Matched Page 5

  I’m slinking down the hall toward my bedroom when the sound of feminine laughter echoes up from the Great Room below. It’s followed by words I can’t ignore.

  “Come on, Cruz, seriously. Someone in this house has to have caught your eye.”

  Cruz. For some inexplicable reason, I can’t stop myself from sidling closer. I peer down at the couch below, where he’s sitting next to a very friendly Callie.

  “What happens if Emma gets matched and sent home before you, huh?” she asks.

  “Then I’ll quit and go with her.”

  “No way!” Callie swats his arm. “You can’t just quit. Besides, you have to be at least a little curious about who the computers matched you with. My money’s on Rachel.”

  “Hell no. I’ve tried the whole bitch thing before. Gets old quick.” Cruz takes a swig of his beer, then rests one leg across his knee. “I’m thinking you and Oakley would be good together.”

  What! I scream internally at the same time Callie does aloud.

  “Are you crazy? That man’s in love, and Harlow’s my girl.” Callie’s shaking her head, but Cruz doesn’t let up.

  “Think about it. You’re both into sports—determined, driven to win. You’re go-getters through and through. Plus, I heard him say he doesn’t want kids.” She inhales sharply and he gives her a soft, placating half smile, half frown. “I saw the interview about…” He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Never mind. That was a dumb thing to say. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I know what you meant—it’d make sense for us. And it is what it is.” She shrugs. “There are other options for having children, should I ever decide I want them.”

  “That’s exactly right.” He bumps her chin gently with his fist. “Good attitude, girl.”

  Her face drops a bit, as does my heart. Poor Callie. She can’t have kids? And Oakley doesn’t want kids? Since when? The more my head aches at the idea, the more it dawns on me, I’ve never really seen him around children, and we’ve never talked about them. But surely he knows I do want kids…at least three, maybe four. I guess I just assumed he did too.

  I feel guilty dwelling on it with Callie seemingly not having the choice, but this is too shocking to just dismiss.

  Callie’s voice drags me out of my own head. “Well, like I said, Harlow’s my girl. I’m not going after Oakley, no matter how fine he is.”

  Cruz says nothing, the silence deafening as they both sip their drinks until Callie clears her throat. “Okay, so no Rachel. What about you and Jasmine?” she asks, completely serious. But from the way Cruz’s head whips in her direction, I’m guessing he’s not feeling it. “She’s sleeping under you, and let’s face it, No man in this house hasn’t thought about it at least once. Hell, even I’m tempted to ask her for some pointers. She’s gorgeous, and has one of the biggest hearts here. What’s not to love?”

  “Girl’s a sweetheart and hot for sure, but not my type.”

  “And who is your type, Cruz?” Callie presses—literally, her body’s crushing against him.

  This is so not the Callie I’ve seen before. Does she have a thing for Cruz? He can be an ass, but he seems like a decent guy, and Callie deserves that.

  I need to turn around, go to my room, fall asleep, and dream about my Oakley. But I can’t make myself stop watching, completely entranced, hanging on for their next words.

  “Who’s yours?” Cruz asks, taking another swig of his beer before setting it next to him on the end table.

  Callie shrugs. “I don’t know. Peyton’s smart and cute, and Court’s hot, but it’s too early to tell. Jensen and Wyatt are both a hell no, and Miles wears a pink man-thong.” She laughs. “So yeah, my options are few. Your turn.” She shoves at him flirtatiously again.

  “Shit, Callie, I don’t know either. I think this whole thing’s bullshit anyway. I’d have turned down coming here, but Emma…” His voice fades out thoughtfully. “She wanted to do this so bad. You know me—sucker.”

  “So you’re just here for Emma, who gets to do nothing?” she teases, laughing. “And you like the ladies. Don’t pretend you don’t. I remember how you were that weekend, swarmed and enjoying it.”

  Now it’s Cruz who chuckles. “Yeah, that was a good time. What happened to the guy you were there with?”

  Okay, so they didn’t hook up the last time they were together…or so it sounds. Why do I care, and why am I still standing here?

  “Nope.” She pokes him in the ribs. “No changing the subject. Answer my question, who in the house would you pick?”

  He takes a long, stalling swig of his beer before finally speaking. “No one in particular,” he mumbles.

  “Fine, then. You gonna help a girl out or not?”

  Help her out? With what, finding her soulmate?

  Cruz sits up slowly, facing her as his hand grips her chin. And, like a total voyeur, I lean in for a closer view.

  “You’re one of the good girls in this house, Callie. Been a good girl all your life, from what you’ve told me. You sure about this?” Cruz’s voice is low and grave; my stomach plummets at the sound.

  She answers him by crashing her lips to his neck, kissing her way down as her body slides off the couch. Her hands grope him shamelessly as she settles between his legs. Cruz leans back without another word, stretching his arms out across the back of the couch, letting her do her thing as she begins to unbutton his jeans.

  No way! My gaze shoots to the camera in the corner of the room, but they don’t seem to care. It sounds like Callie wants to get caught. And Cruz? What guy turns down a blowjob?

  Cruz lifts his hips, assisting her in tugging down his jeans a little. I watch, holding my breath as she reaches in and pulls out his dick. Between the darkness and her hovering over him, I can’t get much of a look…but that’s a good thing, right?

  It only takes that first moan to slip past his parted lips for my panties to dampen. His throaty, virile gasp as she takes him into her mouth and begins to bob her head up and down has my knees wobbling. I have to get out of here. Sweat beads at my back, and my pulse gallops as I watch his head lull back and eyes cast up and to the left.

  On me. He sees me! No way…he can’t.

  And yet, I’m cemented in place. I know I need to move, but instead, my eyes shift from his to Callie. She pulls back, her hand tight around what I now see clearly is a massive erection, to lick the underside of his balls.

  “You like that?” he pants, and my eyes fly back to his.

  Shit, he’s talking to me! His stare is already fixated on mine, a daunting smirk curving his full lips.

  “Yeah,” Callie moans, oblivious to my presence, before sliding him fully inside her mouth once more.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Cruz asks, quirking his brow up at me. “Are you wet?” There’s a long pause before he adds, “I’ll bet you are. I’ll bet you’re dripping.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Callie answers the question he asks of me.

  Finally, for the first time all night, I’m wide awake and, he’s right—wet. But I’m also backing up, and soon out of his line of sight. How will I ever look at him again—talk to him? And what if he tells Callie?

  I suddenly feel the need to hurl, but squelch it and run as quietly as possible down the hall. I climb into my bunk and burrow myself under the blankets. Jensen’s gone, thankfully, and Jasmine and Miles are both asleep.

  What the hell has gotten into me? I’ve never acted like this, and I’d be so hurt if Oakley did. And why would Callie tarnish her good name by handing out blowjobs on national television? Is she that into him? Ugh, this house is making me crazy!

  My head’s reeling, unable to process what I saw and the fact that I watched, when I hear him enter the room a short while later.

  The bunk across from mine creaks, and I hold my breath. I’m lying deathly still, praying he thinks I’m asleep, when his whispered words rush over me.

  “Sweet dreams, Harlow.”

  Confessional: Jasmine Co
x

  “Hi there. I’m Mir—uh, Jasmine Cox. I won the first mini challenge, along with Miles, and I’m super happy right now! My charity will be getting at least $5,000, so maybe living with some of the meanest women in the world is worth it. And dinner was really amazing. Miles is such a nice guy—no stupid comments or weird looks. We had a great evening.

  “When I got home, Jensen found me and we spent some time together, which made me even happier, I think. I don’t know. He’s so hot and cold, I have no idea what this whatever is between us. One minute he’s giving me a high five because he thinks I slept with two other men—which, by the way, I most certainly did not—then the next he’s jumping me right when I walk through the door.

  “In other news, I think I’ve made friends in Harlow, Callie, and Emma, so there’s a positive for any negative.

  “Oh, a question, yay! I was out of things to talk about. ‘Do you know where Jensen slept last night?’ I, um, well…I guess since you asked, not his own bed? No surprise there.

  “You know what? Forget everything I just said. I’m done.”

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, I wake to someone banging on drums. Seriously? How inconsiderate to all your roommates!

  Oh wait, the racket’s only beating in my head; the theme song to scary flashbacks of flip cup. Did I actually chew Cruz’s ass out right before witnessing him get a blowjob, or is that a hallucination—some weird side effect of alcohol poisoning?

  “Harlow, good morning! I brought you these.” An intrusive, obnoxiously loud crewman enters my bedroom and thrusts a beer and three ibuprofen in my face.

  My eyes squint in his direction. “I’m not drinking a beer. I already feel like crap. And why are you in my room? Personal bubble, hello?” I’m snippy, and justifiably so. Where are all my roommates? I don’t like him in here, with it being just the two of us.

  I’m about to make that clear when Adam strolls in, his smile wicked, reminding me he’s the driving force to keep us on our toes. It’s all about the ratings. Damn…sucks that a man so handsome can be so evil.

  “Mornin’, Harlow,” he says, flashing a killer glare at the crewman, who thrusts the beer and pills into my hands before rushing out.

  “Morning,” I manage cordially, rubbing my eyes.

  “Hope you slept well. Today’s the first main challenge, and we need hot vixens for the camera, not zombies. And a few sips of alcohol,” he says, his head gesturing toward the can, “are the best cure for a hangover. Hair of the dog. Trust me—this isn’t my first reality show with a bunch of under-thirties. Now let’s get moving, attire’s your choice today, and we need a confessional from you soon.”

  Great. I crawl out from under my blanket, smoothing my shirt that’s bunched around my waist. I’m dreading the confessional—a one on one, just me and the camera.

  “What am I supposed to talk about?” I ask, choking down the pills with lukewarm, gut-wrenching sips of beer.

  “I thought you might ask.” He launches a calculated smile, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes. “I have some footage here for you to watch. Might give you some ideas, or…inspiration.”

  He pulls out a camera much smaller than the ones always on the shoulders of the guys continuously following us. He flips it over and out and hands it up to me, where I remain half-awake in bed. “Just push the play arrow when you’re ready.”

  If it smells like a bad idea and the little cricket in your head’s chirping “Don’t fall for it!” louder than the drums are beating, you should politely decline, ask the troublemaker to leave your room, and somehow manage to fumble your way to the shower.

  I know this, so the play arrow must surely have pushed itself.

  No subtitles are needed. It’s immediately obvious that whoever filmed this hid while Ivy, Rachel, and Nadia shared an early breakfast and cheeky conversation.

  “Honestly, aside from Dalton—who’s already pathetically whipped—Miles, or Peyton, I’d take a piece of anyone here,” Ivy says. “Wish I would’ve been in on that cowboy threesome...although last night with just one was plenty.”

  “It vasn’t ménage—only me and Vyatt. Court use headphones and vas not feeling it. Sorry about your room, Rachel. No vorry—next time it’s Ivy’s room, so be ready to vatch or stay outta my vay. And spill, you vith who last night? You better not say Oakley!”

  “Nunya—not ready to tell yet. But no, it wasn’t Oakley.”

  “Bitch, we’ll get it out of you,” Rachel chimes in. “Nadia, you lookin’ at Oakley, girl? Think his prissy little plus one might have something to say about that. Not that I give a shit—I’m rootin’ for ya—but you’ll have to be sneaky. He’ll help, though, I’m sure. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “Of course he does. I not vorried about his tvit,” Nadia replies. She stands up and runs her hands down her body. “Look at me. Look at her. Please.”

  “Enough!” I throw his camera back at him wildly, and he surprisingly manages to catch it. “Get out. I need to take a shower.”

  “Just wanted to keep you in the know.”

  “Get OUT!” I yell, disgusted that he makes his living off of treachery and the manipulation of others.

  “Harlow, did you hear what did happen, or just what they want to happen?”

  Say what? I’m lost on how to decode him and short on the tolerance needed to figure it out, so I ignore him and stomp past him to wash off the icky he shoved in my face.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, I feel better. The hot water and few sips of beer, which I guess does work, helped calm my nerves and throbbing head. And it also gave me time to think.

  Of course the other girls will notice Oakley—he’s gorgeous, charismatic, and famous. But them noticing him doesn’t mean he wants them, and I, for one, am too smart and secure to fall for ratings-boosting head games. But what else was Adam trying to tell me, without telling me? Nadia only had sex with Wyatt—by the way, how did we miss the accent in our eavesdropping?—and Ivy hooked up with someone who wasn’t Oakley last night. Those are the “did happen”s…but why would I care about either one?

  I turn at the knock on my door. Speaking of my man…

  “You ready to head down to the challenge, babe?”

  “In a minute,” I coo, giving him his favorite smile. “Come ’ere first.” Two steps and I’m wrapped in his arms, our bodies colliding.

  “Yeah?” he hums, his cocky grin radiant.

  “Kiss me,” I rasp, and he does. Both hands commandeer my head, tilting it the way he likes, his tongue tangling with mine. He reminds me that every inch of my mouth is his.

  “Like that?” he pants when we part.

  “Just like that.”

  I don’t need to mention what I saw and heard—not yet, anyway. The way he just kissed me confirms it.

  Tom—too loud, too chipper, and too dressed like Frank Costanza—greets us on the beach. His face is caked with as much makeup as ever, and somehow he’s smiling even bigger than yesterday. He’s loving being the host of this disaster.

  “As you all know, this is the first Soul Search challenge, where a trip home may be in store for one pair of soulmates. You probably didn’t know, when you were surveyed, that you all put ‘trust’ in your top three requirements of a relationship. So that’s exactly what today’s challenge, ‘Key Ingredient,’ is all about.”

  Am I the only one not excited? Probably just the hangover.

  “Ladies, you’ll be blindfolded and handcuffed at each wrist and ankle on the wall you see behind you. Whichever guy you’re teamed up with will have to dig four keys, one for each lock, out of these mounds of sand with your name on them, and set you free. He can only retrieve one key and try one lock at a time, and if he’s wrong, the key gets reburied—so you may be stuck there a while.

  “The first couple to complete the mission wins not one, but two rewards, a dream date, which they can either go on together or each choose someone else to join them, and…”

  There
’s a pause for dramatic effect. I can’t believe they don’t insert a canned drumroll. Maybe they’re saving that for post-production.

  “…the winning couple only—no dates included—mutually decides who they’ll be sending into the first Soul Search.”

  Everyone claps, eager to start picking people off two by two.

  “If the couple chosen turns out to indeed be soulmates according to our computers, they leave the island with $10,000 for each of their charities and anything in their individual accounts—and $50,000 goes into the main bank for the last couple standing. Everyone ready?”

  A collective cheer of “Yeah!”s and whistles sounds before Tom yells, “Pair up!”

  I’m already standing right beside Oakley, so he simply moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. It’s possessive, sexy, and exactly what I need this morning. Jasmine bolts for Jensen, Cruz for Emma—shocker it’s not Callie, who’s surprisingly cozying up to Miles. As for the rest, I really don’t care.

  “All right,” Tom announces. “Men, go cuff and blindfold your ladies. We’ll be around to check your work.”

  Oakley’s whispering to me the whole time we walk over. “When I get there with a key, try to have the lock part turned toward me so I don’t hurt you and it speeds things up, but then stay as still as you can. And I’ll try to tell you something special about each key so you can help me remember where it doesn’t go next time. That way I’m not duplicating error. ’Kay, babe?”

  Always the strategist. “Got it,” I answer like a confident teammate in a huddle, smiling at Oakley’s competitive side.

  “And when we win,” he says quietly without looking at me, having just cuffed my left wrist, “pick someone else for your date.” Right wrist locked. “And I’ll bring your friend Jasmine. Throw ’em all off the scent.”