by Lia Riley
Her features are gentle, no sign of sharp cheekbones, and her chin ends in a small heart-shape point that appears whittled to a softer edge. Only her eyes and brows belie the easy, cute, bordering-on-adorable topography of her face. Together they give an impression of boldness, having a keener edge, being quick to assess a situation or form an opinion.
“The ‘Three Bears’ is from Britain, written by the poet Robert Southey.”
Her brow knits. “How do you know that?”
“Surprised you don’t.” I stretch, feigning relaxation. It’s hard to resist a smile when smoke is practically visible coming out of her ears.
This back-and-forth teasing is uncharted territory. Girls normally approach me, and if I’m free enough, between trips, I take them up on an uncomplicated fuck. Physically, they get off. That’s simple enough. Years of placing careful handholds has its advantages off the mountain. But I’m not made for the give-and-takes that relationships require. My moods trend darker. Laughter doesn’t come to me easily.
Cameron was different, more jovial than the average climber. Mum says he’s “a lover, not a fighter.” He fell for half a dozen girls before Amelia snapped him up. I’m not sure why I’ve always held back. I’ve never been at ease with myself; I’m restless, hungry for the next adventure. I’m too bloody selfish, hoarding my passion, myself, keeping everything for climbing.
I don’t have anything left over.
I don’t want anything left over.
She arches a brow. “Don’t mess with me, buster.” My pulse increases because that’s exactly what I do want. And that inclination will make everything messy. Chaos is treacherous and unpredictable.
What I need is a return to order, to routine. The sooner Auden is out of the valley, the better. I turn my attention to rinsing the porridge pot, and then go to the tent to help her pack, even as she protests, “Hey, I’m more than able to do that.”
“Watch and learn.” I set up her backpack. “It’s about how you balance the weight inside, ken? Last night you had things placed all wrong. Don’t make it harder to carry than it needs to be.”
“Fine.” She crouches beside me, unzipping her vest. She still hasn’t put her bra back on, and her breasts are full, round, large enough that it would be a challenge to span them, even with splayed fingers, but I’d be willing to give it a good long try.
“Thank you,” she says after I finish. “Seriously, I appreciate the quick lesson. I’ve never hiked on my own before.”
“Got to say, Patagonia is one hell of a place to start.” I bunch my hand into a fist, gouge the knuckle against the ground, but the grating pain does little to quell the tantalizing promise of a moment ago. I hate to see her leave, and that means she needs to disappear as soon as possible. Before the wall inside me begins to give way.
“Go big or go home, right?” She flips her long plait over her shoulder and fiddles with the end while avoiding my eyes.
If she doesn’t want to talk, I don’t have a right to press. She makes me curious, and curiosity distracts. Remember the return to order. Better I focus on the climb ahead, the one that’s going to suck every last ounce of my reserve strength. “You have your inhalers?”
“Yes, Mom.” She pats her pocket with a wry grin. “Go Go, Albuterol. But it’s all downhill from here back to the main trail. Plus, the temperature is warming up.”
“Yes.” I cinch and then buckle her pack. “All set. Let me take it outside for you while you get changed.”
I wait in front of the tent, eyes closed, all my attention directed to the noises inside the tent, the soft slide of fabric against flesh painting an image in my mind of how she looks: breast, ass, the slope of her inner thighs.
She climbs through the vestibule, and I hold her backpack as she threads her arms into the straps. I clip her chest buckle, a show of chivalry that in truth is the only way I can politely graze the tits that are driving me daft.
“Thanks.” She rocks back and forth testing the feel. Jesus, even in her bra, they give a little bounce. “Hey, you’re right. This does feel more comfortable.”
“Good.” I strangle on the word.
“Well… guess I should be going?” I don’t understand the look she’s giving. It’s as if there’s a promise there and all I need to do is meet her halfway.
Better to step back to safety. “Good-bye, then.”
Her smile doesn’t waver even as the invitation extinguishes in her eyes. “Thanks for, you know, saving my life. Guess I’ll see you at the climbing camp?”
“Aye. More than likely. I’m going to train in the valley a few more days before heading over. It’s quieter here, less of a scene.” I swallow the impulse to ask her to stay with me. Odd, this feeling she conjures in me, a sort of protective rush. Odder still that I don’t mind it.
She hovers a second, as if she’s going to hug me. And terrifyingly, a part of me wants nothing more.
“It’s weird, right?” She crinkles her nose. “Saying good-bye to someone you might never see again.”
“Shaking hands is the usual way.” I stick mine out.
“I can do that.” She grips mine. Her hand is so small in comparison. “I’m not sure if it was nice to meet you, but it was something.”
“Aye, something indeed. Stay safe, all right?” Should I be letting her go on her own? Suddenly I’m as nervous as a fretting nana.
“I really do hope to see you again… at the camp…” Her cheeks flush as her voice trails away. I don’t mean to, but I end up watching her go, compelled to see her off. She stops, turns, and her smile hits me right in the guts.
I find myself responding with a great shite-eating smile.
Then she vanishes, swallowed by the forest.
I linger another moment, my smile fading. The wind rustles and birds call to one another. The great glacier at the base of the valley rumbles in an imitation of the thunder from last night as I trudge back to the tent. A trail run is in order. A good hard one. Maybe followed by a bouldering session. Get my body and mind back in control.
But first I need bloody relief.
I duck inside the tent, rip off my shirt, and settle on the sleeping bag. It smells like girl, of Auden, her rainy, wild scent. I free my cock, inhaling as the weight of my shaft settles heavily in my palm. When I brush my thumb over my head, my hips levitate. Fuck, it’s been a while. I slide to my base and squeeze, sucking in a sharp breath as I thicken even more. For a moment I do nothing but grip, distill my world to the pulse against my palm, the keen shudder of expectancy.
I begin to stroke myself the regular way, hard and urgent. I like it a little rough, something most girls don’t manage. For a wank, I’m better alone, can bring myself off quickly, without much fanfare, but as pressure builds, another inclination also rises, an urge to slow, linger on the sensations. My mind wanders to Auden’s fucking knickers, the “Take Me Off Right Meow,” and an unexpected groan rips from my chest.
I don’t make noise during sex. Take my pleasure quietly. What the fuck is it about those absurd kitten knickers that nearly brings me off straightaway? I drag my free hand through my hair, seizing a handful, and force my head to the side, my neck muscles cording, abs flexed with anticipation of what’s to come. Auden was sent as a cosmic joke, a test to my resolve, one I’m failing quickly.
As hard as I want to come, I continue to work myself in measured strokes, base to tip, let the pressure build in my sac. Strange how easy it is to recall her little details. The heavy weight of her breasts molded through my shirt, the way her nipples strained against the fabric. The glimpse of the dandelion on her stomach, the way the ink slipped from sight, teasing me. The few places I touched, those inches of precious real estate, were all soft and yielding. My fingers slid over her supple skin, foreign to my own hard ridges and planes. She had a body I could sink into, bury myself alive.
The sleeping bag crinkles against my face, her lingering fresh scent intensifies, and the orgasm slams me from nowhere, any remaining coherent
thoughts obliterated in a rush that leaves me gasping, a vague headache pulsing in my temples.
“Rhys? You OK?”
Auden? Fuck. I glance at my sticky abdomen. “What’re you doing here?” I grab an old wool sock to wipe myself clean, yank up my trousers. She’s back. She’s back. She’s back. Even in my panic, my heart beats to the exultant shout in my brain.
There’s a great stramash outside. Twigs crackle. Stones crunch. How had I not heard a thing?
“The stream’s too high.” Her voice is strange. I have known her for all of twelve hours, but I can tell this is her uncertain, nervous tone.
Shite. Does she have any idea what I’ve been up to? No. No. That’s impossible.
I crawl outside, and her face is averted, body language all off.
Shite. She knows. Bloody hell, I wanked to her and she knows.
“I tried to cross the stream, but it was so high, the trail submerged.” Her expression is frustratingly unreadable. “Couldn’t even hop across the rocks. There was one log, but it was mossy and that seemed dangerous, so I—”
“You made a smart call.” Here’s to hoping my feigned indifference is believable. I’m happy she’s back, and while I shouldn’t be, that’s how it is. “The waters will retreat soon enough, but it’s wise you waited. We can hike to the camp together. It’s better for you to have someone to travel with. You’ve a rare knack for attracting trouble.” Something we have in common, but I’m still stupidly happy she won’t be going at it alone.
“Asthma, malfunctioning tents, and lightning, oh my.” She worries a stone with the toe of her boot, unwilling to meet my gaze. “You sure that would be OK? I don’t want to be annoying or force you into babysitting duties while you’re stuck here.”
I don’t mention that I could get out of the valley without breaking a sweat. No big challenge to scale one of the walls, cross on the glacier, or balance over the raging creek on a downed log. But better to go the safer route while she’s under my care. At least that’s what I tell myself. We’ll wait for the trail to open up for her sake, and sod it, because I want to spend more time with her.
Idiot.
“I want you… your company, I mean. Haven’t had a good argument in the last five minutes.”
She cocks her head. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Sorry?”
“When I walked up,” she mumbles. “Thought I heard you shout.”
While coming like a high-speed train. “I was careless. Snapped my finger in a carabiner.” I need to distract her, and I glance around for inspiration. Mountains, mountains, and more mountains. Good enough. “I’m thinking of going for a wee explore to pass the time.”
“Really?” Again her voice. I can’t read minds, but she’s off. “You mean like a climb?” She stares at my equipment with the oddest expression.
I’m reading too much into everything. It’s my own guilt. Cameron always said I’d make an excellent Catholic.
“I can’t even tie knots,” Auden rambles. “Can barely tie my shoes.”
“Knots? Knots are good fun.” I bend and grab rope, tying a figure-eight knot on one end. I’m being quite the show-off, as if this will impress her. “Surely you can manage that?”
“Um.” She turns it over. “Yeah, probably not.”
“Here. I’ll help.” I undo it quickly and settle my hands over hers. Her shoulders jerk, and I realize mine do, too, the same exact moment our skin presses against each other’s. “First you do this, and then tuck it through here and pull tight.”
“You’re quite an expert.” She lowers her sunglasses, hiding any clue to her thoughts. “Guess that’s one of the perks of dating a mountaineer. Rope play.”
Look at that blush. Yeah. There’s no doubt she knows that I rubbed one out in my tent. If we’re in this uncomfortable situation, fuck it. I allow my gaze to take its time running over her sweet body, lingering where I please. “You have a dirty mind.”
“Maybe a little, but a clean criminal record.” She gives me an uneasy smile and passes back the rope. “Trust me, I’m as vanilla as a cupcake.”
No idea what she’s talking about.
“Vanilla. You know.” She smooths an invisible wisp of hair from her forehead. “Like not kinky. I mean, I’ve never even…” She ducks her head and lowers her voice into a deep, exaggerated voice-over. “No one wants to hear about your sex life, Auden.”
“I—”
“No. Sorry. That was way too far. Told you my filter is nonexistent.”
I wouldn’t mind hearing more about her sex life. Well, not the ins and outs; more what she likes. She’s a perfect blend of cute and feisty, an ideal combination. My physical responses are simple biology at work. The stream rising could be a sign—the gods giving me a chance not to be a chump and blow my shot.
She’s not part of my plan, but hearing her find pleasure, her blue eyes glazing while I bring her off, aye, might be worth the detour.
I drop the rope and kick it to the side. Auden and I have the day, alone, in a beautiful valley, cut off from the world at large, without any strings. This I can do, a short-term way to forget everything, if only for a few fiery seconds.
But that’s it. That’s as far as this can go.
Tempting as it seems, I can’t be tied to anyone again.
11
AUDEN
Rhys hauls himself in pull-ups from a nearby tree branch, shirtless, very sans shirt. Every few seconds, he raises and lowers a body that looks like a slide from a human anatomy PowerPoint or a Renaissance sculpting class. If Leonardo da Vinci were here, he’d knuckle bite over this perfect male specimen. I’m tempted to do it anyway except my brain is about to explode.
MacAskill. MacAskill. Holy shit. Rhys MacAskill. Brother of Cameron MacAskill.
He’d even shouted Cameron’s name in his sleep, but I was in such a messed-up headspace that I didn’t connect the dots. His name had sounded familiar. All the plot points were there, but I was too shaken by the asthma attack and the overbearing presence of him. Once I calmed down and stood, hypnotized on the banks of the engorged stream, the trail submerged under rushing water, the déjà vu linked to his name washed away.
I knew it had sounded familiar.
Rhys freaking MacAskill. What are the chances? Life has basically handed me a gift-wrapped present and I was almost too dumb to realize it.
Outsider ran a cover story on the Cameron MacAskill saga this summer. The story had all the right components, one of those larger-than-life survival tales everyone reads, comments on, and expects to be made into a movie within a year or two, like that one about the trapped climber in Utah who sawed off his own arm with a pocketknife.
In this case, two brothers were involved in a horrific climbing accident in the Himalayas. One cut the other loose, dropping him to his supposed death.
That was Rhys. He’s the guy who cut the rope, the villain who cast his brother into an abyss to save himself. At least that’s what everyone says.
I roll my eyes to the sky and let loose a sound that sits between a huff and a groan. Time to stick my tongue back in my mouth, hike up my big-girl panties, and figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
“Want me to set up a slackline?”
I startle at the sound of his lilting accent. “Slackline?” It’s hard to maintain eye contact. I’ve stumbled straight into a serious doozy, a game changer, a career-advancing situation. Imagine scoring an exclusive feature with one of the most notorious mountain climbers in history? With such a coup, there’s no doubt Outsider would yank me straight from internship anonymity and fast-track me into their full-time position and I’d prove once and for all that I can exist outside of Harper’s long shadow.
If my memory serves, no reporter has gained a single comment from Rhys. Granted, I hadn’t followed the story super closely, but I do recall vague details, like the photograph of the two brothers. Rhys was dark, his brother fair. Rhys didn’t sport a beard then, and his hair was clipped much shorter.
I close my eyes, in part wishing to recall every last scant detail from the story, but at the same time, desperate to act natural, to not give a hint everything has changed. When I first barged into his tent, after we exchanged names, he visibly relaxed after I proved ignorant of his notoriety. If I mention anything that reveals I’ve strung two and two together, I’m not going to get four. Instead it will be a complete and total shutdown.
No wonder he was wary the second I mentioned I was a journalist.
So what’s my next move going to be?
I don’t know this guy well, but it doesn’t take a psychology degree to know he isn’t holed up in a remote South American valley because he’s eager to share his side of the story. My heart thumps so loudly that he’ll hear the dim pounding if I stand any closer.
“… like tightrope walking,” he’s saying.
I try to reassemble my features to make it appear I’m paying avid attention to his slacklining chitchat.
“Except the tensions not rigid, ken? More stretching and bouncing, like a trampoline except skinny, long, and drawn out. I could anchor some webbing between two trees. It’s good fun.” He’s facing out over the valley, his profile rugged, but he doesn’t resemble any sort of murderous monster. I’ve looked in his eyes, and while they can be distant, they aren’t cold or calculating. Why did he cut the rope? I’ve devoted more than a few hours to concocting revenge schemes for Harper, but I wouldn’t abandon her in a storm, leave her to freeze to death. Is it a good idea to have agreed to travel with him? Hard to say, hard to think anything except a story.
A story. I have a story. He could be my story. If I get it out of him, my career is made.
“Good fun doesn’t sound like snapping a wrist or giving myself a concussion.” I can do this, right? Keep up the banter we’ve established as our de facto conversation until I’ve figured out how to play the situation.
I’m reeling from shock, but there’s a change within him, too. He’s different from when I left half an hour ago. He prowls the campsite with restless energy, doing pull-ups, kicking around a Hacky Sack. I’m not sure if it’s my unexpected return or if this is his normal state when not caged in a tent.
