Matched

by Angela Graham

  The market is everything my usual grocery store is not. There are no shopping carts, only baskets, and it’s more a roadside shack than a developed building. Still, the produce is gorgeous, and the selection vast.

  “What is he saying?” Jasmine, as befuddled as me, whispers from the side of her mouth.

  I cover my mouth with my hand before answering. “I don’t know. Just smile and nod.”

  “It’s Creole—sort of a take on French. Emma?” Cruz draws her away from her exploration of…well, everything. “Can you use some of your French vocabulary on the butcher and get us some meat?”

  “Of course.” She bounces up on her toes, then jumps right into a long, laughter-filled conversation with the native man while I watch in fascination. The little pixie soon has fourteen small filets wrapped in white paper, which I place in the basket hanging on the crook of Cruz’s arm. The butcher places a kiss to her hand as we—well, she—says goodbye. I wave with a smile.

  “That was amazing, Emma. Do you speak any other languages?” Jasmine asks her while we navigate our way to the vegetable section.

  “I’m pretty good with Spanish and Italian, but French is my favorite. Such a romantic language.” Her face brightens with her giggle.

  “I thought Italian was the romantic one,” I say.

  “Maybe to some, but I wanna French.” She snickers. Cruz grimaces from two steps behind us.

  With our spokeswoman up front, we soon have the makings for salads and baked potatoes. And in no time, we’re checking out and climbing back into the car.

  “God, that was fun. So nice to get away from that house.” I sigh, resting my head back against the seat.

  “Hey, you’ve all won a challenge and gotten out at least once. That was it for me!” Emma exclaims, and I can’t disagree or even begin to imagine how suffocated she feels—especially since her time in the house is spent dodging a cranky bodyguard.

  Here goes.

  “You’re right, Em. You need to get out.” I sit up and look her way. “That house will drive you insane. I’m thinking among all of us—Oakley and Callie make six—we can see to it that you win a challenge and have some fun.” I dig my fingers into the leather, bracing for his retort.

  “Really?” she gasps. “You guys would do that? For me?”

  Oh, yeah. She’s got him with that breathy, hopeful plea. I can see his set jaw and menacing expression dissolve as he watches her.

  “Of course we would,” Jasmine tells her.

  “Definitely,” I agree, my eyes set on her brother. “Right, Cruz?”

  Take that, warden.

  He doesn’t stray from my antagonistic stare as he rubs his chin deliberately before speaking. “Depends on the prize, and who she wins it with. There’s not gonna be any climbing or jumping off anything, and she’s damn sure not doing it with Jensen or Wyatt.”

  “Why not Jensen?” Jasmine dares ask. I take this one, giving her the friendliest “Really?” look I can. She concedes with a frown of understanding.

  “It’s settled, then,” I say, filling the air cheerfully. “When the prize is right, we throw the challenge for Emma.” I pin Cruz again. “And a suitable guy winner.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?” he goads me.

  “Uh, yeah, but good cheating. It’s a thing.”

  He smiles, hesitantly and I’m sure painfully, but follows it up with a wink. “Just gimme the bat signal when we’re doing it, and I’m in.”

  Well, I’ll be. Look who just won another challenge.

  But Emma’s out of her seat and slathering us all in hugs and kisses before the victory has time to fully set in.

  Put enough delicious food in front of people who’ve been drinking all day, and it’s amazing how amicable they get. Rachel and Nadia grace us with clothing while they eat, and if I’m not hallucinating, each slur a “Thank you.”

  “Hey, lady, you guys rock.” Callie, having returned, sits beside me. “What’d I miss?”

  I swallow my bite. “Not a lot.”

  “You sure? Oakley said something about pissing you off,” she whispers. “He seemed worried.”

  My eyes search out Oakley, making his own plate at the stove and pretending his left eye isn’t scoping out our conversation. There’s more than just the “usual” at the table around me, so I backburner Callie’s question and shoot for something healthier—and less angering.

  “Did anyone besides me not know Emma can speak three languages? Well, four, including English. How cool is that?”

  Utensils and jaws drop as though I credited her with curing cancer. Yes! Just the reaction I was hoping for. Oakley squeezes a chair between Jasmine and me, rubbing my thigh under the table and kissing my temple. “Sorry I didn’t go, babe. Looks great. Thank you.”

  “Thank the other three, too. They helped.”

  He does. Jasmine and Emma acknowledge him with a “You’re welcome,” while Cruz points to his full mouth as an excuse for not replying. But the second Oakley’s looking at his plate, Cruz opens his empty mouth at me and winks.

  I snicker and look away quickly, reengaging in the conversation all about Emma. She’s now talking about how she wants to be a writer and has even started a few stories. Under hooded eyes, I watch Cruz, ready to pounce like a mama puma if he steals this from her. But he’s most entranced of all. His usually dark-blue eyes are lighter, shining brightly with pride.

  “I wanna do…something different.” Jasmine blushes, earning a few supportive laughs. “Maybe, I don’t know…help people somehow.”

  “You can help me.” Jensen grabs her tit, but Callie’s ready, and a whole handful of salad smacks him right in the face.

  “Wait.” Wyatt drops to his knees beside her, sporting a pathetically fake pouty bottom lip. “You’re not gonna do porn anymore? Why? What’d I ever do to you, sweet Jasmine?”

  “All I said was I wanna do something different.” She taps Wyatt’s nose playfully but jerks her head to me, her eyes bulging and pleading. “Harlow, what about you? Any big dreams?”

  “Well, I’m still finishing my degree for business. I planned my cousin’s wedding a couple years ago and was hooked. All the organizing and creating picture boards, watching her face light up when I showed her the design ideas…it’s kind of my addiction.” I laugh, feeling uncomfortable at my confession. “Anyway, I’m hoping to do it as a career eventually.” I look down at my lap, dreading the coming commentary.

  “You can plan our wedding, baby.” Oakley kisses my cheek. “Then parties as big and fancy as you want for Ravens home wins!”

  “That’ll be fun.” I smile at him. “Give me practice. I want to start my own company. Train the planners I hire. Create magical events every week. A big over—”

  “Whoa, what about away games?” Oakley interrupts, looking completely lost, as though he never considered I had plans in life too. “Thought you were gonna travel with me.”

  “I mean, we haven’t discussed it yet, but I have to at least finish my classes first.”

  “Right, but after…” He must sense my apprehension, because his voice softens. “Just want you by my side, Har, that’s all. I want you happy there, but I already got my mom excited to travel with you.”

  The asparagus in my mouth suddenly lodges in my throat, cutting off my much-needed air supply. Panic runs rampant inside me, and the room erupts as everyone jumps to their feet. But someone’s already behind me, yanking me out of my chair, hands crossing my front and squeezing. After two big tries, the offending vegetable flies out of my mouth, across the table.

  Holy crap. Bent forward and clutching the table, I struggle to catch my breath amongst the terrorized “Are you okay?”s and “Oh my God!”s.

  Slowly, I open my eyes and glance behind me just in time to see Adam stepping back into the shadows. I owe him a huge thank you.

  “Shit. You okay, baby?” Oakley pulls me into his arms. I see Cruz has somehow managed to cross the table and is standing directly behind my man, looking nothing s
hort of relieved.

  “What the hell happened?” Oakley continues, his hands stroking down my spine.

  I manage to find my voice. “Sorry. Too much in my mouth, I guess.”

  He leans back, his hands on my shoulders as he looks me over. But my eyes are still on Cruz, who’s making his way back to his seat along with the rest of the room.

  Oakley nods gradually, his cautious eyes squinting. “Right. Glad you’re okay.”

  “You seriously okay?” Callie asks, and I offer the tiniest of smiles.

  “Babe, if this is about my mom going to games with you…” His hand wipes down his face, which looks torn as we notice the cameraman creeping closer.

  “I don’t know. I just…I don’t know, all right?”

  Callie proves friends really do have your back when she pops back up and nearly shouts, “If you didn’t cook, you clean! And if you’re still eating, take it to the Great Room. Let’s go!” She commandeers the army of groaners out of the room, and Oakley drops his gaze.

  “Guess that means me.” His head sags, but he’s quick to recover; a smile forms on his face, albeit a weak and far different smile than his usual one. “Let me get your plate, my gorgeous lil’ cook.”

  He kisses my cheek and starts to clear the table. Callie obviously wanted to give us time alone, but honestly, I’m not sure what to say, so I remain mute.

  When I finally look around me, everyone is back to doing their own thing—except one person. Cruz is still staring my way, a haunted look embedded in his features. I offer him a crooked smile that he doesn’t return. Instead, he asks, “You really all right?”

  “Never better,” I reply quickly, needing a distraction now. “Hey, Em.” I glance over to Emma as Court hands her one of the fake wine coolers he asked me to grab. Jasmine notices too, and shoots me a nervous, quizzical look.

  I got nothing on this interesting development. Dare I gauge Cruz’s reaction?

  I dare—and the night’s just getting weirder. He sees, but simply says to me, “Saw the label. She’ll get a stomachache before she manages to get drunk off a non-alcoholic cooler. Nice of ya.”

  And I’m totally gonna let him think it was my idea.

  “How about a drinkin’ game?” Wyatt suggests. “We’re all here, playin’ nice. Even Emma’s finally got a drink in her hand!”

  Cruz opens his mouth, but I grab the salt shaker and hurl it at him. His hand flies up to catch it and he looks at me, his left eyebrow cocked. I gesture toward Emma and shake my head. Let her have this.

  Did he just stick his tongue out at me?

  He sits back down, finishing his plate while everyone whoops and agrees a game is in order. Soon, the guys are lining the counters with bottles and cups.

  “Let’s play seven minutes in heaven!” Emma squeals, clapping. “I’ve always wanted to play that!”

  Before I can find something else to throw, Cruz is out of his chair and bent over Emma’s shoulder, his mouth at her ear.

  Usually by this time, her head would be dropped, shoulders hunched in disappointment. Maybe it’s the placebo alcohol or some radical mutiny, but the storm on its way is tangible.

  “Cruz!” It’s a shrill protest, accompanied by her hands on her hips and a continuously tapping foot. “Thirteen-year-olds play this game. Not me at that age, of course, but I am twenty-one years old now, and of sound mind! I’m gonna play. So are you, and you’re gonna like it, or so help me God, the minute you sleep, shower, or go off on an excursion, I’m gonna rip off my clothes and let every guy in this house pummel me!”

  He just stands there. His head is ready to explode, I’m sure of it—and so is the rest of the room, judging by the captivated silence.

  “Three minutes, not a whole seven,” he says finally. “And some are a fuck no. Come up with a rule to cover that.” He speaks calmly, but his fists are clenched at his sides, betraying his efforts.

  “How about…if you refuse to go in with someone, everyone has to do a shot?” Peyton, resident diplomat and brains behind the madness, suggests.

  A collective agreement is made, and the herd moves to the Great Room, armed with shot glasses, several bottles of liquor, and bad intentions.

  Confessional: Wyatt Callahan

  “You hear that shit? Seven—well, three—minutes in heaven. Now we’re talkin’! And in case you’re wonderin’, I plan to get a few of those good girls in there with me. Emma is pure sweetness, and Callie…a fuckin’ gymnast! But first, I need a taste of Jasmine. Girl’s been dodgin’ me since we met, but it’s only a matter of time before she gets tired of that punk ass Jensen. I mean, dude is plowin’ half the house, and she still has fuckin’ googly eyes for him.

  “It’s her business—I want to fuck her, not marry her. She’s a goddamn porn star, and a helluva hot one at that. She did a scene one time with her and two other girls, in a barn…hay flyin’ everywhere. Damn, I can still remember every last orgasm in that one. Learned a few of my own techniques from it. Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t fooled around with any of her new friends. Might help loosen Harlow up a bit.

  “And we all know Nadia’s down for threesomes. She and Ivy are a good time, but that fuckin’ comedian ain’t half as funny as she likes to think. I mean, who the hell cracks jokes when they’re ridin’ a guy’s face? Just shut up and enjoy it. No need to keep tryin’.

  “Okay, let’s get serious for a second. I know I screw around a lot, but that doesn’t mean if the right girl presented herself I wouldn’t be interested in takin’ things further. Who knows? Court’s up my ass nonstop about gettin’ a girlfriend—some shit about me dampenin’ his pretty lil’ reputation. I call bullshit—I ain’t seein’ him lockin’ no chick down. But because it’s a free vacation and good for charity, which I’m all for, testin’ out this soulmate theory doesn’t sound so bad.

  “I guess if I have one in the house, it’d probably be Jasmine. She really is a sweetheart. Jensen doesn’t deserve her, but someone does, so why can’t that be me? And just imagine all her girlfriends back home…and the parties. Oh yeah, it’s settled. That girl’s my soulmate.

  “Now my brother, Court…he’s more discreet. He’s still gettin’ play here, no doubt, but he’s not one to brag. And honestly, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t gotten much more than his dick sucked. He’s not about fuckin’ a girl unless he’s interested, and there’s only one girl in this house he’d really give the time of day to. Let’s just say…Court has a thing for the sweet ones.

  “Shit, they’re gonna start the game. Gotta go. Later!”

  Chapter 11

  As we get seated in something resembling a circle, Emma plops an empty beer bottle in the middle.

  “Um, Emma? That’s Spin the Bottle,” Rachel taunts. “I thought you wanted to play seven minutes in heaven.”

  “Um, Rachel, you still spin it to see who you go in the closet with. If the stupid could be kept to a minimum? Thanks,” Emma snips back, and I laugh like I’ll die if I don’t. Sassy lil’ thing has come out to play.

  “I’ll go first.” Her eyes twinkle, the tip of her tongue poking out as she spins with all the gusto that could possibly come from her little body.

  It lands on her brother, sitting bow-legged on the arm of the couch. We all do a shot, since they obviously both decline an incestuous visit to the closet. Cruz passes on his turn to spin, muttering something about needing a few more drinks first, so we all take a shot again. This game should be renamed How Many Shots Can You Take in Seven Minutes?

  Not one to be upstaged, Nadia barges in the middle and spins. Of course, it lands on Oakley.

  “No way! I saw you kick the bottle, Rachel,” Callie barks. “Spin it again, Nadia. And play fair, you desperate bitches!” She leaves no room for argument, but Rachel still tries.

  “I didn’t kick anything. Did anyone else see me kick it?”

  Slowly, everyone but Rachel’s, Nadia’s, and Ivy’s hands sneak into the air.

  “Fine, but I didn’t mean to,” Rachel
huffs. “Spin again, Nadia,” she hisses, making a production of tucking her legs under herself.

  This time, the bottle lands on Ivy. My drink’s halfway to my mouth when they both stand and walk to the closet hand in hand, much to the delight of the men—well, some of the men, anyway. Peyton is barely able to contain his aggravation. So much for his classy costar.

  While we wait for their three minutes to pass, Oakley pours shots and starts handing them out.

  “What is this?” My nose burns from the smell.

  “Jägermeister. Good stuff. Slam it, baby.” And he does exactly that.

  “I, uh…think I’ll stick to the flavored vodka. Mixing will make me sick.” If the smell doesn’t first.

  Ivy prances out and goes straight for the bottle, pointing at Cruz when it stops. We don’t have to drink, because he’s up and already headed to the closet behind her.

  Guess he’s had enough to drink.

  “Oakley, honey, you only have to drink if someone declines.” I place a hand on his arm, halting his next shot.

  “Who cares about the game? I’m drinking to drink!” He holds his glass in the air, high fives Wyatt, and downs it. The fact that our dining-room chat may be to blame for his blatant obstinacy isn’t lost on me.

  Emma teases Cruz as he reappears with Ivy close behind, touching her lips with two fingers. Peyton disapproves audibly this time, which I giggle at, while Emma reminds Cruz it’s his turn.

  More often than not crazy and up to chance, life sometimes turns out as predictable as death and taxes. Which is why I’m not even remotely surprised when a pair of dancing blue eyes and the neck of a bottle are both aimed right at me.

  Oakley’s hot, liquored-up breath is in my ear. “Go on, baby—be a good sport and help our cause. Just don’t kiss him.” He helps me up and slaps my butt.

  “After you.” Cruz extends his arm.

  “I’m not kissing you,” I bite under my breath as we walk, out of earshot.

  “Of course you’re not. You’re fucking engaged. If you did, I’d be scandalized.” He opens the closet door, letting me go first. “And disappointed in you.”