Page 1 of Ex Marks the Spot

CHAPTER 1

HARTLEY

Day 1—Dallas, Texas

There’s an eighty-four percent chance I’m going to murder Courtland Mueller in the next twenty-one days.

For starters, he’s ruining the first thing I’ve done for myself in half a decade. And secondly, he was supposed to turn into an ogre after college. How dare he barge onto my favorite TV show with his annoyingly perfect hair and magazine-cover body looking like the new-and-improved version of the man who tossed my heart into a meat grinder six years ago.

Theaudacity.

And the worst part is, my only shot at winning a million dollars rests in his hands. Scratch that. The worst part is being required to stay within twenty feet of him for the next three weeks while trying to win a million dollars. Screw him for auditioning, and screw the jerk in casting who paired us up. I’m sending a strongly worded email to that department as soon as I’m allowed to have my phone again.

What do I hate most about Court? The obvious answer would be him dumping me with an explanation that reeked of bullshit, though I suspect it had something to do with the bachelor party he’d attended that weekend. But it turns out our breakup was the product of a larger problem: Court Mueller is the lyingest liar who ever existed.

At least I’d gotten some good artwork out of it.

I’d ended up ditching everything I’d prepared for my senior capstone and submitting a new series calledThe Evolution of a Liethat I’d created in a weeklong breakup-induced state of mania.

Seven pieces of varying mediums—charcoal, pastels, acrylic paints, even a watercolor done with wine—to represent each month of our relationship, with the final piece being a blank canvas because I was so emotionally spent that I’d had nothing left to give.

Until Gallery Night anyway.

An hour into my capstone exhibition, I watched Court walk through the packed gallery with a woman hanging on his arm as if he wanted as many witnesses to my humiliation as possible.

The.

Freaking.

Audacity.

Red (and crimson...and scarlet) clouded my vision and my fist begged for a meeting with his face. Instead, I punched a hole in the center of the blank canvas at the end of my series. Naturally, every head snapped in my direction, so I smiled, took a bow, and thanked the guests for attending my performance ofThe Evolution of a Lie, then spun on my heel and left the gallery.

That was the last time I saw Court.

“Miss? Is everything okay?”

The taxi driver’s voice brings me out of my thoughts, and I realize I’m shooting daggers out the window at the man in the matching Central Tennessee State College shirt. He’s standing beside a row of hedges with a few other contestants, laughing at something one of them said. My stomach clenches at the sight of his smile.

“Sorry, I’ve just never seen a statue of an eyeball before.” I grab my backpack and slide out of the taxi into the heart of downtown Dallas, Texas. “Thanks for the lift,” I add before stepping aside so a member of the crew can pay the driver.

Along with no cell phones, contestants on Xtreme Quest aren’t allowed to bring cash from home, credit cards, cameras, or smart watches. Everything we are allowed to bring must fit into a backpack that we’ll carry while we’re competing.

This season features eleven teams of two people who graduated from the same college. To make it easier on the crew and viewers at home, the show sent us shirts from our alma matter to wear on the first leg of the race. Someteams already knew each other and auditioned together, and the rest, like me, auditioned by ourselves knowing we’d be partnered with a fellow alum.

If only I’d had a crystal ball.

But at least I have one thing on my side right now—Court hasn’t seen me yet. That means he didn’t witness my moment of panic when I discovered who my partner would be, and more importantly, that means I’ll get to witness his.

Petty? Yes.

Satisfying? Also, yes.

A woman with an iPad and an earpiece greets me on the sidewalk. “Welcome to Xtreme Quest. I’m Fiona.”

“Thanks. I’m Hartley Billings.” My mouth forms its first smile since arriving at the Giant Eyeball, a thirty-foot-tall sculpture plopped at one end of an Astroturf lawn the size of a city block, its massive blue iris staring back at me. I haven’t done much with sculpting, but maybe it’s worth exploring. I could gather junkyard treasures that remind me of Court and shape them into an enormous pile of poop. Working title:The Shit He Says.

For now, I focus on what Fiona is explaining.

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