Matched (20 page)

“No, I don’t really like—”

“Seafood!” he blurts out like a much-needed breath of air. “Sorry,” he begins, pulling me into his arms, “but I remember you don’t like seafood. Which is why…” He grins, sweet and prideful. “…when I heard Adam calling it in, I had him add a special order for you.”

I can’t remember the last time I smiled so widely. “Really?”

“Sure did.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “Got a giant chef salad sitting on the counter in there for you.”

I’d never say a word even with a gun to my head because I love seeing him so happy, but…I’m not much of a salad girl, either. Still, it’s a lot better than seafood, and the thoughtfulness behind the gesture melts my heart.

I rise up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. “I love you, Oakley.”

“I love you, too.”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Anything, Har. Always.”

“After we eat, can you find something to occupy Jensen till Callie and the group return?” I plead with my sweetest expression.

“Uh…I guess.” His gaze swings around the area until he spots Jensen and Jasmine, then he turns back to me. “They’re not exactly soulmates, huh?”

I crinkle my nose. “He’s a pig, and there’s no way I’m letting him suck her back in. She’s my friend—my good friend.”

“See, that’s why I love you. Always taking care of everyone else.” He kisses me once more and grabs my hand, leading me to the kitchen. “Let’s eat, then I’ll see what I can do to help out.”

“Thanks.” I sneak a parting glance at Jasmine, still propped on Jensen’s lap but talking to Cruz, who’s now sitting beside them. He looks up, catches my eyes, and winks.

He’s got Jasmine’s back, too. And I didn’t even have to ask.

Confessional: Jensen Hughes

“They’re not gonna lay off till I do this damn thing, so here ya go. Jensen Hughes at your service. I’ve only got a second; Cruz is taking a break from being a dick, rackin’ ’em up for a game of pool.

“There’s some wild-ass women here. I’ve had fun with a few. I’m guessing you already knew that—no way the cameras missed Rachel sneaking into my room to keep me company. She’s a decent lay, but Jasmine’s still the best. Speaking of Jasmine, not sure what the hell’s up with her. I think being in this house and around those stuck-up new friends are making her act crazy.

“She’s still cool with me screwing around, no bullshit about a relationship—Jasmine’s the last person who knows about monogamy—but she’s been giving me the cold shoulder. That shit ain’t gonna fly. Jasmine’s a doll, and she’s mine. She knows I care about her and couldn’t give a fuck about anyone else. Maybe I’ll work a little harder to remind her, ’cause damn, I’d miss that shit.

“Huh, I’ve already talked more than I thought I would. ’Bout to kick McCall’s ass in some nine-ball. Later!”

Chapter 13

I’m at the kitchen table, halfway through my salad and relieved that Jensen has disappeared, when Jasmine flops down in the seat across from me.

“You don’t have to say it,” she mopes. Oakley takes the cue, kissing the side of my head before leaving the room.

“Jasmine, I’m only trying to look out for you,” I tell her, setting my fork down and giving her my full attention. “I may not know all your history with Jensen, but I care about you and I’m not sure he does—not in the same way
you
care about
him
, anyway…the way you deserve.”

She braces her elbows on the table and leans forward, resting her face in her hands, looking torn. “It’s just so hard. He’s always been there, you know? If I couldn’t make rent or didn’t feel safe, he was always the one to come through for me. Maybe we really
do
have a shot at something more…real. He’s never called me his girl before.”

I’m torn now. I can’t play the role of Callie and go straight at her, I’m more the
Offer just a little guidance and pray she figures this out on her own
type, so I respond with soft persuasion.

“Let me ask you this, are you okay with an open relationship?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “No, that’s not what I want at all. I’ve shared too many guys already.”

“So doesn’t the thought of experiencing a real relationship sound wonderful—being with a man, physically and emotionally, who adores, worships, and covets only you?”

Jasmine straightens with a disbelieving scoff. “I may be a hopeless romantic, but I’m also a realist when I need to be. My body’s been used up and passed around; there’s not a man alive that’s gonna want to worship it now. And covet?” I’d say she laughs, but it’s the most pain-filled noise I’ve ever heard, wrapped in a weak charade. “You covet special things, like flawless diamonds. I’m just a dinged-up rock.”

“You are
not
a rock. Don’t say that!” I take a deep breath, my eyes closing and heart breaking at the same time. When my eyes reopen, I notice the tears glistening in hers. “You’re kind, and have such an amazing heart.” I reach out and take her hand. “Not to mention gorgeous, with long legs and great tits!” She huffs out a broken chuckle that edges on sincere this time, biting her bottom lip. “You don’t have to settle—let alone for a man who's screwed half the girls in this house. Seriously, can you not see everything you have to offer a real man?”

Her chin’s quivering, and those tears are fighting for freedom. “You’re a great friend, Harlow, but I’m a porn star—AKA trash to the real men.” She yanks her hand from mine and wipes away the first fat tear that triumphs. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’ve been sold enough fairytales in my life. It’s time I accept what I can and cannot have.”

“Jasmine…” My eyes prickle; her pain now my own.

“It’s okay, really.” She produces the tiniest of smiles. “I know how to take care of myself. I promise.” Slowly, she stands. “Let’s go get dressed up for tonight’s elimination. I have this black gown I’ve been looking for a reason to wear.”

“Jasmine…” I try again, but she’s already walking away.

Looks like the subject is dropped…for now.

Jasmine and I dig out our favorite dresses, taking our time on hair and makeup—because looking good means feeling good, or so she keeps telling me.

Once we’re pleased with our reflections, we make our way back through the house, coming upon Rachel and Nadia with their ears planted against the door of the Lovin’ Lounge. The scene’s a familiar one…Jasmine and I just looked way better doing it. I’m ready to simply keep walking by, but a cold tingle of realization paralyzes me in place.

There are seven girls left in the house, with two of them on a date and four more standing here.

You do the math.

The girl in the lounge is Emma.

My same power of deduction leaves five guy possibilities. As out of tune as Oakley and I may seem, I’ll wager both legs it’s not him. And Cruz? I think it’s safe to say he’s not in there with his little sister. That leaves three men—one of which will be at risk of an ass-kicking very soon.

I’d say I’m praying it’s Jensen—for the ass-kicking aspect, of course—but that’d further hurt Jasmine. And it’d mean Jensen’s in there with Emma…that’s bad enough.

But no; Emma would never give him the time of day. Which means either Miles or Wyatt is about to get their ass stomped. My obvious choice is Wyatt, but again, then Wyatt’s with Emma…and that makes me as sad as it does sick. I know Emma’s hurt over the Court-and-Ivy revelation, but hooking up with his brother? She has to be drinking—something I’ve yet to see her do—so my concern for her wellbeing hits catastrophic levels.

There’s simply no good outcome.

And just when I’ve herded Nadia and Rachel out of the way, psyched up to break down the door and drag Emma out, Cruz joins us.

“Ladies, we in third grade?” he chuckles. “How about a little privacy? At least someone actually took it to the right room this time.” He slips a disapproving glower my way.

Oh God, the shower. Does he know?

In classic form, Nadia’s lip curls and her eyes dance with merriment. Thrilled at the prospect of inflicting torture, she and her cohort Rachel—somehow an even bigger bitch—begin snickering. Evil minds think alike. “You’re absolutely right, Cruz. How rude of us. Emma’s finally getting to have some fun, and here we are ruining it.”

“WHAT?” he roars murderously, an octave lower than has ever been registered before. “How the hell do you know it’s Em in there?” he asks her, but looks at me.

Why’s he giving me the death eye? I stumbled upon this mess too!

“Harlow, I want the truth. I’m not about to believe this crazy bitch,” he implores me. His pupils are so dilated his eyes look black instead of blue, begging me to make it not be Emma.

Unfortunately, I can’t undo mathematical theory.

“Cruz…” I step in front of him, blocking the door, and speak as though to a child. “Listen, just because they’re in there doesn’t mean—”

“Are you sure it’s Emma?” Why this sudden trust in my word? What a flattering yet untimely curse.

I nod slowly, staring at his nostrils as they flare rapidly. “There’s four girls standing here, and two on a date. That only leaves one.”

“Who’s in there with her?”

I liked it better the other way he was talking, as this eerily calm voice is somehow even scarier.

“Has to be Miles or Wyatt.” Nerves crack my voice, and dread keeps me from meeting his gaze as I add meekly, “Or Jensen.”

“Move. Out. Of. The. Way. Please,” he says. I have no idea what to call the inflection in his tone. If homicide has a voice, that’s it.

“We could knock,” I offer in vain. It even sounds stupid to me.

“Now.” He speaks in unnamable mode again, and Oakley’s suddenly pulling me aside and tucking me against him.

Two strong hands, blanched in a fierce grip, fly to either side of the doorframe. Before I can blink, Cruz kicks in the door with one hard blow.

Unlike everyone else, I try not to look inside as Emma yelps and comes running over in her teeny-tiny pink bikini to stop Cruz, both her hands on his chest. She’s not naked.
Thank you, Lord.
Perhaps this is salvageable and won’t include murder.

“What are you doing?” she screams in his face.

The crash of the door must’ve gotten the attention of Miles and Jensen. They sprint up the stairs to check out the commotion, and I hear Jasmine’s sigh of relief. But just because Jensen wasn’t fooling around with Emma doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. I refuse to ever give up on her, and am as determined as ever to make her eventually accept the truth about her future with Jensen. But now’s not the time to revisit that. One disaster at a time.

Seeing the two guys who just joined the party confirms what I hadn’t done so visually yet, it’s Wyatt in the lounge. The shit just hit so far over the fan it can’t be measured.
Cancel the salvageable optimism.

All I can see is Cruz’s impossibly tight back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Why in the
fuck
is that son of a bitch on that bed, Emma McCall?” His head dips so he can look down at her, and I start to worry his body might actually explode from the obvious rage pumping through it. “No, don’t answer that! Just get out of my way—and for fuck’s sake, put some goddamned clothes on!” he hollers. “I damn sure didn’t see that bathing suit in your bag!”

He steps back, running his fingers through his hair and turning just enough that I can finally see it’s not just anger on his face, but disappointment. He sucks in a chest full of hoped rationale—which fails—and whips his head back to her. “Jesus Christ, Em,
him
? Have you lost your mind?”

Against Webster’s definition of “better judgment,” I give Oakley the slip and scurry into the room just as Wyatt throws off the blanket. I brace myself, but mercifully he has trunks on. I snatch Emma’s cover-up dress off the floor and move with damage-control swiftness. “Here.” I nudge her. “Put this on, quick. I beg you.”

She gives me a sad smile and does so, then steps right back up in her brother’s face with renewed zest. “We were only messin’ around! It’s not what you think!”

“That’s bad enough!” His eyes slice to Wyatt, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed and stretching his arms over his head as casually as ever.

“You’re a dead piece of shit,” Cruz growls as he tries to maneuver around Emma, unmistakable ferocity pouring off him. But all 100 formidable pounds of her block his attempt; she isn’t backing down.

“Cruz, if you punch him, you go home—which means I’m here all alone.” She smirks, twisting her hips proudly from side to side.

“Nah, man, you gotta kick his ass for that shit,” Oakley—yes,
my
Oakley—goads him. “Another few minutes and he’d have had her naked. And let’s be real, he’d have banged her. Don’t worry—I’ll watch out for her if you get booted. Go ahead…teach him a lesson.”

I gawk at this stranger, his wicked smile unfamiliar and unattractive as he encourages physical violence and yet another squashing of Emma’s independence.
Why is he doing this?
My disappointment in Emma is nothing compared to my disgust at Oakley right now.