Matched (11 page)

“A club’s a club,” he laughs, stepping in front of me to grasp my chin between his thumb and index finger. “Look at me, Har. You mad I went?”

The best answer to a question is often another question. “Would you be mad if I went out clubbing with a bunch of single guys I barely know without you?”

He struggles with a feeble attempt at a stoic expression, but the pulse in his temple pounds faster with each passing second. His brow wrinkles from his efforts. “Yeah, I would be,” he blows out in admittance. “Shit, this is hard, Harlow. We were apart for so long I guess I forget to look at every situation like a boyfriend. It never occurred to me I was doing anything wrong. And besides going, I didn’t—I swear to you.” His voice strengthens with conviction.

“I believe you—all of it. But,” I say, rising on my toes to reach him, “start thinking like a boyfriend, because too many of the girls here are thinking like piranha. A woman on a mission will outsmart you every time, and before you ever see it coming, she’ll have pissed me off. So eyes open, okay?”

I place a nimble kiss on his lips then turn to tug on my shorts, needing to be dressed as much as he needs an undistracted minute to absorb the gravity of my request. I
want
to ask if he danced with any of them, did body shots, was the victim of “accidental” brushes of their hands, or anything else he didn’t realize was wrong
,
but I don’t. He said it was nothing, and I have to believe him…or really, what am I doing here in the first place?

“Oh yeah, one other thing,” I toss over my shoulder with effortful nonchalance. “Did your agent or whoever say you had to be here for a certain number of episodes?”

“No, he just said the longer, the better. Most publicity possible. Why?”

“Just curious about that too.” I smile sweetly and breathe in a lungful of relief. I knew he’d have a plausible explanation, and Cruz definitely needs to mind his own business. This crazy, claustrophobic atmosphere toys with my mind and securities enough. The last thing I need is him planting his meddling, bipolar seeds of doubts there too.

It’s big-challenge time again. Running shoes are the only requirement, and now I see why as we stand at the edge of the jungle. Or maybe it’s a forest? Either way, it’s intimidating as hell—far different from the beach where Tom usually welcomes us.

“How’s everyone doing? House roomier with only fourteen?” he asks, getting a few cheers and laughs for an answer. “Before we get started, let’s do a quick tally. In the main bank, we’ve got fifty grand.” Everyone, including me, whistles and claps. “And Miles, Harlow, Jasmine Cox, and Cruz McCall each have $5,000 earned in their individual accounts.”

Applause. Apparently, though not surprisingly, only the celebrities’ notoriety warrant the mention of their full names. But little ol’ me won the same money, the same way, as
Mr. McCall
.

“Now, today is an individual event, and addresses the second-most-common quality you all agreed was most important in a relationship, listening. Let’s find out who’s been doing just that, shall we? Today’s challenge is called ‘Quizzical Nature.’ Behind you, amongst the lush greenery of beautiful Seychelles, is a mile-long maze, the path marked by neon-orange flags.

“Every 375 feet is a wooden post displaying a fact about one cast member. The crewmember at each post will accept
one
answer from you on who you think the fact represents. If you’re right, you move on; wrong, you go back to last post, touch it, then turn around and try again. The person to come out at the end of the trail first wins a dream date with anyone they wish,
and
the pick of which couple goes into the Soul Search next. Any questions so far?”

No one has any. Half the cast are stretching their legs to prepare, while the group of “other girls”—meaning not myself, Jasmine, Emma, or Callie—slather on more sunblock. Oh, did I mention they’re wearing bikinis? Yeah, with nothing but tennis shoes.
Chic!

“Someone’s totally checking me for ticks after this,” Jasmine says, laughing.

“TICKS?” Nadia shrieks, eavesdropping as usual. “No vay! If anything creepy-crawly comes at me, my agent
vill
hear about it!”

Wyatt strides up behind her to offer his assistance.
So much for nothing creepy near her.
“No worries, doll. I’m the only creepy-crawly you’ll need to worry about in there.”

Huh. He read my mind.

“You, I can deal vith,” Nadia purrs, sliding her hand down his bare chest as I shake off a wave of nausea.

“One last thing,” Tom adds. “We’re taking off in two flights of seven. The person to shout the correct answer to my question here first gets to choose which other six leave a full minute early with them. You only get one guess, so be specific. And here we go.” Tom holds up an index card and reads, “According to a recent study posted in the
Journal of Sex Today
, what is the average length and girth of a male penis?”

Right off the bat, most of the guys yell out ridiculous numbers and get eliminated, but Peyton waits for a chance to speak and asks the age and nationality of the “average male” in question. Tom looks to Adam with an inquisitive expression, but the only response he receives is Adam shaking his head slowly with a hint of a smile.

Peyton huffs, guesses, and gets it wrong, grumbling about vagueness being at fault long after his turn is over.

“You make good vith him?” I hear Nadia whisper, though not quietly enough.

I peek subtly in her direction to see she’s talking to Rachel, whose smile is conspiring. “Adam’s all business, but just wait till I catch him alone again. He’ll be sorry he turned me down.”

And here I thought they’d meant Peyton. Instantly, I feel really bad for Adam; she’s entirely
not
his type. And, evil or not, no one should be forced into alone time with Rachel.

They continue to whisper as my attention’s drawn elsewhere. Cruz is visually commanding Emma not to participate in the penis game, so she very boisterously guesses ten inches long, ten inches wide. Wrong, but hilarious.

I quietly track all the incorrect answers. It’s finally down to Miles, Cruz, and me, eyeing each other in a “You go first” standoff.

“Fine,” Cruz says, cocking a brow. “Eight inches long, six wide.”

“So far and so close, Cruz, but unfortunately wrong. Miles, Harlow, let’s hear it,” Tom prompts.

I have carnal knowledge of exactly
one
penis off which to base my answer, but twelve stats of right and wrong in my head. Either Miles will win before me, or I’ve got this.

Finally, he gives in and answers, “Five inches long, five wide.”

All the other guys laugh and snort, but I know he’s closer than any of them if I read Tom’s reactions to each of their lame attempts properly.

“Ohhh
.” The infliction in Tom’s response to Miles’ guess confirms my inkling, and he looks at me. “Harlow, up to you. I’d be
very
specific with my answer.”

A flaming blush scorches my face as I stare at the ground and speak. “Five point five inches long, and four point nine inches wide.”

“Harlow wins it!” Tom shouts. “Scarily accurate, too. The correct answer was five point six inches long and four point eight inches wide. How’d you get so close?” he teases with his signature acting-class “Something you wanna tell us?” face. I tsk, shaking off the disturbing innuendos by a man old enough to be my father.

“I’m good at math and power of elimination…and I sit back and
listen
.”

“Well, it worked. So, which six others will be leaving early with you?”

“Oakley, Jasmine, Emma, Callie, Miles, and Cruz,” I answer automatically. The six of them gather around me; some of the others shoot me daggers.

“All right, Team Harlow goes on the horn. Ready? And…”

The horn blares, and we take off.

Just like the panties, the answer to question one is me. They might want to mix it up, or people will catch on. I write my name on a little board and pass it to a crewman. He nods, already erasing it as he allows me to pass.

When I reach the second post, Oakley, Cruz, and Jasmine are right beside me, each speed-reading. I’m clueless as to who plays classical piano, so I guess Emma. Incorrect, I have to turn around and go back, and I pass some of the second team on the way. Winded when I return, I pull Ivy’s name out of the air this time and am told to advance. By the time I reach the seventh fact, I’ve had to turn back two more times. I’m exhausted, and haven’t seen Oakley since the beginning; I’m long forgotten by the most competitive man alive.

I spot Emma sitting on the ground. She seems even more tired than me, so I take a seat beside her. “You okay?”

She nods, but her complexion’s paler than usual and her chest is heaving way too much for my comfort, both contradicting her answer. I look around, not seeing anyone—not even Cruz, which more than surprises me.

“You want me to scream for your brother?” I ask, completely serious.

“No!” she spits out, her eyes bulging.

It’s then I notice a cameraman off to the side, hiding behind a tree. I stand, wipe the dirt from my ass, and am about to walk toward him when she catches my hand.

“I’ll be fine, really.”

What looks like embarrassment crosses her features as she stares at the cameraman. She drops her head and I hear her murmur, “I can do this.”

I have no doubt she can, but am still taking the reins to make sure she does. “Okay, then how about a piggyback ride?” I offer cheerfully.

She laughs, but it’s a shallow, worried sound from her chest. I squat in front of her, taking away the option. She weighs
maybe
100 pounds. I got this.

“Jump up. No arguing.”

Up she finally goes. She giggles a bit, which eases my unable-to-ignore prickle of panic, and we’re mobile again.

Question seven is, “Who wants to be a ballerina?”

“It’s me,” Emma whispers. We both turn to the crew guy and chime “Emma” in unison instead of using the board to write. He simply smiles and motions for us to continue.

We ace questions eight and nine miraculously and come upon Cruz at question ten—the man, not the answer—just as he’s about to leave. His pupils dilate until only a ring of the sinister, unhappy shade of blue is visible.

“What the fuck?” He stalks toward us. “God damn it. On me, Em—
now
.”

He turns so she can switch to his back. She does so without argument, but only after whispering softly for my ears only, “He really is a sweet guy.”

I have no retort, but instinctually, I don’t doubt her either.

Cruz looks back my way, staring at me as though he wants to say something. But he doesn’t.

“Come on, let’s go!” Emma shouts, smacking the back of his head playfully.

“Going,” he grouches and heads to the post.

Following a few steps behind, I read the question—“Who has eighteen scars?”—and try to recall all the male athletes I haven’t already used as guesses.

Cruz and Emma must guess correctly, because the crewman moves aside for them. They start to proceed, but Cruz stops short, catching my eye. With a provoking smile, he rolls up his shirt sleeve slowly to reveal the tribal tattoo I’ve seen many times before. But never having examined it, I move closer. I release a tiny, undefinable noise when I realize the tattoo does a beautiful job of almost completely camouflaging a jagged but faint scar running down his arm.

I say his name to the crewman and he steps aside.

We walk to the next post, and I hear Cruz’s faint “Thank you.” I peer sideways at him to find his eyes as tender as his gratitude. “I shouldn’t have left her.”

I open my mouth to speak, our eyes clinging to a connection I’m lost on how to interpret, when he breaks first and clears his throat. “I’m sorry, Em,” he says. It’s rushed, but sincere.

“Hush.” She kisses the top of his head, then rambles on about our chances of getting bitten or attacked by something dangerous out here. Not what I need to hear right now, but a distraction from whatever it was I felt when her brother looked at me like that is more than welcomed.

The three of us are fewer than ten steps away from post eleven when we hear the horn blast through the air. Someone’s won—probably Oakley, which means I’ll be getting a dream date tonight!

“So…high-school cheerleader, huh?” Cruz smirks at me as we amble toward the finish line, in no hurry now. I already knew he’d gotten question one right, as we were neck and neck then—I’m just not sure
how
. “I can definitely see that.”

“Yep.” I bounce my shoulders. “Kept me in shape, and it was a lot more fun to get the PE credit that way.”

“Ugh, PE sucked,” Emma adds as we reach an opening in the forest. The beach greets us on the other side, reuniting us with the others waiting at the finish line. Emma smacks Cruz’s shoulder to set her down, and with only a feeble complaint—for him, anyway—he complies. Although it’s too late, because all eyes are now on our trio.

“You all right?” Court is the first to ask Emma, and her face lights up instantly.
Must’ve been some card game we interrupted.