“Why?” Imogen dared me. “You worried I’ll smear all thepathetic makeupyou two wear? Let me hit him, and I’ll gladly go home. Why wait for the Trial?”
It escaped before I knew it, but I meant every word. “Because I want to see you lose.”
And she did, though it wouldn’t be the last time. I actually think Imogen did eventually forgive me for that night in the Turks. Maybe she convinced herself Mitch’s cancer and Arjun breaking my heart excused it. In the email she wrote me after Season 2, she called her conversation with Arjun at the waterfall her “most cowardly moment.” Barnes insisted we owed her no apology (“Certainly not in writing!”), so instead I had his newly hired assistant send a bouquet of orchids with a card that simply said, “To new beginnings—B&L.” When we arrived for Season 3 a year later, we’d swear the past was forgotten. We’d pretend to forget how she wore Arjun’s jersey as I sent him home; how I cheered when Moon-Lynn defeated her; how Barnes conducted a chorus of waving hands while she left the Arena. The only thing we actually forgot was that we were once inseparable.
“Fuck Camdon,” Imogen groused as Zara handed us helmets for the Trial. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s a gift. We’ll prove we’re the biggest threats here,” I replied, trying to mean it.
“After the boat fiasco yesterday, you think we can?”
Breathing deep, I dared to take her shoulders. “Im, I trust you. No matter what.”
Her brows flared in a brief spasm, but she nodded, heading off to her position.
Not surprisingly, the Trial required collaboration rather than brute strength. Each woman was rigged on cables while her male opponent was beneath, pulling a network of ropes to levitate his partner across the Arena so she could rip down a dozen dangling Virgin Mary statuettes.
I stood by my ropes ignoring Solana, floating in her harness a few feet away. When the horn sounded and I grabbed the first rope, I hadn’t accounted for interference.
Solana descended on me from above like a harpy, incisors bared, nails scratching at my face. I howled as she dug her claws into the gash I’d received from Hartt a few days prior. Meanwhile, Royce yanked Imogen’s calf, preventing her from reaching the highest statuette.
“That’s allowed?” Shawn hounded Zara, who nodded uneasily. It wasn’tnotin the rules.
“Luke, stop being a goddamned gentleman and send Tinkerbitch flying!” Melange yelled.
I roughly pried off Solana and launched her like a pendulum, rushing back to forcefully tug my rope so that Imogen soared free, quickly ripping down four statuettes.
“Luke, left!” Imogen instructed, fire in her eyes. I traded ropes, and as she glided, her shoulder collided squarely into Royce’s nose, foiling his next attempt at accosting her. The whole crowd winced as Royce clutched his face with a whimper, blood gushing.
“It was just gravity,” Imogen stated innocently to Zara after we’d won. “His nose was in the path of my shoulder. I didn’t puthandson anybody. Can you say that about the fingernail marks on Luke’s face?” I hadn’trealized the extent of Solana’s scratches, which looked like someone had tried to murder me by paper cut.
“I guess my face just runs into things,” I joked in our OTF, Imogen proud by my side.
“Are you intending to leave here in one piece?” Troy asked, massaging his temples.
“We’ll be leaving here with $5 million,” Imogen answered for me. “Count on it.”
I’d never been so happy to bleed. Being next to her felt like I’d returned to the ledge of that pool at twenty-two, standing with the girl who swore she’d leap in with me fully clothed. I almost believed she’d never left my side. That I hadn’t driven her away.
Heading to the bus after our interview, Camdon halted us. “You understand, right, Im? Nobody would want to face you twotogetherat the end.”
“Like you’ll get the chance,” she laughed dryly.
He recoiled, contrite veneer instantly gone. “You’ve been riding my coattails since I met you. You only win when you put some guys on a leash to carry you to the end—”
“Hey, no one’s ever carried her anywhere, you sanctimonious piece of shit!” I exploded.
Camdon’s eyes became watery saucers, voice rising an octave. “You can’t judge me for fighting for my parents… and my five brothers… and my twelve cousins… Only the Lord can judge me!” Before he could speak in tongues, I noticed Troy had naturally resumed filming. An unimpressed Imogen signaled we should continue on our crunchy path through the gravel back to the bus, Camdon babbling in our wake, both of us exhausted. And exhilarated.
“What will you tell the kids about your face?” Imogen asked later that night.
“Rogue cat?”
“Not too far off, actually.” We’d nestled in the penthouse’s window seat, a bowl of popcorn between us. Between the time difference and the lingering adrenaline, neither of us could sleep. “We did well,” she said after a moment. “Almost like old times.”
“You mean theoldold times?”
“Yes, Luke, when we competed against the mastodons.”
