Opus

3. Downtime

"Silk, you're woolgathering again."

I startle at Bree's shrill voice.

"We're working on your next game plan. The least you could do is give us your imperial attention."

A quick glance across the table is enough to catch both Bree's and Gav's stern faces. As far as flatmates go, I could have done worse. They might pull me out of my daydreams any chance they get, but they don't bug me about my lapses of concentration.

I roll my eyes for good measures, though. Wouldn't want them to think they can dictate the way I play the game. We may share this dump, but until they share my pain down in the playground, they don't have a say.

As soon as they resume their conversation, logistics, food money, sleeping arrangement, the next party's location, the assholes they work with, I don't give a damn, I return to my musing. I take life in forty-minute increments.

I turn my attention to the decor around us. Shabby furniture. Worn-out counter top. Dingy windows. Home sweet home. Broken down oak furniture, round table tops, chair legs, backs, and seats, wait in a heap in the corner. In case I have guests−I do not entertain, not from my ever-enthusiastic roomies' lack of trying, though−four (somewhat rickety) tables and twelve chairs (I've only kept those with at least one standing armrest), survived my takeover. If the weather turns cold, I'll have plenty of wood for the fire. I even had an old wood stove, found in the dungeons during my wild youth, delivered from the castle.

A quick rewiring and let there be light! And a humming fridge. Toilets, it turns out, don't run on electricity. In exchange for shelter, Gavin climbed on the roof and redirected the gutters. He also brought an emergency lounge chair up there. Mine. A tote tank later, since it rains a day out of two, I had running water. Bree pays her share with food. The owners are long gone; nobody has come knocking for my part of the rent as of yet.

Rule 9: Possible related expenses, including but not restricted to such as lodging in-between sets, equipment, meals, are the responsibility of each player.

I've turned the windowless office into my bedroom. Gavin and Bree have piled mattresses and pillows into the back corner of the bar for when they sleep over (every fucking night!). The atmosphere in the abandoned hole fits my mood to a tee.

"By this point, Strike was in the third position. Both times."

Here we go. Bree was one of Kendrick the Strike's (too many) groupies. For better or worse. That's how I ended up with roommates.

"You're holding steady in the middle. You can still make the front runners." Gavin, ever the supporter.

I may play house with the sister and brother team, might even contribute body on occasions (not simultaneously mind you, yuk), but that's as far as I'm willing to go. I won't share my strategies. "I'm doing fine."

"You always say that! Did you try following the head player like I suggested?"

"Nope."

"You don't eat enough."

"I just ate three slices of pie!"

"That's not food; that's dessert."

"Semantics."

"Damn it, Caelina! Food as in rabbit stew, potatoes, pork ribs. Food."

"Chicken pot pie's food, right? Hence pie is food."

"You had two slices of lemon pie and one of sugar pie."

"I like anything with a crust. And I love lemon and sugar. Besides, bunnies and piglets are my friends." I'm purposefully petulant. Get off my back, kiddies.

"You need to take care of yourself, or you won't last the competition. When was your last good night of sleep?"

"Don't know."

"You haven't invited Bree or me in your bed in days. You sleep better when one of us is with you."

"Wrong." I've never invited them; I've allowed them. I don't correct him, though. Those two aren't big on nuances. "You sleep better when one of you is with me," I can't keep from pointing out anyway.

"Silk, stop−"

"You know I hate that nickname, right?" Kendrick was the only one permitted to call me that. By the power of birthright or vested interest, he used to say. I affectionately called him Kyke. He loved that. Not.

"Sorry. Caelina, my queen−"

"Hate that name too. Cael or better yet my game name Gael."

"But I love your name! It has such an aristocratic richness to it!" Bree's four-letter name makes us self-conscious. Why she doesn't just pick another one is beyond me.

"Forget about her fucking name," Gav scolds her. "She's just trying to change the subject."

"Right-o, mate. And on that note, I'm off. Don't wait up."

The duo frowns at me. "You can't go cavorting at all hours."

"I don't cavort, whatever you're implying." That woman is more punctilious than a spinster librarian. "I have to check in with the Competition Registration Desk." Coming or going, that excuse saves me from explaining every time. Ah, the fame of the game.