12. Court
CHAPTER 12
COURT
Day 10—China
Standings after leg 5, China
1. A Team (Mitchell and Kennedy)
2. Old Bay (Haylee and Kadeeja)
3. Alaska Girls (Stephanie and Marcail)
4. Bombshells (Gianna and Alexis)
5. Us
6. Wise Guys (DeAngelo and Big Mike)
7. Kick Asspen (Treva and Boyd)
8. Niles (Padma and Bobby)
H artley enters the hotel lobby a few minutes after I arrive looking about as rested as I feel, which is to say: not very. I thought having a room to myself for a change (more specifically, not being subjected to the intoxicating aroma of her fresh out of the shower) would allow me to relax easier and sleep better.
Turns out, all it did was make me toss and turn while my brain treated me to a slideshow of her wearing that damn bikini. I tried everything—and I mean everything — to fall asleep and failed miserably.
“How was your night?” I ask her around a yawn.
“I got an hour of sleep if I’m lucky.”
“Same.” We have about twenty minutes before it’s time to meet the crew, so I hook a thumb toward the breakfast area. “Caffeine?”
“Absolutely.”
As we enter the dining room, I spot an open table near the wall. “You want to grab that one while I get the coffee?”
She starts for the table, then hesitates. “I can take your backpack. It’ll make it easier with all the people walking around.”
A week ago, I’d have been worried that she was planting a bomb or throwing away my toiletries. But lately, things have been...nice. Enjoyable. I’d even go so far as to classify yesterday as fun.
“Thanks.” I unsling my bag and hand it over. “Two sugars and drenched in cream, right?”
Her brows rise. “How do you remember that?”
“It’s not a complicated order.” More like she’s impossible to forget, but I keep that to myself.
A few minutes later, I deposit our mugs on the table. “Your coffee, madam, and”—I retrieve two bananas from my pocket—“the goldilocks of fruit because oranges are too hard to peel and apples are too hard to chew.”
Hartley breaths out a soft laugh. “The hangover breakfast of champions. I haven’t needed to use that trick in years.”
“Figured if it worked for a hangover, it would help with exhaustion too.”
We drink our coffee and eat our hangover bananas in comfortable silence, except that I can practically hear Hartley thinking. She confirms this a few minutes later when she wraps her hands around her mug and takes a breath.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about before we get mic’ed up.”
“Okay, what’s?—”
“Hey guys!” Padma approaches the table carrying Bobby’s bag while he trails behind on crutches. They’ve been at the back of the pack since he injured his knee in New Zealand, and yesterday’s pedal boating only added to it. No one was surprised when they came in last place at the checkpoint.
The women exchange a hug while I offer a handshake and conciliatory smile to Bobby.
“What’s the word on your knee? ”
“They’re thinking an ACL tear. I’ll meet up with a doctor once we get to our hotel to figure out the plan, but it looks like I won’t need surgery.”
“That’s great news,” Hartley says. “Have they told you where Elimination Island is?”
“Not yet, but they promised sunshine.”
“And a pool,” Padma adds.
Ever the optimist, Hartley says, “There could be worse places to relax and recuperate. We’ll miss you though.”
“Don’t you two get any ideas about joining us,” Bobby says, pointing a finger at Hartley and me in mock sternness. “The only place we want to see you is when you come in first at the finish line.”
“We’ll try our best,” she says, smiling.
“Anyway, we’ll let you get back to your breakfast. Good luck, guys!” Padma says.
After another round of hugs and handshakes, they head for an open table in the center of the dining room.
“So . . . the thing I want to talk to you about.”
“Right.”
“I had a lot of time?—”
“Wait.” I lift my palm, then gesture to a table about ten feet away. “Do you see what I see?”
Hartley cranes her neck. “People eating breakfast?”
“Also that. But more specifically the Wise Guys at the table next to the group of tourists.”
“Okay.”
“Look what DeAngelo is holding.”
Her eyes squint, then bulge. “That’s a cell phone. How does he have a cell phone?”
“No idea.” I scan the room for anyone from the crew but come up empty. I’m just about to go find someone when DeAngelo passes the phone to a woman at the tourist table, who drops it into her purse. “Damn. False alarm.”
Hartley sighs because while Xtreme Quest contestants are prohibited from bringing smart technology of any kind, we’re allowed to borrow phones or computers from people we meet during the race.
“We’ll just have to keep an eye on them,” she says. “And we definitely need to talk to the other teams about the alliance today.”
“Agreed. But back to what you wanted to tell me. What’s up?”
Before she can respond, the alarms on our digital watches go off, signaling that we need to meet up with the crew .
“Really?” she huffs, mashing the off button. “The one time I actually want to have a conversation with you and I get interrupted three times.”
I can’t resist the obvious pun. “Talk about shitty timing.”
She attempts a glower but quickly loses the battle and succumbs to a half smile as we gather our trash and mugs. “It’s a good thing you’re?—”
“Intelligent? Witty? Incredibly handsome?”
Her half smile ratchets into a full grin. “I was going to say, ‘My one hope of winning a million dollars or I’d leave your butt here.’”
“You’d miss my butt too much to leave it here.”
“Maybe I’ll keep your butt and leave the rest of you here.” She hooks her backpack on her shoulder and heads for the exit. I follow while slinging mine on.
“Is that so you can officially say your teammate is a total ass?”
“Pretty sure I already said that a few times at the beginning of the race.”
“And now?” I untwist her strap as I fall into step beside her.
“Eh, I guess you’re tolerable.”
“So what I’m hearing you say is that I don’t need to worry about you murdering me in my sleep anymore?”
Her eyes are bright with mischief when she glances up at me. “Murdering, no. Maiming is still on the table though.”
I snort a laugh. “Good to know.”
Today’s crew is waiting for us outside the main entrance of the hotel. We usually meet about ten minutes before our start time to get everything situated before reading our clue, except I’m not quite ready to go out there yet. I snag Hartley by the arm and pull her off to the side.
“What you wanted to talk about—are you okay? Is it urgent? Because if it is, we can start a couple of minutes late.”
She tips her head to the right as she studies me, the amusement on her face transforming into an expression of pleasant surprise. “I’m fine, and no, it’s nothing that can’t wait until tonight.”
“You sure?”
“I’m having flashbacks from the pool last night,” she quips. “It’s a personal thing, but it’s not urgent.”
I hold her gaze for a moment, then nod. Personal is good. Maybe she wants to share more about her family or what she’s been up to for the last six years. I need to as well, starting with the truth about my “chop shop” job. Just because it’s not where I saw my life going doesn’t mean I need to lie by omission. And if that discussion goes well, maybe it’ll pave the way to staying in contact after the race is over .
“Thanks for checking, though.” After a brief pause, she continues with, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were starting to care about me.” Her tone is playful and sarcastic, but her death grip on her backpack straps says otherwise.
Does she want me to care about her? I mean, I could. It’s not like it would be hard to do. I might even care a little bit already.
“As we recently established, you’re my only chance at winning this race,” I say, tapping her on the nose. “I’m just making sure my teammate won’t be distracted all day.”
“Did you—did you just boop me?”
I lean in, crowding her space and enjoying the hell out of the way her breath catches. “You know the rules, Miss Billings. A gentleman never boops and tells.”
The one thing you can’t prepare for in this race is the waiting.
Case in point: Our start time was 7:42 this morning, but our flight to Nepal doesn’t take off until 12:30 in the afternoon. Hartley and I went from exhausted to energized after reading our first clue to tired all over again while we sat at the airport.
To keep from falling asleep, we decided to lay the groundwork for Operation: Elimination. The Bombshells were our first stop—obviously—and were in before Hartley could finish the first sentence of her pitch. They suggested a divide-and-conquer strategy to keep from being obvious that we’re hatching a plan. They’d talk to the A Team and the Alaska Girls, who should land in Kathmandu about an hour before we do, and we’d talk to Old Bay and Kick Asspen.
According to Hartley, the universe fully supports our plan because of what our clue said this morning.
Fly to Kathmandu, Nepal. When you arrive, make your way to Swayambhunath Stupa to receive your next clue.
This leg features two new elements: a Shortcut and a Repeat .
The Shortcut allows one team to bypass all challenges and proceed directly to the checkpoint.
The Repeat requires one team to complete a challenge twice before receiving their next clue.
“So whoever gets to the Repeat board first will put the Wise Guys up there,” I say to Treva and Boyd.
“But what if they get to the board before any of us do?” Boyd asks.
Hartley gives him a reassuring smile. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
I don’t mean to chuckle out loud, but there’s one thing Boyd doesn’t know. “Hartley’s a master manifester. I still haven’t figured out how she does it, but if she says one of us will get to the board first, you can take that to the bank.”
“Works for me,” Treva says. “The sooner those disrespectful assholes are gone, the better.” As one of the more even-keeled contestants, her rare use of a curse word only emphasizes the group’s disdain for DeAngelo and Big Mike.
“It’d be nice not to hear them whine about the lack of McDonald’s,” Boyd adds.
I nod. “That’s an excellent point. Also, be careful if you discuss the plan with the other teams so the Wise Guys don’t overhear it.”
“What plan? There’s no plan,” Treva says innocently. “We’re all just chatting about how Boyd isn’t a disgrace to his family.”
“Huh?” My gaze darts between the two of them as I attempt to process the abrupt shift in conversation.
“I told you to let it go,” he grumbles to Treva.
“Why would you be a disgrace to your family?” Hartley asks.
He sighs. “It’s what they’ve told me since I graduated college.”
“Is it because—” Hartley looks to me for...I don’t know, moral support maybe? I offer an encouraging smile and she turns her attention back to Boyd. “—you’re gay?” She winces when she says it, like that will soften the sting of her words.
“What? No. They couldn’t care less about that. They’re pissed because I refused to follow in my dad’s oxford-covered footsteps like everyone else in the family. I haven’t talked to them in almost a year.”
“Oh thank god.” Her whole body deflates with relief. “Because I’m not above mailing anonymous glitter bombs when we get back to the real world. ”
For the first time since we sat down with Kick Asspen, Boyd’s lips curve upward at the corners. “I appreciate your creativity and support.”
“I never became an official psychologist, but one thing I know is there’s nothing wrong with cutting toxic people out of your life, even if they’re family. Actually, especially if they’re family because that just exacerbates the toxicity. A family’s love should be unconditional, not transactional.”
Three sets of eyes land on me, but it’s Hartley’s look of pride and awe that catches me off guard. Setting boundaries isn’t revolutionary, and it’s obvious that Boyd made the right decision in doing so. All I did was remind him of that.
Still, it feels damn good to be on the receiving end of that look.
“Court’s right,” Treva says. “And besides, you’ve got us in your corner now.”
“An Xtreme family beats the hell out of a nepotism orgy any day,” Hartley adds.
“Thanks, guys.” Boyd sits up a little taller and relaxes his shoulders, then looks at me. “You’re not bad for an unofficial psychologist.”
“You should add that to your resume,” Hartley teases. “Court Mueller, illegal chop shop manager, substitute teacher, and unofficial psychologist.”
“Illegal chop shop manager?” Treva asks, brows climbing her forehead.
Playfully rolling my eyes at my would-be tattletale, I shake my head and decide to set the record straight. “When we were doing our team interviews back in Dallas, I mentioned that one of my jobs was a COO of a startup in the automotive industry.”
“See?” Hartley grins with amusement as she lifts her palms upward. “That reeks of mafia chop shop.”
“I mean . . . she’s not wrong,” Boyd says to me.
“Except she is, considering I’m not Italian and don’t have a criminal record.”
Hartley shrugs. “Non-Italians can be in the mafia, and maybe you just haven’t been caught yet.”
I breathe out a laugh as my jaw moves to the side. “It should disturb me that you’ve put this much thought into it.”
“Are you some sort of venture capitalist?” Treva asks.
I flip back to my thoughts this morning about sharing personal information with Hartley. I didn’t expect to include Kick Asspen as well, but I guess now’s as good of a time as any.
“More like the opposite. Being a COO of a startup in the automotive industry is just the pretentious way of saying I manage the car wash my best friend owns. It’s a long way from the career I planned on having, but life doesn’t always work out the way we want it to.”
There.
I said it.
And although it wasn’t technically a lie to begin with, I feel better about coming clean. Slightly embarrassed, but better nonetheless. To my surprise, no one bats an eye. In fact, Hartley looks...excited?
“I used to love going to the car wash when I was a kid! I always felt like our car was the canvas and the soap was paint that the giant brushes could spread around.”
Huh. “I never thought of it that way, but I can see that.”
“The car wash was the only thing that calmed my youngest when she was a baby,” Treva says. “For about eight months, I was on a first-name basis with the entire staff and had the cleanest car in town.”
“Now that you mention it, a handful of our regulars are moms with little kids.”
“Umm...while we’re on the subject of jobs and curveballs from life, I wasn’t entirely truthful either,” Hartley says, wrinkling her nose. “I’m a painter, but for houses instead of canvases.”
“As in murals?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “As in, I took over my dad’s house-painting business after his accident because it turns out that being in a wheelchair makes it difficult to climb a ladder.”
“That’s actually really sweet,” Treva says.
“It’s definitely not my thing, but I promised I’d stay and help.”
“So why didn’t you say that in the interview? I mean, I know why I wasn’t forthcoming, but running your dad’s business isn’t anything to be embarrassed about.”
She stares at her hands while she considers my question, finally responding with, “Self-preservation, basically. I figured the less you knew about me, the less ammunition you had during the race.”
I almost laugh at the irony. She thinks I was the one looking for ammunition, but she’s the one who’s had the power to destroy me this whole time.