Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(37)

Forty minutes after the evening had begun, Team Quizzitch fell apart for getting the month Russians celebrated the October Revolution wrong (the answer was November), leaving us and the Sherlock Holmesgirls to go head-to-head.

“Things are heating up over here.” Dr. Italian Stud rubbed his palms together excitedly, speaking too close to the microphone onstage. He had enough hair wax to sculpt a life-size statue of LeBron James and teeth as big and white as piano keys. It didn’t help that he had the whole ripped-jeans-and-tacky-branded-designer-shirt look going on, his top clinging to a body that had seen more steroids than an ICU unit. I was still surprised he was literate enough to read the questions. “Holmesgirls, who do you think is going to win?” He turned to Arya, who sat all the way across the room.

She tucked flyaways of her chestnut hair behind her ears, and again, I found myself ogling. “We’ll win, no question about it.”

“What about you guys?” Dr. Stud forced himself to rip his gaze from Arya. Arsène shot him a pitying look.

“I’m not even going to grace that with an answer.”

By the look on Dr. Italian Stud’s face, I could tell his heart was firmly with the Holmesgirls, and so were other parts.

“All right, someone here is competitive. We’re entering the final round. Remember—one strike and you’re out. This is the money time. Or to be exact, the Denny’s voucher time! One hundred bucks, y’all!”

“I can hardly contain my excitement.” Arsène took a pull of his beer, his voice paper dry.

“What’s Joe Biden’s middle name? Holmesgirls, this goes to you and will pass to the STDs if you can’t answer the question.”

The women huddled with their heads touching, whispering, before Arya straightened her spine and said, “Robinette. Final answer.”

“You’re correct. Huh. Didn’t know that.” Dr. Italian Stud scratched his stiff hair. I doubted he knew what continent he was on, so that didn’t surprise me. He turned to us. The room was still crowded, brimming with people who wanted to see which group was going to hit the jackpot.

“Next question goes to the STDs—how fast does the earth spin?”

“One thousand miles per hour.” Arsène yawned.

“Holmesgirls—what did the Romans use as mouthwash?”

“Urine!” Jillian called out, practically leaping from her seat, the cocktails on her table sloshing over. “They used urine. Which is super kinky, but who are we to judge?”

“Correct! STDs, what was the ice cream cone invented for?”

“Holding flowers,” I said without missing a beat.

Dr. Stud whistled. “Dang, I’m finding out all kinds of interesting things tonight! It almost makes me want to open a book.” He turned toward our rival team. “Okay, Holmesgirls—what can’t a cheetah do that a tiger and a puma can?”

Arya opened her mouth instinctively to answer, but the words didn’t come out. She frowned, taken aback by the idea of not knowing something.

“Cat got your tongue?” I arched a brow, scanning her in amusement.

She turned to Jillian. They whispered back and forth. I sat back, folding my arms over my chest. Arya Roth out of sorts was my favorite view in the world. More than the sunrise, probably.

“I’m guessing you’ll want to take that one when they pass it to us.” Arsène was selling stock on an app on his phone as he spoke.

“Hey!” Dr. Italian Stud shrieked. “You’re not supposed to use your phone! You’re cheating.”

“You’re not supposed to be hosting a knowledge-based game. You’re a dumbass,” Arsène retorted, not taking his eyes off his screen. “Yet here we are.”

But Riggs snatched the phone from our friend, tilting it toward Dr. Italian Stud so he knew Arsène was selling stock, not googling anything.

Arya scratched her cheek, and my dick twitched in my slacks. I would never touch her again with a ten-foot pole—I’d learned from my first and last mistake with her—but it was tempting to make her scream my new name and deny her an orgasm or two.

“Holmesgirls?” Dr. Italian Stud probed, checking the time on his phone. “The clock’s ticking. Ten more seconds before I pass it to STDs.”

“One moment,” Arya snapped, turning her gaze back to Jillian and the other women. For a second, I saw the old Arya. The scraped-kneed girl who would growl in protest when we did laps in her pool and I’d start a nanosecond before her. She would splash me, then proceed to talk me into a dozen more competitions—who could hold their breath underwater the longest, who could cannonball farther into the pool—until she won something. We were both fiercely stubborn. That hadn’t changed. What had changed was my willingness to pacify her. To give up something just for the pleasure of seeing her smile.

Arya’s ears turned a nice shade of scarlet. Our eyes met. Something passed between us. A faint recognition.

“Four . . . three . . . two . . .” Dr. Italian Stud counted back the seconds.

“Swim!” Arya cried out. The word stabbed me in the gut. I’d just been thinking about our pool time together. “Maybe a cheetah can’t swim? And a tiger and a puma can?”

“Your answer is incorrect.” Dr. Stud made an exaggerated sad face, shifting toward us in his seat. “I’m passing this to the STDs. If you get this answer right, you win.”