Matched (3 page)

“Anya? That’s different,” the third girl in the group says with an evil snicker. “Has anyone been
Anya
tonight? I bet you’ll have something
inya
before the week is through.”

The vulgar crack is more appalling than funny, which is probably why no one else laughs.

“Emma. Your name’s Emma!” A deep growl comes from behind her, the body attached to the sinister sound soon revealed.

I can tell instantly that they’re related. His hair’s a darker brown, leaning more toward black than her blondish highlights, but their eyes are that identical deep blue and they have the same chin. And not that he’s smiling, but their mouths are shaped similarly. The biggest differences are that likely even a tsunami couldn’t knock him over, and there’s absolutely no excitement emitting from him.

Anya or Emma—I’m unsure at this point—rolls her eyes with an exasperated huff before droning out the guy’s introduction. “This is my older brother, Cruz, motocross extraordinaire, X Games champ, and royal pain in my ass.”

“I know who you are,” the same girl cracking pathetic jokes purrs, slinking closer to him. “You’re the Motorbike God. I love to watch.” Her fingers trail up his chest, and my gag reflex kicks in. “It’s so dangerous, so…sexy. Like you. I’m Rachel Gardner, by the way, stand-up comedian. But some things I take
very
seriously.”

“I can see how you wouldn’t get a lot of practice at subtlety, being a comic,” Callie quips, straight-faced. Better than Jasmine and I, who almost choke on our drinks. Now
that
was funny. I’d say—not out loud, of course—that they should switch jobs, but Rachel’s not exactly built like a gymnast.

“At least I’m current. How many years ago did you actually place in something, again?” Rachel digs, the ugliest sneer curling her mouth.

“I’m Harlow McWright,” I blurt out, my hate for confrontation propelling me, and all eyes cut my way. “I’m not good at much…famous for nothing. Oakley,” I say, pointing at him, “brought me as his plus one. We’ve known each other since high school.”

Cruz looks over his shoulder in Oakley’s direction, then pins a scrutinizing stare on me but says nothing. It’s odd, but in a broody, hot way that definitely works for him.

And just as quickly, he’s focused back on his sister. “Seriously, Em, just tell people your damn first name and leave out the middle part. It’s
not
cute, and I don’t think you want me to go to jail for killing someone, right?.”

“Shoo,” she tells him while literally shooing him with a wave of her hand. Surprisingly, he complies and stalks back to his chair, with Rachel right on his heels.
Yes, please, take her with you.
She’s a nasty piece of work.

This leaves me, Jasmine, Callie, and whom I believe should be called Emma for everyone’s safety quickly easing into friendly conversation and grabbing flutes of champagne when the waiter passes by. Emma must have a special taste for something else, considering she’s handed a red plastic cup.

“I forgot how intense your brother can be,” Callie says with a laugh, revealing they already know each other.

“Oh, that’s right, you did that Medal Challenge thing with him. Girl, that was one weekend and how many other contestants?” Emma replies, scrunching her nose but smiling. “Try spending twenty-one years as his little sister!”

“Touché.” Callie tips back her glass and empties it.

All the drinking leads to a laughter-filled dance with all the classics, the sprinkler, shopping cart, lawnmower, and epic funky chicken. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.

“Y’all ready for a break?” Emma yells over the beats, fanning her extremely flushed cheeks. “I gotta sit down.”

Before she can take one full step toward a chair, Cruz catches her elbow, guiding her to a table. She looks exhausted, and is the first to chug the ice water that’s offered by a young woman—an intern, I assume—who scurries quickly back to her spot beside the producer. He’s a scary, serious man wearing an earpiece and watching us closely.

I recall his name is Adam, flushing at the memory of being introduced briefly before filming began and assuming he was security. That mistake was cleared up instantly, to my humiliation. To my credit, though, it was an easy blunder considering his broad shoulders and muscular form, not to mention the permanent scowl that makes the Secret Service seem playful. I guess I pictured a producer looking different, or being…older.

Adam’s in his mid-thirties, tops, with hair as black as midnight and trimmed perfectly. He’s the only person on the crew wearing black slacks and a dress shirt, rolled to his elbows and open at the top, his dark tie hanging loose. The way he carries himself is in the air surrounding him, all business and to the point, without cracking a smile even when he explained security would be in white polos and khakis. But despite his dressy producer duds and serious demeanor, there’s something wild about him.

And considering we’re at the beach, it’s an odd sight…but it somehow suits him well.

“Hey, there you are!”

A tipsy Callie snares my attention then stalls, her mouth falling open when she notices the couple dry humping at the table. How they’re not the first thing we
all
spotted, I’m not sure. “Ladies, this is my plus one, my best friend, Dana.”

We say hello but Dana barely acknowledges us, enraptured by the guy she’s literally riding. She’s wearing a long, flowing green gown that’s covering his lap but does little to hide what I nauseatingly suspect is actually happening under it.

“Maybe we should give them some privacy,” I suggest, which is insane since there are cameras everywhere. What I
meant
was, “I’d rather do anything but watch. Anyone care to join me in leaving?”

Callie’s not having it, which I could’ve guessed just from what little I know about her already. “Dana, who’s your
friend
?” she asks with a loud bite.

“Oh!” Dana snickers and pries her lips from his, her hips still gyrating. “This is Dalton. He’s Nadia’s trainer.”

“Nadia’s the whore—I mean, the
model
hanging on your man,” Jasmine leans over and whispers in my ear. My head’s filled with too many champagne bubbles and I’ve already been ignored for almost two hours by said man, so I simply give a curt, uncaring nod.

It’s those same bubbles I’m blaming for my next totally uncharacteristic outburst. “I thought you were the guy on
Criminal Minds
!” I more than yell at Dalton. I swear I did—the hot, badass one.
Morgan, is it?

“Oh my God, me too!” Dana squeals, leaning further into him, if that’s possible. “But then I saw you up close, baby, and you’re way hotter than Shemar Moore.”

His eyes slam shut and a deep inhale hisses through his bared, gritted teeth. He grips Dana’s swiveling hips and holds her still, confirming his dick is, in fact, engaged, and no doubt wishing we’d get the hell out of here. I’m wishing so too.

I’ve never witnessed sex before. Even if they are hiding it, there’s a camera not ten feet away—and equipped with zoom, I’m guessing. Surely the viewers will just think she’s just wiggling around to get comfortable. Yep, bet her mom will buy that too when she watches.

Dalton’s head falls back and he moans, “Damn, like a dream come true.”

“I know, baby, I know,” she answers, her eyes open and a huge, pleased smile on her face. “It’s like you and I were meant to meet here. We practically have the same brain.”

“Or split a small one,” Cruz grumbles, vigilant at his post beside Emma.

A smirk crosses my lips, and I get one in return when I glance his way—his first not-murderous expression of the night.

“We sure do. You’re just my type.” Dalton‘s head snaps up and he grabs the back of hers, pulling her closer for a sloppy kiss.

“I was thinking the same thing, Smoopy,” Dana croons against his mouth, her back arching.

“Are they—” Emma starts to ask, as though unaware she’s speaking aloud.
Yes, it’s that shocking.

“Aaand we’re done here!” Cruz barks.

Dalton’s lips fall to Dana’s chest that I have a feeling won’t remain covered for much longer. I finally whip around to spare myself the view, wobbly on my feet.

“Easy there,” Cruz whispers, his hands steadying me at my waist.

I’m drunk; he and I both know. In fact, everyone does—except my boyfriend, who’s still reliving game plays.

“Thanks,” I mumble as he releases me. I lean back to catch his eyes—the ones that move from me across the lawn, narrowing when they land on Oakley. I expect Cruz to call out for him to come get his mess of a girlfriend, but instead, he turns abruptly to his sister.

“Come on, Em, time to head to bed. I’ll walk you ladies up too.” He glares into me. “Since you have no
escorts
. It’s late, and liquor’s flowing. Let’s go.”

Emma’s pouting but she stands, as does Callie with a yawn, while Jasmine questions me silently.

“I’d, uh…better wait for Oakley. He wouldn’t—”

“Quarterback!” Cruz shouts in his direction.

“He’s a lineman,” I cut in, but Cruz just shakes his head and continues.

“Seeing these ladies back to the house!”

Oakley manages to raise a hand in “Thanks, bro” acknowledgment. I refuse to look at anyone, painfully aware tears will spring to my eyes if I see puzzled disappointment in theirs.

The five of us head up to the house without a word—that is, until Emma can no longer hold in what the rest of us are still mulling over in our hazy brains.

“So, I’m not crazy—they were having sex, right?”

Cruz rumbles a “Jesus” as we all do our best to continue an unglamorous walk/stumble, holding onto each other and him through fits of laughter.

Jasmine and I break from the pack, ignoring the loaded frown Cruz shoots me as he continues down the hall with Emma and Callie.

“I’m starving,” Jasmine groans, already kicking off her heels and heading toward the fridge.

I follow suit, my feet aching from the one of many pairs of stilettos Oakley picked out for me during the shopping spree he’d taken me on to prepare for the show. He insisted on it, and paying, so I gave him full rein to pretty much buy for me as he liked. And that he did, dresses that don’t reveal too much but have slits high enough for just a slight tease, and bikinis that cover more than any other girl’s in the house. He’s looking out for me without me asking, and making sure I’m dressed modestly—which he knows will make me the most comfortable.

After a gorging session at the kitchen counter, we begin to shuffle across the house toward our room and spot Dalton and Dana up against the Great Room wall for the world, literally, to watch them paw at each other.
Can they not find the rooms? It’s like they’re
trying
to have sex every way
but
privately.

“You think that’s love?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“If it was, I’d be married,” Jasmine quips with a snicker before rushing up the stairs toward our door, with me following behind.

“Shhh.” I point to the guy already asleep when we finally creep into our room—Miles, per his nameplate.

“Come lie in my bed for a while so we can girl talk,” Jasmine says. She’s half giggling and still buzzing, as am I.

Instantly agreeing and full-on beaming, I climb in beside her, both of us trying to stifle our giddy noises. She solves the problem with her next question.

“Are you upset about Oakley?”

“What do you mean?”

Even in the dark, the “What the fuck do you
think
I mean?” look in her expression screams at me. “Did he even speak to you tonight? Get you a drink? Check your pulse?”

“Psh.” I toss a dismissive hand. “You don’t know Oakley. If he has an audience willing to listen to him talk about himself, everyone else disappears. He’s just really into football, and he’s worked so hard. I’m happy he made some new friends to swap stories with.”

She studies me a second longer before looking up at the underside of the top bunk. “But Nadia was
all
over him. That’s gotta bother you a little.”

Jasmine doesn’t get it. Oakley and I are solid. And I’ve long since learned if you can’t handle women noticing your man is hot, don’t date a hot man.

“
He
wasn’t all over
her
, though—that’s what matters. I’m telling ya, he probably didn’t even notice.” I choke on my own lie; it
was
a bit much, even for my trained outlook. How could he
not
notice? I saw the way he aimed his fleeting eyes at Nadia, and more than once. He liked her there at his side, fawning all over him in her skimpy dress. But Oakley doesn’t go for girls like that. I mean, he had a chance to dress me any way he liked, and what he
likes
is a sweet girl with heart. Just like he’s always telling me I am.

That’s when it clicks.

“Oakley’s really smart, too,” I add, unsure whether she’s even still awake. Her head falls my way, confirming she is, so I continue. “He’s playing this game to win, like he always does. Who do you think the first couple voted into the Soul Search will be?”

“Ugh,” she groans, mock gagging. “Dana and Dalton, if we’re lucky. God, they’re sickening.”