be taken, I swear.” I crossed a finger over my heart, offering him all the charm I could muster. “They will be supervised the whole time.”

“Of course they will,” he snapped. “By my staff. I insist on it.”

“Does that mean you agree?” I held my breath, waiting on tenterhooks.

He sighed, closing his eyes, and I swore I could hear him counting to ten in his mind. “Fine, but —” He held a finger up to forestall my celebration. “We need to renegotiate the price. My insurance does not cover dramatized reality TV.”

In the end, we agreed on what was a fair price for the rental of his hotel’s kitchen for one hour so the housemates could finish their baking challenge.

Honestly, I would’ve been happy moving on to the next challenge, but the forums were full of our diehard fans who were complaining that they’d been cheated.

The popular opinion was that Ziggy should’ve won the solo date with Devon.

I wasn’t sure about should , but he would have, no doubt.

One more item off my checklist, I headed back upstairs in the ancient groaning elevator, a trickle of sweat dripping down between my shoulder blades.

As soon as it delivered me to the seventh floor, I nodded briefly to the security guard posted to keep people off our floor, then wove behind the camera which was set up to record the hallway and used my old-fashioned brass key to get into my room.

I kicked my shoes off and fell back on the bed, scrubbing my palms over my scratchy cheeks.

I simply hadn’t had time to shave, but it was an apt representation of my ongoing deterioration this season.

I felt like I was slowly descending into madness with each passing day.

I should’ve been more relaxed now that I had a solution to our most recent problem.

We’d had multiple wrenches thrown into the gears this week alone, and I’d handled each disaster like a boss.

New setting for the show? Check. New kitchen for our baking challenge?

Check. And now, instead of tossing and turning on the tiny mattress in the back of the trailer, I had a luxurious bed to sleep in tonight.

Still, though, every muscle in my body felt taut, like an elastic band stretched to its breaking point.

Why? Because I knew that Ziggy would be sleeping on the other side of that wall. I swore I could feel him there, even now. I was tempted to lean in and put my ear to the plaster, see if I could hear the murmur of his voice, the intoxicating cadence of his laugh.

The mere thought of having him so close made me hard, which in turn made guilt and shame flare up inside me.

He wasn’t mine to lust after! I gripped the base of my cock through my pants, willing it to leave me alone, but when the pressure wasn’t anywhere near enough, I couldn’t stop myself from reaching into my pants and stroking to completion at the thought of Ziggy’s dark eyes and full lips.

The wet heat of his mouth… his ass… tight and slick… Faster, harder!

I groaned at the ceiling, my cum drying on my stomach. “I’m so fucked.”

True to his word, Monsieur Holland had The Scarlet Hotel chef, Cherie, stand over the entire baking challenge proceedings while we were in her kitchen.

She stood behind the cameras, glaring daggers whenever someone spilled something on her spotless stainless-steel counter.

At one point, Costas dropped a metal bowl, and I swore Cherie hissed at him like a cat.

He cowered under the counter until Prairie coaxed him back out with a gentle tone.

We had them make brownies this time because we figured it was hard to mess up, though they were sure trying their best. Then we had each brownie brought out to Devon at a beautifully set table for one in an unused banquet hall, recording each bite he took.

To absolutely no one’s surprise, Ziggy’s brownie was the clear winner. His dish looked professional—even Cherie admitted it, though grudgingly—the edges of the white plate framing the dark chocolate square, topped with fresh raspberries and a sprig of mint.

“Oh, wow. Wow, mmmmm, so good.” For a second, I thought Devon was going to orgasm right there at the table, the way his eyes were rolling back in his head.

“Okay, we get the hint, you like the damn brownie. Overactor,” I muttered under my breath, and Bethany snorted into her hand.

It was a good thing we didn’t have to film this live.

“When you edit the footage, cut all the porn sounds,” I said to Danny who was standing off to one side.

“We’re supposed to be family friendly.” He nodded awkwardly.

It was hard being on the set. Normally I could say whatever inappropriate thoughts came to mind because I was in my trailer and no one could hear me. Now, though, I got all kinds of looks from people when my inner monologue leaked past my lips.

Clark and Marty were on set too, to announce the winner.

As soon as they’d heard we were holing up in the hotel, they’d insisted on joining us, “for host duties” they claimed, when really, they were just using the excuse to take a little holiday on our budget, luxuriating in the soaker bathtub and king-size mattress.

“So, Devon, are you ready to meet your date for this evening?” Clark asked.

“Absolutely!” Devon rubbed his hands together eagerly. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit with no tie, and I hated how good he looked in it. Especially because I’d already caught a glimpse of how delectable Ziggy was this evening.

“The baker of the winning brownie is… drumroll, please,” Marty said, rapping his fingers on the table. “Ziggy!”

Ziggy emerged from the kitchen, having changed into a pair of black slacks and blue button-up that made his skin glow.

He smiled at Clark, Marty, Devon—everyone but me—as Devon leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, his hands lingering too long at Ziggy’s waist. In fact, his avoidance of looking at me felt very intentional.

My eyes could’ve burned holes in him with how intensely I was staring at him, begging for just a fraction of his attention.

Without making a conscious decision, I found my feet moving just to be closer to him, and when the camera operator looked up at me to see what I was doing, I cleared my throat and said, “I think there’s a glare on the lens,” and directed him to try a different angle.