Matched

by Angela Graham

  Watching her try to hide the shame in her bright eyes, I send out a call to the universe, hoping she finds a good man to love her for the right reasons.

  “Anyway.” She laughs away the heaviness. “I’m just a normal girl, I swear, and I really am sorry about that back there with Oakley.”

  My head tilts and I grab her elbow to gain her full attention, needing her to see that I understand and don’t judge. “It’s not your fault, so no need to apologize. If anything, I should be the one saying I’m sorry—it was my boyfriend ogling you. Now, how about that tour?”

  I’m relieved by her sweetness, but silently seething. Oakley watches porn—and enough to recognize the stars? How did I not know this? He’s obviously seen one or more of her movies, which I'll have to block out of my mind at least until we leave the show. I don’t need any details of her performances, and she seems like someone who might prove to be an advocate in this house. And even aside from my irritation, it’s unsettling to be reminded that there’s something about Oakley I didn’t know.

  I brush the whole thing off and continue to follow Jasmine, whom I hope got a more polite greeting from the other men in the house. Highly doubtful, though.

  “This is the Lovin’ Lounge.” She stops and points. “One of only two rooms in the house with a lock. I’ll let you figure out what it’s for.” She giggles. “And down here,” she says as we walk a little farther, “is the Posh Suite, which is the other one that locks. No idea who or what it’s for. Downstairs are two confessional booths. That’s where you go in and talk directly to the camera. Per contract, we have to do it, and they’ll choose what footage to use.” She scrunches her face in annoyed distaste and I smile, thankful I’m not the only one who finds this entire thing downright silly. “And here you’ve got the vault which, again, I have no clue about.”

  Me either, but on the outside wall are sixteen framed pictures—one of each cast member. What looks like a digital clock is above each picture, but none of the clocks’ displays are lit up. Under the photos of the guys are gold keys with their names inscribed on them; for the women, a small shelf holding tiny safes boasting our names.

  Kind of cheesy, but I am on a reality TV show to find a soulmate, so I’d say it’s fitting.

  “And here we have your basics, bathrooms, main living room, kitchen.” Jasmine continues down the stairs to the biggest room in the house, aptly ordained by—you guessed it—a big gold plate on the wall, dubbing it “The Great Room.”

  My head’s spinning from all I now know, and perhaps more so from all I still don’t. But instinctively, I like Jasmine, and find some solace in that. “I take it you gave yourself the full tour instead of mingling with the group?” I ask.

  She looks away, back to seeming blue. “Yeah. You’ve seen how guys can get, so you can probably just imagine how some girls act.” She says no more and doesn’t need to. Womankind isn’t the best example of camaraderie.

  I nod in understanding and shuffle my feet. “So, who’s your plus one?” I ask, wishing my boyfriend had been man enough to treat her like a woman and not a piece of meat. I might be having a little chat with him after all.

  “That would be Jensen, who’s over there flirting with the model I’ve had the displeasure of meeting and getting snubbed by in approximately zero point five seconds.” She points subtly in their direction.

  “Ouch. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Jensen and I are just friends. I’m delusional to think there’s a chance…”

  “He could be your soulmate,” I say for her.

  Her sullen eyes meet mine. “Been in love with him for years,” she confesses, her smile bittersweet. “But it seems I’m just his convenient buddy. He never even acknowledges it when I hint at something more. And since he’s produced most of my films and watched me take DP on set at least a dozen times, I’m sure he’s looking for someone shiny and new.”

  “DP?” I ask, my brows crinkling.

  “Oh, um…” She’s looking everywhere but at me now, her face glowing a fiery red. “Sorry, doesn’t matter.”

  I have a feeling I could ask Oakley what it means.

  “Double penetration,” a guy throws out as he walks past us. He stops and turns, a wicked grin pinned on me as his eyes rake down my body. Then his hungry leer swings to Jasmine. “I’m Wyatt, and you, sweet thing, were magnificent in Sisterhood of the Traveling Tramps. Outstandin’ performance, and one I won’t forget anytime soon.” He looks back at me and nods. “Feel free to stop by my room if either of you get a little lonely. What’s a soulmate without a physical connection?”

  “We’re good, but thanks,” Jasmine grates, fidgeting in her stilettos. And because I’ve never been one to judge, I change the subject as soon as Wyatt walks away. “So, what now?”

  An easy smile spreads across her face. “Now we go get ready for the mixer.”

  Confessional: Oakley Abrams

  “Hey, I’m Oakley, but I guess you already know that. Um...yeah, I’m not sure how to do this or what to say, but ‘Go Ravens!’ is always good, right? Seriously though, this is my first confessional and our first day here, so not a lot to tell ya. Seychelles and the house are both awesome. I can’t wait to soak it all up with my girl Harlow.

  “I know she’s uncomfortable with all this—being filmed and stuff—and maybe I’m a selfish prick, but if this is how I’m gonna spend my break off the field, it had to be with her. We’ve been apart way too long, and I missed the hell out of her.

  “Hold up…okay, so they just handed me this piece of paper with questions on it. ‘Do you think Harlow’s mad at you right now, and will she forgive you?’ Um…about what? Ah, I’m reading the play now. Yeah, Harlow’s probably pissed about my reaction to meeting Jasmine Cox, but come on! A world-famous porn star walks into the room, and a heterosexual man doesn’t react? It was a bit over the top…took me too long to recover, but I did apologize. So it’ll be all good. My Harlow’s pretty forgiving.

  “‘Do you think Harlow is your soulmate?’ Of course I do—have since high school. And being here, she’ll be sure too, no matter how long we’ve been apart. A simple reminder is all we need.

  “All right, light’s blinking that I’ve met my quota and I’ve got a mixer to attend, so I’m out!”

  Chapter 2

  The Meet Your Mate Mixer is, not surprisingly, a clever name for a let’s-see-who’ll-get-sloshed-and-hook-up-first-to-boost-ratings free-for-all. It’s made up of sixteen very attractive, single-for-the-most-part young people with a beach sunset in the background, bump-n’-grind music pumping, and a table filled with free alcohol as far as the eye can see.

  Oakley’s off to the side with a few of the other guys, and judging by his animated facial expressions and Heisman moves that he’s telling them all about himself, one great play at a time.

  So far, Jasmine and I have stuck together. We’re sitting on one of the white velvet couches—totally appropriate, and often found on a beach—each nursing our first drink.

  “Should we dance, or try to mingle?” she asks, sounding as unsure as my answer will be.

  “I guess we could.” I scan the room for the least-intimidating-looking targets with whom to socialize. “How about them?” I point to a group of three girls—one I know to be Callie Cole, an Olympic gymnast.

  “Good choice.” Jasmine smiles with a nod, and up we go.

  While I make my way across the tent, I steal an indirect glance at Oakley, who’s no more aware of my whereabouts than he is of nuclear physics. The Russian supermodel whose name I’m not sure of has joined his group, though, seemingly fascinated with his football stories.

  Jasmine nudges my shoulder, smiling when she sees where my focus has traveled. “He’s just a proud man showing off. Don’t overthink it, Harlow.”

  I force a small smile of agreement and decide once and for all that she and I will be great friends.

  “Hi, ladies,” Jasmine announces for us as we arrive upon the trio. “Mind if we meet and greet w
ith you?”

  “Of course not! I’m Callie, and this is—”

  “I’m Anya McCall,” a cute little brunette chirps, her eyes the color of sapphires and shining brightly with an excitement I can’t begin to describe. I say “little” because “frail” seems insulting, but I think a strong gust of wind might literally knock her over.

  “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, pull
ing 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.