3. Hartley
CHAPTER 3
HARTLEY
Day 1—Dallas, Texas
“ C an I speak with you in private?”
One of the female competitors mumbles, “Awkward,” under her breath as I stomp away from the hedgerow. Court wisely follows.
When we’re out of earshot, I spin and narrow my eyes at him. “I’m going to make this crystal clear. If you purposely screw this up for me, I will murder you, dismember your body, and feed it to the starving wildlife of whatever continent we’re on.”
His Adam’s apple bobs once. “That was oddly specific for an impromptu threat.”
“Please. I’ve fantasized your demise for years. I even painted it once. The title was Dying, in Detail . I used melted red wax to represent the blood oozing from the gaping wound on your p?—”
“Very creative,” he says, casually draping his hands over his groin.
“If you like that, you should’ve seen the performance art I did with sausage and a blender. So therapeutic.”
I stifle a laugh when he mimics the sound of a dying accordion. Remembering every inch of that man’s details had been a curse until I realized I could destroy a replica of it any time I wanted. Megan encouraged me to profit off my heartbreak by displaying my collection as A Sadist’s Paradise . I still wonder if I should have.
“Central Tennessee State, you’re up in five for promo photos,” a guy calls from across the turf.
I wave, letting him know we heard him, then turn my attention to Court. “Ground rules: you will not touch me unless it is required to win a challenge, we will not speak unless it is directly related to this race, and if anyone from the show asks you why we broke up, the acceptable answer is, ‘Because I’m a horrible human being.’ Got it?”
He nods. “I want to say one thing, though.”
“Fine.” I look to my right and focus on a team of crew members attaching a massive blue-and-orange Xtreme Quest curtain to a set of trusses.
“Hartley.”
“What?” Are they going to hide something behind that?
Court breathes out a frustrated grunt and takes my chin between his thumb and finger, forcing me to look up at him.
I absolutely do not savor the familiar waft of woodsy cologne, and I refuse to acknowledge the spark that sizzles down my neck and across my chest. “I thought I told you?—”
His blue-green eyes flash with heat. “No touching or speaking unless it’s about the race. And this is.”
“Then let go of me and spit it out.”
He crosses his arms, giving me a front-row seat to a wall of biceps and pecs. Has he been carrying cinderblocks for the last six years?
“This isn’t a game to me. I need to win this race. It’s—” He peers off in the distance, lips pressed thin, and releases a long breath through his nose. When his gaze settles on me again, the heat in his eyes has been replaced with...sadness?
Whatever. I don’t care.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he continues. “I won’t sabotage this for you as long as you don’t sabotage it for me as a method of revenge.”
I cross my arms and match his stance. “You think I’d willingly give up my share of the prize money just to make sure you don’t win either?”
“Would you pay for a chance to get back at me? Possibly. Especially considering you wouldn’t be giving up your own money and you’d get to add more countries to your passport while you’re at it.”
Okay, so he has a point. But still. “I came here to win. Being forced to work with you doesn’t change that. ”
“Good.” He unfurls his arms and extends a hand. “Let’s make a pact. No sabotaging each other.”
I breathe out a harsh laugh. “You might as well put that thing away. Your promises mean nothing to me.”
“Just do what comes natural,” Shanna says from behind her video camera.
I turn to her, eyebrows raised, and smile brightly. “I can knee him in the balls?”
The handful of crew members milling around us chuckle as Court puts another foot of Astroturf between us.
“I like the enthusiasm, but I don’t think the network would go for that. How about a back-to-back shot instead?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Physical contact is a no-go.”
Mack, the photographer, gestures to where Court and I were standing moments ago. “What about repeating that little face-off y’all did with your arms crossed?”
Shanna’s mouth ratchets into a sly grin. “Oh, I like that.”
In the spirit of compromise, but mostly because my other ideas also include violence, I give in. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Shanna and Mack briefly demonstrate their idea and then Court and I take our respective places on the artificial lawn. It takes us a few tries to get the timing down, but we manage to get several clips of us walking toward each other, crossing our arms, then turning our heads toward the camera.
The still photos are another story.
Mack stations us a few feet apart and tells us to cross our arms again. “Now hold it right there.” He steps back and fires off several shots. “Court, you’re perfect. Hartley, I need you to look up.”
I slide my gaze from the letters spanning Court’s chest to the top hem of his T-shirt.
“I meant look in his eyes.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. That’s the last place I want to be looking.
“Good, now a little less murderous please.”
“The quicker you cooperate, the quicker we’ll be done,” Court murmurs.
“Shut up,” I mutter back. Not the most mature or eloquent response, but it’s hard to think straight when he uses his Sexy Voice. Or when I’m required to stare into those beach-glass eyes that have captivated me from day one. There are a few more lines around them now, forged in the years I thought we’d spend together, and isn’t that a punch in the damn gut?
“You’re scowling again.”
“You’re scowling again,” I parrot.
“I’m just trying to help you out.”
“You could drop out,” I simper. “I’m sure they have backup contestants on standby.”
“So you are capable of smiling at me.”
“Only when I’m imagining your demise.”
His brow arches up and his stupid, stupid lips curve into a smirk. “What I’m hearing you say is that you’re fantasizing about me right now?”
“Don’t even start with that.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll?—”
“Okay, I think we got it,” Mack says from a million miles away.
Blinking out of my Court-induced stupor, I realize we’ve uncrossed our arms and we’re now standing toe-to-toe. My face is flushed and my blood is buzzing in ways I’ve long forgotten about.
“I’ve missed that fire,” he rasps, eyes raking over me.
His confession is a blast of ice-cold truth that snaps me back to my senses. “Yeah, well whose fault is that?”
After a five-minute break in which I woosah’ed my heartrate back to a normal level while a crew member outfitted me with a lavalier mic and a battery pack, I plop down in a canvas chair to film the interview they’ll play in the intro of the first episode. Court’s chair is a foot to my right, but at least I don’t have to look at him this time.
A producer named Wendell smiles from his seat beside the camera. “This shouldn’t take long. Just be yourselves and try to answer your questions in full sentences. Hartley, let’s start with you. What’s your current profession?”
“I’m a painter.” I leave out the part about my medium being houses instead of canvases because the less Court knows about my life, the better.
“And what about you, Court?”
After a brief pause, he says, “I’m a substitute teacher.”
“Interesting, because here on your application it says you work at a?—"
“Yes, I’m also a COO for a startup in the automotive industry,” Court says, shifting in his seat .
My quiet snort doesn’t go unnoticed by Wendell. “What do you think about his jobs?”
“I think it sounds like he runs a chop shop and doesn’t want to admit it on television so he’s using the teacher thing as a cover.”
Court rolls his eyes. “It’s a perfectly legitimate company.”
“So are businesses in the mafia,” I say, shrugging.
“At least I don’t rip off my customers. You can’t say the same for yourself.”
“Excuse me? I’ve never ripped off a customer.”
“Then what do you call the twenty-seven dollars and twelve cents you stole from me?”
Oh yeah. I can’t believe I forgot about that. “You purchased something from me. I mailed it. That’s not stealing.”
“I purchased a five-by-seven art print. You sent me a crappy version on regular paper from a cheap home office color printer that needed a new ink cartridge.”
A zing of satisfaction ripples through me. I laughed all the way to the post office that day. “Again I say: You purchased something and I mailed it. It’s not my fault that you don’t understand my art.”
He huffs a laugh and mutters, “You’re ridiculous.”
“No, what’s ridiculous is you having the gall to contact me through my online business in a shitty attempt to assuage your guilt.”
“What made you reach out to Hartley?” Wendell asks Court.
He sighs and rubs the space between his brows. “A couple of years after we broke up, a mutual friend sent me a screenshot from Hartley’s social media. She’d posted some memory thing of a picture of us when we were dating. The caption talked about her biggest regret being the time she wasted with me. I’m not big on social media, so I bought a print from her website and wrote in the note section that I’d like to talk and hoped she was doing well.”
“And I take it you didn’t like that idea?” Wendell asks me.
“I would’ve rather massaged a porcupine than talked to him.”
“I see.” I expect another follow-up question, but instead he flips through his notecards and says, “Let’s move on. This is the first time Xtreme Quest has had a team of exes. How do you feel about it, Hartley?”
That’s easy. “I feel like I can’t wait for it to be three weeks from now so I never have to see him again.”
“Can you tell me about the breakup?”
I have no idea what Court said during his audition, but I’m not sugarcoating anything for his benefit. “The breakup was worse for me than it was for him. I guess it helps to have another woman from back home waiting on the side.”
Wendell glances at Court and lifts his brows.
“There was never another woman.”
“Enough with the lies! I saw you parading her around the gallery during my showcase.” I press a dent in the armrest with my thumbnail. Better that than Court’s eyeball.
“I didn’t cheat,” he says pointedly to Wendell. “The rest of it is...complicated.”
Complicated? Ripping my heart out and then showing up to the biggest night of my college career with another woman on your arm seems straightforward to me.
“Do you feel bad about what happened?” Wendell asks him.
The full weight of Court’s gaze settles on me. Probably because he’s about to admit he has no soul and wants to see my reaction.
“Of course. I hate that she was hurting because of me.”
“ Seriously ?” I seethe, adding another dent in the wood. “You are unbelievable .”
“What makes you say that?” Wendell probes.
I turn and glare at Court. “That’s like saying, ‘I feel bad she got a bruise because I punched her.’ You broke me. You don’t get to feel bad about something you purposely caused.”
His jaw clenches as if he wants to say something—perhaps another explanation for ripping my heart out six years ago—but of course he never does. Instead, he takes a deep breath and focuses on Wendell again.
“Breaking up with Hartley was the right decision, but I don’t see the benefit in rehashing ancient history. I’m sure we’ll manage to be civil throughout the race.”
My armrest has three more dents by the time I’m done rolling my eyes.
“Do you agree?” Wendell asks me.
Hardly, but my desire not to let Court paint me as the scorned ex is greater than my desire to level him with a comeback. “Court’s right. I came to Xtreme Quest ready to work with anyone. The fact that it’s him has no bearing on my strategy to win. I hope the other teams are ready for the fight of their lives.” I’m careful to say all of this with my best millions-of-people-are-going-to-see-my-resolve face.
“Let’s talk about that,” Wendell says. “What made you want to audition for Xtreme Quest?”
“I’ve wanted to travel the world since I was a kid, but never got the chance. I can’t think of a better opportunity than combining my biggest dream and my favorite show.” This time my smile is genuine.
Court, however, looks like he just got punched in the gut.
“What do you mean you never got a chance to see the world? You went to Italy after college,” he says, his voice strained.
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“Then where’d you go?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but home, Courtney. I had to go home.”