THERE’S NO TIME TO CONTEMPLATE WHAT CHARLIE AND HIS TEAM are up to. I head to the bedroom, grab my tote, and dig around for the flint.
“Nice room,” muses Bacon Bit II as he admires the view.
“I’ve got the flint.” I hold it up for my team to behold.
“Give it to me,” Mrs. Mustache says, grabbing it and tucking it into the opening of the conch shell that is now under her arm. “Rip the next one!” she screams with impressive spirit.
“Right.” I rip off the next piece of tape and immediately understand. A romance novel, it reads. Charlie swiped one of my books to try to beat me. And it means they are ahead of us. I grab another of my novels and tear off the tape covering the fourth item, the next to last one on the list. We’ve got to make up time. And fast.
“Chocolate hearts. Where are we supposed to find chocolate hearts?”
“I know this one!” Bacon Bit II takes off and we follow, fumbling behind him down six flights of stairs. By the time Mrs. Mustache reaches the ground floor, he’s nowhere in sight. I think to call after him, but I don’t know his actual name. It seems the rest of the team is having the same problem, as they look around, uncertain.
“Where’d he go?” CrossFit Girl asks.
“Where was that speed during the water balloon game?” adds Mrs. Mustache.
Before I can answer, Team Good Hair tears around the corner of the building, running by us with barely any acknowledgment. It happens so fast I can’t determine if they are holding chocolate hearts, but I do make eye contact with Charlie, who has his mouth open wide, tongue pressed fully out, and bent down to his chin in a taunt. It’s the last thing I see before they disappear around the opposite corner.
I CANNOT LOSE TO HIM. I CANNOT!
I’m about to suggest we split up to look for Bacon Bit II when—
“There he is!” CrossFit Girl yells, pointing. I follow her finger to find Bacon Bit II has returned, a bag of heart-shaped chocolates wrapped in red foil in hand.
“Where’d you find those?” I ask.
“Gift shop. My boyfriend browsed there yesterday for over an hour.” He pulls a small package from his cargo shorts pocket. “Got this too,” he says, holding up a small “survival” kit, though from the looks of it, it’s more touristy gimmick than actual disaster-readiness. “It was the last one. It’s got flint in it.” He shrugs. “Figured it may be the only flint the other team could find.”
“Smart,” Mrs. Mustache says. “They got us to buy things from the gift shop.”
“What’s the last item?” CrossFit Girl snaps, tiny red veins like cracks in her bulging eyeballs.
I pull the tape. “Rum punch,” she reads over my shoulder.
“That’s not a good one for a romance list. Rum punch sex can get a little sloppy,” Mrs. Mustache muses.
“Follow me,” I say. I’ve definitely got this one. I lead my team back to the resort’s beach side and over to the open-air restaurant, which is packed full of vacationers taking full advantage of their all-inclusive packages.
We find Andres standing next to the maȋtre d’, the same one who seated Charlie and me for dinner on our first night, now holding a tray with four glasses of punch. I grab a drink and take a swig, so grateful to have completed the second game that I don’t feel a revolt in my stomach from the reintroduction of rum punch.
“Congrats to our winners!” Andres announces, and we all squeal and hug one another in delight. I was certain we’d lost. CrossFit Girl is so excited she shakes her glass above our heads, dousing us all in sticky punch, before throwing it at the brick wall. We all watch as it shatters into shards in the sand.
“I’ll pay for that,” she says to Andres with a grin, then squats to pick up the pieces.
As we catch our breath, I see Charlie and his team round the corner, running desperately toward the restaurant. Before they can spot us, I usher my team to the side of the building, along a line of feathery bushes, and listen as Team Good Hair arrives on the mat and the maȋtre d’ offers them a fresh tray of rum punch. I have to stifle my laugh when they cheer, clinking glasses and patting one another’s shoulders.
Mrs. Mustache takes a step forward, but I stop her. “Not yet,” I whisper, and she smiles and nods, a look upon her face that’s just as devious as I feel. Andres has not pronounced them winners, yet they are war whooping as if they have indeed won since we are nowhere to be seen. Finally, as they finish their punch and start joking about how we must have gotten really tripped up, I lead my team out. We round the building, slow-clapping as we do. All of us except CrossFit Girl have our empty glasses tucked under our arms, specifically to show them we’ve been here awhile.
As we approach, I look only at Charlie, the mischievous smile wiped from his smug face.
“Team Kick ’Em in the Nuts are the winners!” Andres proclaims, raising my arm in the air as if I’ve just won the heavyweight belt. “Oh, this is so good!” he continues, swaying his hips to the beat projecting from the boom box that never seems to leave his side. It’s Taylor Swift’s “Look What You Made Me Do” that plays, and I can’t think of a more apropos soundtrack. “I was hoping we’d make it to game three, and indeed we have!” He rubs his hands together excitedly. “Please, everyone. Follow me to learn what the next game will be. The one that will determine our final winners!”
Still grinning, Andres leads us across the beach toward the front of the resort.
“Having fun?” Charlie asks, bumping his shoulder into mine as we walk.
“Fun? No, this is a special kind of hell,” I tell him. I can’t admit that I am, in fact, having fun. I’ll only be able to admit it when my team wins.
“I’ve been thinking. Perhaps a message to Zane is too unfair. Maybe we should renegotiate terms for tomorrow.” He’s stepped ahead and is now trotting backward to face me.
“Oh, are you scared now?”
“Not scared, just trying to do you a favor.”
“I don’t need a favor.” I rub my shoulder and wince. “What I think I need is a back rub after all this exertion. Or maybe six. Tomorrow. When you’re my servant. And in case you’ve forgotten, we just won the last game.”
Charlie shakes his head, his dimple pressed deep into his cheek from the upturn of his mouth, his pale blue eyes glinting in the sun, before turning and jogging to catch up with the rest of his team, placing his arm around CrossFit Guy’s shoulder when he reaches them.
Andres’s destination is the resort pool, a massive rectangle, the size of at least seven backyard LA pools laid together. Several people are sunbathing around it, virtually all of the lounge chairs full, most of those vacationers’ attention now fixed on our group.
“This is where the final competition will be held. The one that will determine the ultimate Turquoise Point Resort Games winners!” Andres says, his arms outstretched toward the water. Additional resort staff ask those in the pool to exit for our “event,” which only adds to the onlookers’ intrigue. Our audience is now several dozen people. “And to make it worthwhile,” Andres says, “I have a little surprise.”
He steps behind a palm tree and picks up a crate the size of a shoebox.
“What’s in the box?” Bacon Bit II whispers behind me, adding an ominous air to the spectacle.
“This, my friends, goes to the winning team.” He pulls the lid open and tips the crate toward us so we can see its contents.
There are oohs and aahs all around me. As I stare at the crate’s shiny load, all I can seem to picture is Charlie and me duking it out to the bitter end in this pool until one of us drowns.