Rat Race (Devil’s Playground #2)

2. Aubrey

Aubrey

Save it for the Games.

B eing from the city during the Devil’s Playground was a bit like being at ground zero for the Super Bowl, only on steroids. People you’d barely noticed before were suddenly forced down your throat at every turn. A feeling made even more obvious now that it was my classmates and friends being pushed into the spotlight instead of airbrushed strangers or older siblings.

Fucking unbearable.

I leaned back in the salon chair while my stylist worked at curling my hair, her deep, umber skin reflecting back at me in the mirror.

She was beautiful, and under different circumstances I might’ve complimented her long lilac braids or sparkling golden eyeshadow. But not today.

Today, I needed to make sure that everything was perfect .

Especially me.

My eyes left the mirror to find a familiar face reading from a teleprompter on the small screen of a tablet I’d commandeered. There, my friend, Victoria Miller, spoke her lines like she was being held at knifepoint.

Vic’s eyes moved away from her script, looking straight into the camera as she smiled, her straight white teeth almost glowing under the lights in the studio.

“Whoever kills Hiram will get paid out a million dollars, regardless of whether you win the Games. Hell, I’ll even cut the check myself. If you can make me laugh while you’re doing it, I’ll double it,” she said with a smile so bloodthirsty— feral —that I’d never have expected from Miss Polly Pocket, the cheer captain herself.

I couldn't help the giggle that escaped my lips.

Damn, she knows how to play the game.

Out of the arena and still trying to cut down her enemies… An interesting choice of target, too. Hiram Wolff, an Architect and father to two nightmare children—well, one nightmare child now. Vic had seen to that in the arena. I had known Dylan from the parties he’d thrown at the Wolff mansion, if you could call them that. If anything, they’d just been an excuse to try and bully his then girlfriend into some wholly unenjoyable sex.

Dudes with attitudes like Dylan were never any good at giving head. That and their general lack of overall appeal really solidified the whole softball-loving lifestyle I was curating for myself.

Friend of Ellen, if you get me.

But the youngest Wolff sibling, Kohl? They were barely worth notice at all.

A million dollars, two for a laugh.

With a payday like that, even I was tempted to try my hand at hunting him down… Fuck, maybe I would after I dealt with her . I didn’t really plan on winning this thing anyway—just making sure she was headed home in a plasticized body bag with her address scrawled hastily on top.

It was important to have goals in life. SMART goals at that.

Specific, in that she would be dead as a doornail and have a pathetic, miserable funeral with her alcoholic mother ugly crying into her father’s polyester tie.

Measurable, since it was just one teeny tiny murder.

Achievable, as there was no way that lazy cunt could outrun me after I’d spent the entire summer allowing the local CrossFit gym bootcamps to rock my shit into the best shape of my life.

Relevant, since, truly, what was more relevant than the Devil’s Playground? It was all anyone would be talking about for the foreseeable future.

And, perhaps the most important one, time-bound—by the end of the day she’d be finished and I’d be free of ever having to look at her shitty tape-in extensions ever again.

Even just the thought of that bitch has me threatening to teeter off the edge with rage.

You’ll get yours, just you wait.

Gold-shadow girl paused, the curling iron held aloft as she watched the screen of the tablet over my shoulder, a sort of proud smirk curving her full lips.

I hadn’t expected to see anyone from my school on the big screen, even if there were a few Legacies in my class. Vic hadn’t even bothered to do the press junket that having a parent who won the Games got you, so I figured her plan was to ditch. Especially since she was always going on and on about how the Games were just a modern-day Colosseum. A way for the ultra-rich to get richer and the poor to suffer in the hopes of changing their circumstances.

Yawn . Sounded like a bunch of proletariat bullshit to me.

Either buck up or shut up, really. We all signed up to play. It wasn’t like you were being forced into it.

Still, out of all of the idiots we knew, Vic was the one to actually do it.

Win.

It wasn’t that much of a surprise, once you got over the shock of her playing at all—a Legacy , not to mention by far the brightest of our graduating class? Yeah, Miller had the grit and talent needed to take on a game like Hide N’ Seek .

And , to my delight, a penchant for cruelty. Catching the end of her game on the way here was a masterclass on not judging a book by its cover.

Kohl chokes me harder than that when we fuck , she said, and it almost made me laugh again to think about it. Fucking. Vicious.

Beside her, the erotic asphyxiator themselves, Kohl, played with Victoria’s fingers as she spoke, their mouth slanted into a relaxed smile.

Now this ? This was a surprise.

I’d seen them lingering around her at school when they thought we weren't looking. Their obvious crush was amusing, if not a bit pathetic. I mean, come on! Your brother’s girlfriend? A cheerleader and the school freak? Could you be more of a cliche?

Last I checked, this wasn’t the fucking Breakfast Club, and if it were, I can sure as shit tell you that Molly Ringwald never would’ve dared to even think about dying her hair that color.

Still, it was entertaining, so I’d let it slide. No reason to deny myself life’s simple pleasure of watching a friendless loser lust after a girl totally out of their league, y’know? But seeing them on the screen together? That veered straight into interesting territory.

I wished I could’ve caught more of them during Hide N’ Seek. The glimpses that I’d managed were nothing in comparison to the highlight reel they were playing now. Blow after blow. Murder after murder.

That fight in the Mirror Maze? Photo. Fucking. Finish.

And to be invited to commentate on the next event? In the same tournament year? Living legends.

Didn’t matter, though. I’d get in there, kill the cunt, and be home in time to watch the entire weekend on my PVR with some pizza and champagne. Usually, I’d go for some wine coolers, but I figured I could spring for the good stuff since I was about to become a millionaire.

It's the little things.

I’d gotten to the island early in the hopes of catching a bit of the competition live, but the useless bitch they’d assigned to do my makeover was taking her sweet time. At least the highlights were impressive—it was all anyone was talking about in the dressing room. Well, at least the stylists were. Most of the incoming players for Rat Race were either watching the footage, pale and uncomfortable as they realized it was absolutely too late to back out, or, like me, trying to enjoy some peace before the next few stressful hours.

No amount of deep breathing exercises or mindful meditation was going to make running for your life any easier, though. Maybe I should’ve brought a stress ball.

Snatches of conversation floated over to me with the distinct air of gossiping about people so far out of your social strata it should’ve been criminal.

It was pathetic, really. The way these stylists would help the machine run, dressing us up pretty to ship us out to our events without ever having stepped into the arena themselves. Awfully easy to talk about how much faster you’d have shot the person trying to drown you when you’d never had a gun in your hand.

I fucking hate cowards .

“I did theirs,” the stylist said, her manicured finger moving to point at Kohl on the small screen. “They’d look good in just about anything, but absolutely killed the crop top. You should try something?—”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” I questioned with a sickly sweet smile, turning in my chair to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

I needed as many eyes on me as possible tonight. As if I were going to chance a stranger’s judgment on what I should be wearing. No, I’d be choosing my own look, thank you.

The stylist's smile dropped, disappointment flashing across her face for a split second before her hand tightened around my hair. The curling iron paused mid-air as she digested my words, the heat radiating off the black barrel to warm my face. To be safe, I tugged away the strand of blonde hair she was holding, leaning away.

“Let’s not get excited with that iron, hm?” I suggested in an irritated purr. “My face is worth more than your house.”

The last fucking thing I needed was a giant burn to tote around while about a thousand cameras tracked my every move. If I had to spend the next fifty years watching playback footage looking like I lost a fight with a candle, I was going to fucking lose it.

She opened her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it, grabbing the iron out of her hand. Turning back to the mirror with that same, vapid smile.

“My sponsors want a specific look,” I chirped, regaining my composure and transforming back into the doe-eyed doll I’d been hired to play. My gaze caught hers in the mirror, my sick satisfaction at her obvious offense evident. “You don’t mind, do you?”

She let out a shocked gasp that I ignored, beginning to deal with my hair. Passing the hot iron from root to mids before I lightly curled the ends. It didn’t take long for her to fuck off to go find me something to wear—not that it really mattered what it was, as long as it matched the heavy, patch-covered leather motocross-style jacket I needed to wear into the arena.

Part of my contract was wearing my sponsor’s logo.

That was the thing about Rat Race versus something like Hide N’ Seek—since the mortality rate was lower, there was less money in the game itself. Most of the major players built their fortunes off deals with companies, and for girls like me who had an existing social media presence? This was just another commercial shoot.

I’d wear the jacket, cross the finish line at any point, and collect my check. And if I was in the top ten percent, the payout was even bigger.

Paired with the added benefit that I’d finally get to set that useless cunt’s teeth on the curb and stomp, it was a win-win.

Using the mirror, I looked around at the competitors being styled in nearby booths. Though there were many contestants inside the large, tent-like room, the person I was most anxious to see was still missing.

I sighed in exasperation .

“Soon,” I whispered to myself, focusing on making my bangs as bouncy as possible.

In truth, the sponsors didn’t give a fuck about how my hair or makeup was done, but I had a brand, and I wasn’t going to let some hapless beauty school reject make me look like a clown on international television.

No, the corporate boozers that I’d effectively signed my life away to were lucky I’d chosen something from their catalog at all. Given my existing audience, having me wear their logo across my back was the best promo opportunity they could ask for. I’d be at the top of the leaderboard almost instantly as my followers signed on to watch me play, meaning I’d have even more visibility to bring in new eyes.

Thank fuck for my publicist for not having to deal with any of the bullshit back and forth. Nothing irritated me more than when a company reached out on my socials with some fake-ass perfectly curated Hey girly!! message to internet-beg me to wear their cheap, child labor-made jewelry.

You always did better with me by sending PR first and asking questions later—at least then I’d already know if I liked your product enough to try and convince my flock of overconsumers to buy the next greatest serum or this season’s must-have lipstick.

Cue eye roll.

After the game, once I made sure to mention that Mantene was the reason my hair was so long and shiny—it wasn’t, half of this shit was extensions, K-tips obviously—they’d all be kissing my feet. Not to mention sending me a fucking Birkin stuffed with cash and an all-inclusive vacation to Barbados as a thank you.

You’re welcome, cunts.

My useless stylist finally reemerged, wheeling a rack of clothes overfilled to bursting with options for me to wear inside the maze. I set the curling iron aside, rotating the chair and hopping out, moving to thumb through it with vicious efficiency.

Outside the Games, flashy clothes weren’t really my thing. Well, unless they’d been sent to me for free. But for this? I needed something loud, exciting.

Eye-catching .

Purple, yellow, black… I was almost halfway through the rack, muttering irritated noes to myself as garment after garment sailed by on the shrieking metal rail. Before long, I was already at the end of my options.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” I snapped, shoving the rolling rack aside and into the stylist with more force than necessary.

Stomping toward the back in my socked feet, I paused as I saw another entrant’s stylist holding up a sparkly, cropped two-piece set with a mini skirt and built-in shorts in hot pink.

Perfect.

The Devil’s Playground were games, after all. Reality TV with a deadly twist. That meant there were main characters, fan favorites, and villains. I was going to be all three.

I might’ve had a single motive for participating, but that didn't mean I had to look or behave like every other random loser who decided to play.

Fuck that, I’m a star.

That meant I didn’t follow trends. I made them.

I elbowed my way through the tightly packed room, swiping the outfit out of the other player’s hands before they could touch the vibrant material.

“Uh, hello, bitch? That’s mine!” the brunette whined, her long, straight hair falling over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes, lunging forward and barking loudly at her until she backed up, wide eyes finding the floor.

“What the hell you freak?”

She pushed herself up to a standing position and whipped the dirt off her outfit.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.” She rolled her eyes at that.

“Fine keep it, just know the pink will clash with your blood when you kill yourself,” she said with a scoffHer ego obviously bruised.

“Thought so,” I said with another one of those award-winning smiles and a wink. “Thanks. I think blue is more your color anyway.”

Turning quickly enough that my long blonde hair made contact with her round, moon-like face, I returned to my station to see my stylist throwing her hands up.

“Well, I never! Just—style yourself then!” she huffed, storming away.

“I plan on it!” I called after her, changing quickly and sitting back in the chair to do my makeup. “If you want to help, find me some fucking shoes!”

Speakers crackled overhead, the Devil’s Playground theme song warning the room at large that an announcement was coming. A hush fell over the crowd, eyes turning upward as though they could obtain the information quicker by sight alone.

I grabbed a liquid liner pen from the stylist’s kit, making quick work darkening my lash line. For the most part, I’d already done my makeup before arriving, my permanent lash extensions putting in the work to make me look put together despite the rest of my face being relatively light.

Dewy and fresh was the goal, given I’d probably sweat most of it off in the maze anyway. The last thing I needed was racoon eyes, even if I’d be wearing a mask.

“Players!” a cheery, computer-generated voice called. “Lots will be assigned momentarily through a randomized process. Please refer to your trackers for instructions and proceed to your gate promptly.”

Randomized process. As-fucking-if. It was well known that the so-called random algorithm took into account how likely you were to beat the maze, potential popularity with viewers, and your Legacy status when it came to choosing how early you’d be able to enter the arena.

Which meant that finally, finally , I was about to effortlessly beat her at something. There wasn’t a chance in hell that I’d be anything but first heat. Massive social following, physically fit, conventionally attractive, and… Well, I wasn’t a fucking Legacy, but what did that matter?

I didn’t need to have a genetic advantage to know that this was going to be child’s play.

Pings filled the room like popping bubbles, players letting out excited noises as they read out their assigned lots. My tracker remained lifeless on my wrist, not a ping or a vibration in sight.

I frowned. Maybe it was faulty? Bringing the device up to my face, my frown quickly turned into a scowl as the screen lit, the cheery yellow waiting smiley face greeting me like a taunt.

Maybe they’re starting from the last lot, I told myself, trying to keep calm.

The stylist returned with a pair of platform boots that I tugged on as ping after ping went through the room.

I counted the rounds of sound.

One .

With my boots secured, I returned to the mirror, using my nail to sharpen my liner impatiently before dousing my face again with setting spray. This shit needed to stay put for hours of running. If I could, I’d have brought a powder puff in there with me too.

Little Miss Vogue sauntered past, scowling at me in what would’ve been her clothes. “See you in there, Barbie,” she snarked, dragging her thumb across her throat in an obvious threat.

I laughed, waving her off. “Good luck, Skipper.” Ah yes, Barbie’s much less cool brunette friend. Seriously, hadn’t she gotten the memo? Blondes had way more fun. “You’ll need it.”

“We’ll see about that.”

If I had time after dealing with her , maybe I’d deal with that one too before crossing the finish line.

Two , I counted as more pings filled the room.

There was no reason for me to be anything other than first lot. So what the fuck was going on?

I curled a few more strands of hair before placing the iron down, applying a quick layer of hair spray, and smoothing down any flyaways.

Three .

Anxious whispers began to break out through the rapidly thinning crowd. There were only five heats in Rat Race, the fifth entering the race dead last—so much harder to win not only because you were so far behind the first group, but also because the rest of the players had first pick on any helpful items. Like water, weapons, or first-aid supplies.

Four.

My tracker vibrated, the soft melodic ping chiming happily. The number four flashed back at me in the mirror, my mouth dropping open in shocked horror.

Four?!

How the fuck did they decide that I was in lot four?!

Second to last?!

It was an insult. It was the Architects telling me I wasn’t flashy enough to be put in the first few lots. That I was fucking ordinary.

Anger boiled inside me and was only exacerbated by the knowledge that she was likely in an earlier heat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

If I wasn't the first, she was sure to be. It always happened that way. No matter how hard I tried, she was always one better. Just a breath out of reach.

I could win the Nobel fucking Peace Prize and this cunt would manage to be the first woman on Mars or some other equally insane bullshit.

And if by some miracle she’d been knocked down a peg? She would damn well make sure that I was knocked down even further.

Always a step ahead. Always outshining me.

I’d splatter her fucking brain for a mile.

This. This was the benefit of being born a fucking Legacy. Of getting a golden ticket to the easy life.

I let out a primal scream, feeling the rush of anger explode through my body. Taking the curling iron into my hand by its handle, I threw it into the mirror, creating a cascade of sparkling glass fragments. What remained of its surface was spiderwebbed with cracks, distorting the perfect image it reflected back at me.

“Don’t destroy The Company’s property,” a guard yelled from the exit.

My returning glare could’ve peeled paint, my lip curling into a vicious sneer.

“Why don’t you come over here and—” I started, only to be spoken over.

It nearly threw me over the edge. But the last thing I was going to do was get disqualified for attacking a fucking glorified babysitter.

“Save it for the Games,” he called, the smile pulling at his thin lips, baring his overcrowded teeth. The expression itself caused another wave of frustration to go through me. He looked at me like he knew what my fate would be once I left this room.

He expects me to die.

Joke’s on him. The stupid fucker only saw the image I created for the cameras, nothing more. But that thought wasn’t comforting. It only made me angrier.

My watch flashed again with a countdown, warning that I only had half an hour before I needed to be at my gate. I pulled my jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging into it as I turned for the door.

“Waivers have already been signed, princess. There’s no backing out now,” he called mockingly.

I let out a laugh.

Back out? As fucking if.

With a final look in the shattered mirror, I fluffed my hair. Most of the other players had already cleared out, save for the last lot, easily identifiable by their irritated, shell-shocked expressions as the reality of their situation started to sink in.

Fucking cannon fodder.

And I was nearly one of them.

I could feel their gazes on me as I flipped the guard the bird on the way by, picking up a glowing pink mask from a rack of colorful options. “See you in the winner’s circle.”

Even if I could, I wouldn't back out. I came here for a reason. Nothing scared me. Not the risk of being killed or whatever the fuck else awaited me in that maze.

I was here for her .

And I wouldn’t be leaving until I had my hands wrapped around her throat.