Page 49 of Ex Marks the Spot
5. Us
6. Bombshells (Gianna and Alexis)
7. Wise Guys (DeAngelo and Big Mike)
8. Niles (Padma and Bobby)
*Non-elimination leg
The opposite of jet lag must be jet fuel because I’m wide awake while everyone else is zonked on the plane. I blame it on restless legs and incessant thoughts about those last few minutes in the jump pod when I’d braced myself to be nailed in the balls and instead had taken a hit squarein the chest.
It’s worth mentioning that I’ve touched Hartley since the race began—it’s impossible not to given our proximity and requirement to participate in challenges—but those were static-charged micro-zaps compared to the full-blown, fork-in-an-outlet, high-voltage hug she gave me.
I’m assuming the extra layers I wore muffled my pounding heart because she didn’t give any indication she heard or felt it. I certainly did. Still do. Without thinking, I press the heel of my hand to my chest and rub, something I’ve apparently done so much today that Treva asked if I injured myself and whipped out her travel pack of essential oils. I politely declined because there’s no cure for this. Only more aching that, from personal experience, should go away in a few years.
No big deal.
With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes and try to get comfortable. New Zealand was a non-elimination leg so instead of checking in and having a twelve-hour break, Paul gave us our next clue and told us to keep racing. Now we’re on a half-empty flight to Japan, which means Hartley and I got to spread out—she took the window seat and I took the aisle. I guess having full access to both armrests and some much-needed distance from her are a decent tradeoff for feeling like an oversized sardine.
A quiet but firm, “We need to talk,” from Gianna interrupts my thoughts.
“Pretty sure the only thing Ineedis twelve more inches of legroom. Also, I’m sleeping.”
“What a coincidence, that’s exactly what I came to talk to you about.”
“The tragic lack of legroom on airplanes?” I ask, eyes still closed.
Fabric brushes my arm and then I hear the click of a seat belt. “No, you sleeping. More specifically, with whom.”
So much for attempting to relax.
I roll my head to the right and find Gianna in the previously vacant seat across the aisle, elbow on the armrest and chin cupped in her hand. The dark cabin keeps her expression hidden, and her tone doesn’t give any clues as to why she’s asking, so I’m not sure if this is the beginning of a proposition or an inquisition.
Not that it changes my answer either way.
“I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“I didn’t mean currently, but that’s good to know. I’m talking about six years ago.”
Okaaay, this took an unexpected turn. “You want to know about my sex life when I was in college?”
“Before the last leg started, Hartley said you cheated on her and rubbedyour new girlfriend in her face. You don’t strike me as that kind of guy, though, so I wanted to hear your version while the cameras aren’t rolling.”
Every interaction I’ve had with the Bombshells has been genuine...also flirty, but genuine, nonetheless. Gianna asking about this off-camera is further proof I made the right decision when choosing who to form an alliance with.
I release a long breath and run my palms over my thighs. Hartley’s still curled up asleep against the window and I literally have nothing else to do, so why not?
“She’s talking about her art showcase right before her graduation. I didn’t cheat and she was never even supposed to see me that night.”
A loud bang jolts me awake and I whack my shin on the coffee table.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, rubbing my leg with one hand and fumbling around for my phone with the other. I find it sandwiched between the couch cushion and armrest, a blurry 2:49 p.m. staring back at me. That makes what...four hours of sleep?
Fuck.
I’m debating whether to take a piss or close my eyes again when someone knocks on the door. Pounds, actually. With a heavy sigh, I push off the couch and trudge across the living room.
“It’s about time,” a lady says when I open the door.