I look at Tango and furrow my brows, mouthing, “What did she just say?”
He laughs a little. “She said, ‘shame on you.’”
“Well,” I purse my lips. “You are kind of a bad boy, teasing me like that last night.”
The hose unclips under his hand and the gas cap falls from his other hand and bounces to the ground. He stumbles one foot backwards when he realizes he lost control of everything in his hands. Guess I have quite the effect on him. Good to know.
“Hey.” He nods his head and sighs. “Get back in the truck.” He grabs my ass and squeezes, making me yelp. As I slide into my seat, I see the old lady slap her hand over her mouth, apparently disgusted with our behavior.
When Tango finishes pumping the gas, he climbs back into the truck and places his hand down over the shifter. “Cali, I have something important to tell you.”
“What’s the matter?” I ask. What else is there left to say?
He looks at me grimly and it makes me worry. “I’m sorry but—“ he sighs again, totally dragging this out. “Holy shit. Cali . . . you have a nice ass.”
I slap him. “Bastard. You scared me.” After steadying my racing heart, I ask, “Wait . . . does this mean the ‘no touching’ rule is gone?”
“You’re the one who made that rule in the first place,” he reminds me. “Plus, I think we kind of broke through that rule yesterday, a couple of times,” he laughs. I love his laugh.
“Hmm, very true. I also made the fattening food rule,” I add. “We’ve kept our word on that one at least.”
His hand moves from the shifter over to my leg, and then he continues moving it slowly up my thigh, high enough to where his little finger sweeps against my most sensitive area, causing warmth to gush through me. “The ‘no touching’ rule. Should we reinstate it or—“ he asks, pressing his finger into me a little harder, making me want to beg for more. “Get rid of it?”
“What rule?” I mutter. “I don’t remember a rule about no touching?”
A game winning smile pulls at his lips and he replaces his hand over the shifter. “Good,” he says, pulling out of the gas station, leaving me ravenous for his hands to find their way back up my thigh.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CALI
I HOPE HE HAS a plan. This place is monstrous—canyons for miles. It’s all I can see. Dad could be in any crater, nook or under any rock for all I know. I hate to even think where he’s getting his source of food from, or where we’re going to acquire ours from.
“We have nothing to camp with. Are we just going to wing it?” I ask, knowing I sound a bit apprehensive about surviving in the wilderness for an indefinite amount of time.
He ignores my question and unlatches the top cover from the bed of the truck. “I slept in the sands of Iraq and Afghanistan with explosions in the wind for about eighteen months each time. We’ll be fine.” He pulls two large packs out and sets them both on the ground in front of me. “Take whatever contents you might need from your personal bag and evenly distribute them in this.” He leans over and sets my pack upright, lifting it as if it weighed less than a pound. He rips the zipper open and pulls the seams apart. “Go ahead.”
I don’t have much in my personal bag as it is, which is good since there’s not much room in the pack he gave me. I pull a change of clothes out, my cosmetics bag, my pills and running shoes.
I toss my personal bag back into the truck and turn back to see him prepping my pack with something else. “What’s that?”
“Camelbak. Water. You really haven’t been camping before?”
“Not really. My dad wasn’t around, and the only outdoors Mom enjoyed was the beach.”
He walks over to where I’m standing and kneels down in front of me. I look down at him and give him a cutting look, feeling foolish as he unties the laces of my boots and yanks the top cross as tightly as possible. He pulls the loose lace until there’s enough slack left to tie around my ankle twice. My circulation feels borderline cut off, but I assume he knows what he’s doing. He moves over to the next boot and does the same thing. “You need to support your ankles when hiking through here. There’s no time to twist or sprain anything.”
He moves back over to his pack and retrieves a few more items. He returns to me with a holster and a handgun. “Wildlife, and maybe assholes.”
“Hmm. You better watch yourself then,” I say, inspecting the pistol.
He narrows his eyes at me, and takes my hand into his. “Carolina Tate. You might have scared a lot of people off during the course of your life, but being scared of you is like being afraid of a spider weaving a web. No one likes a nasty spider, but the web it builds can turn out to be one of the most spectacular wonders of the world. And like the spider, I know you are capable of much more than terrorizing people.” I think it’s funny or ironic that I was scared about getting tangled up in his web, and now he’s calling me a spider. Seems like another case of fate.
I’m not sure he was expecting me to say anything, and I’m not sure how to respond. He continues organizing his pack and finally pulls it over his shoulders. I follow his lead and lift mine from the ground. Uh? This thing weighs like eighty pounds. I can see him trying not to laugh at my struggle as he walks over to me, carrying his pack as if it weighs no more than an empty bag. He pulls the straps from the side of my pack and clips them over the top of my chest, and then another set around my waist. He tightens them and I feel the weight distribute more evenly over my hips. I guess this isn’t as bad now. I readjust my posture and stretch my neck to each side. “I guess I’m ready.”
“You’ll get used to it. I promise,” he says.
Yeah. Before or after I croak?
Each step through the rocky terrain stretches the muscles in the back of my calves, and it feels good after sitting in the truck for so long. Although, the sun’s heat is another story. Thankfully, it’s later in the afternoon, and I can see the glare dipping beneath some of the higher canyons, eliminating part of the direct blaze. I imagine it must be brutal here in the mornings—something to look forward to tomorrow, I assume. I push forward, keeping up with his pace, careful not to appear as the weak link. Although, we both know he’s been trained for this, and I have not.
We find an arched cave-like boulder blocking a bit of sun. Tango drops his pack to the ground and tugs at the waterspout on his Camelbak. “You need to drink more than what you’ve been drinking,” he says, breathing heavily.
He crouches down into a dip against the wall and pours some of his water over his head. “God damn, it’s hot.” So. Are. You. I have to stop myself from biting on my lip. I look eager and hungry. Which I am, but still. “You sure you’re all right? You’re a little flushed,” he says. As he’s clearly worrying about me, he pulls out an inhaler. I’m not sure why I keep forgetting where this is all leading. He’s sick. He’s dying. And I’m starting to have real feelings for him.
“Are you in pain?” I ask.
“It’s getting worse, yeah.” He sucks in the medication, puffing his chest out and holding it briefly. He purses his lips and slowly blows the remaining medication back out of his mouth. “It feels like there’s a fire burning in my lungs,” he sighs. He presses the heel of his palm into the center of his chest as I’ve seen him do a few times and rubs it in a circular motion before releasing a dry painful sounding cough.
I wrap my tired arms around him and place my head against his chest, listening to his struggle. I can’t understand his pain, and I can’t feel it, but I can hear it. It sounds like someone trying to suck a lot of air through a little straw. I don’t know how he’s going to survive this hike. “Why don’t we sit down for a few minutes so you can catch your breath,” I suggest
“I’m good,” he lets out a wheezy laugh. “You’re the one who looks like hell.” His sarcasm might just be my favorite thing about him.
“Gee, thanks. I’m really fine, though.”
I’m dying. So fucking hot. I peel a layer off, noticing his e
yes watching my every move as I pull my shirt over my head and drop my pants to my ankles, revealing my last layer: running shorts and a tight black tank top. When I pull my shirt off over my head, he stands up and walks over to me. He places the tip of his finger gently down over the curved line of the tattoo on my shoulder, and I flinch away from his touch. My skin is sensitive in that area, still painful most of the time. “Sorry.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing for being in pain.
“Don’t be. Does it hurt when I touch it?” I nod my head and lean down to shove my shirt and pants into my bag. “I’m sorry they couldn’t remove the bullet,” he says.
“It’s fine.” Not really, but I hate talking about this damn scar.
“Does this tattoo really mean death?”
It’s as if showing him the entire tattoo unveiled another dimension of my persona. “Yes.” That, I have no problem talking about. “What does that mean?” I ask, pointing to one of his tattoos poking out on his neck above the back of his shirt. It depicts a skull within a spade stretched across a playing card. I tug on the bottom of his shirt and lift it up to see. I find four more of the exact same tattoo—five skulls on spades.
I release his shirt as he turns around and glances up at me with a dark look in his eyes. His pupils dilate as he appears to stare right through me. His voice sounds robotic when the word death escapes his mouth. His tattoo means death as well. We’re so alike in so many different ways.
Acknowledging that this conversation clearly just hit a wall, I lift my pack and throw it back over my shoulders. “Ready?”
The eagerness in his eyes agrees with my thoughts. “Yeah, let’s go.”
The burning rays are becoming weaker and the heat isn’t permeating my pale flesh as much. I glance down at my freckled arms, and I notice the subtle pink glow I had a couple of hours ago has turned into lobster red. I slathered on sunscreen before we left, but it seems ineffective here.
The path we’ve been on seems to be spiraling us up toward the peak of a high canyon and it feels endless. “Have you checked that tracking information against a map recently? I think we’re walking in circles,” I say breathlessly.
“We are. We need to find a place to camp tonight, but I’d like to climb a little higher before we stop.”
I’m not cut out for this shit.
***
The peak appears to be getting closer, but my legs are becoming stiff and numb. Tango reaches his hand back to me, and I don’t hesitate before grabbing a hold of it. His hand is covered in red dirt—it’s hot and strong. Putting aside the sensation I feel every time this man touches me, I remind myself this isn’t for romance. This is to survive the rest of this hike. Although, I should probably be the one pulling him up. His lungs hate him, and I don’t know where his stamina is coming from.
***
The view forgives all pain and sweat. The sun’s glare is now teasing the plateau of canyons on the horizon. The glow of the red clay meshes with the yellow hue of the fire in the sky, creating the most exquisite sunset I’ve ever seen. I can understand why some people would hike up just for this view. It’s unfortunate I hiked up in hopes of finding the man who put me on this earth, and in turn saving the man I don’t want to leave this earth.
No one else is up here right now. It’s just us. We’re alone, staring down at the world beneath. My eyes couldn’t possibly focus on every detail below me, but I could spend every second of my life trying. I miss the times where I would have tried to paint this scene. I would have tried to study the shadow in each pit and nook on every canyon below me and the hues of each grain of dirt. I’ve been taught to take a closer look. To always notice every detail. And I do. Every. Single. Detail. Ugly or beautiful, I see it all.
I shove my hands into my back pockets and suck in the freshest air I’ve ever breathed. I hear Tango’s pack drop to the ground behind me, and I turn around to find a tent already pitched. He’s inside and the dimming sunlight is illuminating his shadow, along with every arch and bend of his perfect body. I force myself to turn back around and I find a rock to perch on. I pull my knees into my chest and wrap my arms tightly around them. My focus drifts up into the large gingered sky, staring through the forever, wondering if Mom and Krissy are looking back at me.
Tango’s shadow hovers over me and he sits down on the rock beside me. “I think my buddies are up there staring back at me too.”
I look over at him, wondering how he knew what I was thinking, but maybe it’s how everyone thinks when they lose someone close.
“How many friends did you lose over there?” I might be stepping on unchartered territory, but it’s just us up here and my question is just one of an endless list.
“Which tour?” he asks. My face responds to his question. Probably the same look he gets when he tells anyone this. “The first tour, we lost five guys. I was pretty close with one of them. The second tour, we lost one. He was a good guy. We weren’t too close, but we were all closer than just friends. I was actually the one who had to greet his parents when we arrived home. The third tour was the worst, though. We lost twelve men. Three of them were part of my company, and we were closer than any people could be without being related by blood. Camaraderie and friendship is a given when you don’t know when you’re going to take your last breath.”
I sadly understand way more than I should. I didn’t volunteer to protect my country. I didn’t even volunteer to protect my friends and family. I was forced to. He’s a better person than I am. He’s worked for the greater good. I have not.
“You hungry?” he asks, nudging his shoulder into my side.
“Yes, starved.” We haven’t eaten all day, and I haven’t asked since I was figuring we’d be hunting our food down tonight. If that is his idea, I might go on an eating fast. He turns around and digs through his pack for a minute before he pops back up and tosses me a green air suctioned bag with the letters MRE written across the front. “What is it? Not that I’m complaining, obviously.”
He takes it back out of my hand and studies the back of the package. “This one is chicken and rice.” He lifts up his other hand with another green package and reads the contents on that one as well. “And this one is beefsteak.” He hands them both to me. “Choose which one you’d prefer. They’re meals ready to eat, MRE’s. I lived off these things when I was overseas.”
“I’ll have the chicken and rice.” He drops the bag back on my lap and I inspect it, looking for a way to open it. He hands me a knife.
“Can I trust you with this?” His brows arch, and I’m almost waiting for him to crack a smile, but I’m also thinking I seriously pissed him off with my knife threat the other day. I wasn’t going to do anything to him—just trying to make a point, but he might not know that.
“I wasn’t really going to hurt you the other night.” I curl my fingers around the bottom of the knife and carefully take it from his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“I understand. It’s an automatic response to someone invading your space.” He sits down next to me and stretches his legs out in front of him. “I know a little something about that. I have pretty bad post-traumatic-stress syndrome, and since I’m supposedly dead, no one can really help me. I can’t talk to anyone about what’s in my head, and I can’t escape my own mind—not even for a second.”
I keep my focus on his eyes, watching his gaze become lost in the caverns over the horizon. I try to extract information from people’s minds and he’s trying to extract memories out of his own mind. Maybe there’s a reason we did find each other. “You can talk to me,” I say.
I flip open the knife and drag its blade against the coarse plastic. The pouch opens and I expect a scent to pour out, but all I smell is more plastic. I flip the knife shut and hand it over to him, but he’s already slicing his bag open with another knife. I peek inside, trying to figure out what I’m looking at since this meal looks like it should come with instructions. So I pour the contents onto my lap and place all of the items in front of me—lots
of thick brown bags with black text written across each, an empty bag and a small bag filled with condiments.
“Put those two into the clear bag and add water. The bag will heat it up. Season to perfection, and eat when it’s hot. Top it off with a little pound cake, and you’ll think you’re eating at a five-star restaurant.” His smile is playful, and his excitement to eat this crap is a little baffling, but I’ll go with it.
After preparing my meal for a few minutes, I shove the plastic fork into the bag and pull out a mouthful. When the food douses my tongue, I realize I didn’t add the seasoning. The corners of my lips pull down, but I try to force them back up. He brought food, regardless of its less than desirable taste.
He laughs through his nose and hands me the salt and pepper. “Want mine too?”
I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to eat this food without seasoning. I’ll deal with the one packet of each. “No, thank you. I’m sure you need it.”
“You learn to forget about seasonings when you’re under fire. You eat to survive, not to taste.”
“It’s fine. Thank you.” I don’t want to look like a bigger weakling than I already do.
After I added the salt and pepper, it was manageable. I’ve had about ten bites and my stomach has stopped rumbling, so I think I should be good now. I place the fork down on my lap and down some water. “No. You need to finish that. Five thousand calories will keep you going through this trek. Plus, it’s another rule you made. Nothing but fattening foods. Right?” he asks, emphatically pointing his fork at me while he talks. “Not to scare you, but we haven’t endured anything yet. Tomorrow’s going to be harder.” He empties the remaining contents from his bag into his mouth and then crumples the bag up into his hand. “We just need some sleep and food, and we’ll be fine. We should be able to reach him by nightfall tomorrow.” If tomorrow is going to be harder and he had trouble today, I’m worried about what his health is going to do.
TAG Page 15
