The Game Master strode onto the set, thumbs hooked behind his suspenders. “Thanks, Fitzy. It’s great to be back.”
While Beck’s synesthesia made Fitzy’s voice taste like shellfish, the Game Master’s deep baritone was like the first glass of eggnog on Christmas Eve—smooth and rich and overly decadent.
Fitzy draped an elbow over Louis’s shoulder. “Word is, you’ve mixed things up this season . . .”
“Beck Matheson?”
Beck spun to see a man from the set crew holding a headset.
“Time to get mic’d up.”
Beck’s heart galloped. “Cool,” he said breathlessly. “Uh . . . where’s my team?”
“Put this in your right ear,” the man said, attaching a tiny microphone to the lab coat’s lapel.
“This way,” said yet another crew member, a woman with a clipboard and walkie-talkie. Beck followed her out through a dingy mustard-yellow hallway.
“Say cheese,” barked a voice. Beck turned to see a girl with blond pigtails and a lot of makeup. Her iPad camera flashed in his face. Beck jolted back, but the girl was already walking past him.
He shook his head, trying to clear the sparkles in his eyes, then a door was opening and there it was—the main soundstage, where Fitzy greeted contestants. W here he and Louis joked about what devious puzzles the Game Master had planned. W here, once a week, a team would have their hopes crushed as they were eliminated from the competition.
Not Beck’s team, though. He was here for the long haul.
Come hell or high water.Even in his head, his grandfather’s raspy drawl tasted like pipe smoke and cedar trees.
The set looked smaller in real life. Where the cameras cut off the edges of the backgrounds, Beck could see the scaffolding made of two-by-fours and plywood, the leftover paint splatter on the floor. As someone who prided himself on his attention to detail, especially when he was constructing one of his own escape rooms, he found messy craftsmanship disappointing.
But he didn’t let himself dwell on it. This was reality, this was Hollywood, andthatwas—
Louis Augustus Russell.
“Holy crap,” Beck said.
Fitzy and Louis stood in the middle of the set, but rather than chatting like they’d been on the television screen, Fitzy was looking at his phone while Louis had powder dabbed onto his chin by someone from makeup. Maybe the footage they’d been showing backstage had been recorded in advance.
Beck’s earpiece crackled. “Next contestant, Beck Matheson, in place.”
The makeup person disappeared. The lights brightened. Fitzy’s phone vanished into a pocket and his smile returned full-wattage. Louis folded his arms stoically over his barrel chest.
“Action!”
A script scrolled across a blue screen beside the cameras. “Let’s welcome another contestant,” read Fitzy. “Don’t be fooled by his sunny disposition and those baby-blue eyes. This one makes his own escape rooms in his spare time and has a particular taste for Wild West saloons and medieval torture chambers.” Fitzy raised an eyebrow at Louis. “Fancy he might be gunning for your job, Game Master?”
“I don’t mind some healthy competition.”
“You heard it here, folks. Let’s welcome: Beck Matheson!”
Beck was shoved between the shoulder blades. He stumbled forward. Glaring lights surrounded him. The temperature seemed to spike ten degrees.
That same voice rasped in his ear, with the texture and taste of gravel. “Smile, kid. You look like a deer staring down a hunter’s rifle.”
That was about how he felt. But he plastered on a smile, and as he crossed the set, his fear began to fade, replaced with a sense of euphoria. Hell’s kittens, he was onThe Escape Game!
He danced the rest of the way across the stage to the music thrumming through overhead speakers.
“Yeah!” said Fitzy, breaking into some sort of hip-hop move himself. “He’s got style!”
Beck grooved to a stop and couldn’t help laughing, more exhilarated than embarrassed. “Fitzy! Game Master! Hi!”
