by Lia Riley
“It sounds like a lot of work to keep it all going.”
“Once you’re on the mountain, everything is worth it.”
He pauses in front of small wooden trail sign. The words are scratched out above the mile marker 0.5.
“This is the way,” he says, turning up the fainter trail.
“Why’s the name crossed out?” I ask, joining him.
“To keep punters from wandering up and bothering everyone. The main campground is another kilometer in that direction.” He points east.
“You sure…?” He scratches the back of his head.
“Am I sure what?”
“That this is the story you want to do? Profiling a bunch of climbers?”
“Absolutely,” I say firmly.
He lets out a sigh. “So you’re coming with me, then.”
“Don’t sound too excited,” I joke, even though my throat is tight. Doesn’t he want me here? Am I not badass enough to enter the hallowed climber sanctum? Hair prickles on my upper arms. Rhys is impressive enough on his own. What will happen when he’s among his tribe, those larger-than-life men and women? Will I end up starring in that old “one of these things is not like the other” game, same as whenever I’m around Harper and her teammates?
Jesus, these old thoughts are like gophers popping out of holes—impossible to rein in.
“Hey, hey, hey. G’day, cobber, didn’t expect to see your ugly mug this arvo.” A guy saunters out of the forest ahead with the ease of a woodland sprite, that is, if a sprite had shoulders broad enough to build a skyscraper on. The guy’s ash-blond ponytail falls to the nape of his neck, and he sports a deep cleft in his chin—a textbook butt chin if I wanted to be rude.
Wait. He’s not looking anywhere near the vicinity of my eyes. Instead he ogles my chest like my boobs are trying to shake his hand. I’m tempted to say, Yoo-hoo, up here.
Ugh, never mind. Butt Chin is a perfect name for this butthead.
Rhys notices the googly-eyed boob stare, too. His jaw looks like it could crack walnuts.
“And who’s this?” Butt Chin asks, practically rubbing his hands together.
“Psycho, Auden. Auden, Psycho,” Rhys says curtly, taking my hand.
Aha! Rhys’s Australian climbing pal. Psycho is some name. I’d even take Woody over that one.
“You’ve been holding out on me, mate?” Psycho slugs Rhys’s biceps.
Rhys doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. He exudes an aura of “touch me again at your own peril, dickweed,” to the point where even my stomach flip-flops. I’m glad this guy is on my team; he’d be a formidable opponent.
“We just met,” I mumble, trying to clear the air.
“Aw, shit. Picking up on the trail, you sly dog?” Psycho flashes me a leer that makes it sound like what I actually said was Why, hello. I plan to be whoring myself off to Rhys and all his compadres. In fact, packed inside this little ol’ backpack is a travel-sized stripper pole and an extra-large bottle of personal lubricant.
For the record, I don’t mind being Rhys’s good-time girl. That currently seems like a viable career option, or at least a respectable side business, but no way am I going to stand here and be drooled on by a douche nozzle. Nor am I going to be a wet dishrag while Rhys fights my battles.
“Let’s do a little more formal introduction. I’m Auden Woods.” I take off my sunglasses and affect a brisk no-nonsense attitude. “I work for Outsider magazine.”
“Outsider?” Rhys says with a start.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Way to blurt that out.
I’d told him I was a journalist but never the specifics of where I worked. Outsider is the same magazine that ran a cover story on his accident last summer.
I avert my gaze back to the Australian climber and see that my gambit has paid off. The vast majority of people aren’t Rhys “Don’t Fuck With My Privacy” MacAskill. They are more “Hey, look, Ma! I’m on TV!”
Immediately, Psycho snaps from eyeing me like a plate of sizzling bacon to an opportunity for personal advancement.
“Outsider? No shit.” He wipes his hands on the front of his shirt. “And you’re doing a story on this drongo?” He eyes Rhys. “Thought you weren’t talking to the media.”
“Nothing’s changed on that front,” Rhys responds brusquely. He’s already taken five steps away from me.
“We should go.” Enough talkie. I need to get him alone, explain everything.
“So what are you working on?” Psycho flashes what I’m sure he imagines is a charming smile. Instead, I’m coated by invisible slime. “A piece on Alpine-inspired fashion? Pretty girl like you? Yeah, that be about right.”
Oh. My. God. Such a sexist dick. I busted my ass through journalism school: late nights at the university paper, missing parties and all-you-can-drink-for-$1 nights. I suffered through First Amendment and Journalist Law, Ethics and Trends in News Media, whizzed through classes on reporting, and fell in love during Magazine Writing. And not because I wanted to write puff pieces on the cutest down vests or trail shoes.
“Wow, no, but what a great idea.” Sarcasm drips from my words like a swamp monster emerging from the deep. Maybe I could do a story on sexism in mountaineering. If asshats like Psycho abound, I’ll no doubt find plenty of ladies willing to go on the record. “For your information, I am doing a series of profiles on—”
“We’re going to get settled in,” Rhys says, pulling me away without a trace of subtlety. Guess he’s got things to say to me, too.
“I’ll catch up with you crazy cats later,” Psycho calls after us, giving a bro-like nod. “We’ll be convening in the hut for dinner and no doubt partying a bit, seeing as visibility is shithouse. Weather window my ass. Bring Lois Lane here. She can do a story on my balls.”
“You’re out of fucking line,” Rhys snarls, dropping my hand and storming toward the smaller guy.
Psycho doesn’t lose his easy smile, even though Rhys is nearly a foot taller and appears willing and able to tear his smirking head off. “Easy, mate. I’m just having a go—you know me.”
“Aye, I do,” Rhys says tensely. “Here’s some advice: keep a distance from her.” He turns, and as he storms past, he barks, “Come. We need to talk.”
I exchange a look with Psycho. He winks, clearly enjoying that he got a rise. I fight the urge to stick out my tongue before turning away.
21
AUDEN
Rhys, about Outsider—”
“I don’t want you talking to Psycho,” Rhys says as I trot after him, trying to keep up with his furious pace.
“Aren’t you two friends?” It’s taking me three steps to match his one. I have no idea where to drive the conversation.
“I never called him that.” Rhys’s tone is brusque. “I said I knew him. I’m friendly with his climbing partners.”
“How did you meet such a charmer?”
He makes a rude sound. “Our paths first crossed in New Zealand, ages ago. Cameron and I did a climbing trip on the South Island.”
“So you—”
“Cooee! G’day, mate.” Another Australian waves from the clearing ahead. This one is older, with graying temples and a grizzled face that’s seen more than its fair share of weather. He’s as lanky as Psycho was stocky, but still Rhys tops him. I’m only now fully realizing how big he is, seeing him in comparison to other men.
“Hey.” He greets this guy more easily, does one of those dude clasp handshakes. “How’s it going?”
“It’s not.” The new guy gives a low whistle. “All we’re doing is sitting around with our dicks in our hand. If it’s not rain, it’s wind, but word is things should be improving.” His curious smile is aimed at my face. No skeez vibe coming off this guy.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m Murray.”
“Auden,” I say, accepting his handshake.
“You two climbing together?” He sizes me up.
“No,” Rhys answers abruptly. The tension radiating off of him is nearly palpable.
Uncertainty tugs my insides. What do we even have in common? Since I arrived in Torres del Paine, the unknown has been exciting, but it’s also exhausting. I can see why so many people get hung up on predictability. It’s easy, and easy isn’t always bad. Maybe you don’t grow as much, but it’s comfortable, like right now I could be back at my parents’ house sipping hot chocolate while logs crackle on the fire, trolling my iPad for news while watching costume dramas or the History Channel.
Not about to be forced into admitting uncomfortable truths.
The forest opens into a meadow. A dozen or so tents in colors ranging from orange to red to blue cram into sheltering heath wherever possible. In the center clearing squats a crude windowless wood hut. The wind must blow fierce through here if the thick ropes holding the tarpaulins in place are any indication. Large stones keep ground cloths fixed to the earth. Slacklines stretch between various trees, and gear is everywhere: ropes, helmets, ice axes. A man is doing a yoga headstand near a rusty water pump; just watching makes my neck hurt.
Off on the far left, a massive boulder rests in a clearing, dislodged from the mountainside. One guy is spotting another beside a thick crash pad. The one bouldering is three-fourths of the way up the rock and has a heel hooked at waist height as he leverages himself over an overhang.
Someone calls outs, “You sure you know what you’re doing?” to general laughter.
“Piss off,” the guy huffs, scrambling to his feet on the top and wiping his hands on his pants, leaving chalk streaks on his gray pants.
“You’re so fucking hot,” shouts another, who’s wearing a ratty T-shirt that reads MOUNTAINEER in the same font as the Mountain Dew logo.
“Think so?” The climber on the boulder grabs his crotch. “’Cause you’ve got a face a sledgehammer would love.”
More raucous laughter.
Where are the women? I expected at least one or two. So far there’s not a single one in sight. I don’t like feeling as if a bull’s-eye is fixed to my body—specifically between my belly button and chin. Guess Psycho wasn’t alone in the boob fixation, or maybe Murray is the sole Boy Scout.
Guys keep coming up to us, each wanting a word with Rhys, obviously respecting him and intrigued by me. He exudes the air of someone comfortable in charge.
At last he breaks away and says, “Come on, Auden. We’ll go this way.” He takes my hand, leading me to the camp’s edge. The gaucho we saw earlier on the trail sits opposite, drinking something clear from a milk jug while his son ties up the horses. He gives a cheerful wave. Someone smokes a joint nearby, and I hasten to get downwind from the smoke, not in a hurry to mess with my lungs.
Most of this crowd has probably heard of my grandfather, but while that’s a perfectly acceptable conversation starter, I’m nothing impressive. I haven’t made first summits or kayaked the Northwest Passage while surviving a polar bear attack.
Once, I braved Black Friday sales, and even that was a little too much excitement.
Rhys unshoulders his pack and removes the tent.
“It seems a little heavy on the testosterone up here,” I say. “Where’s the estrogen?”
“Sometimes there are more women. More often than not, none.”
“These guys act like they haven’t seen a female in weeks.”
“Some probably haven’t.” He gestures to Murray, who is in a huddle with Psycho and another ginger-haired guy on the opposite side of the camp. “Murray is a good sort. But as for Psycho, like I said, stay clear of that one. He likes to stir shit.”
“Can’t say his name inspires much confidence.”
Rhys gives an absent frown. “He’s reckless on the mountain, takes big risks and can endanger others. Sometimes his boldness pays off. He’s built an impressive résumé, but he has a bad habit of putting people in danger.”
“Wait a sec.” I drop my voice as my belly clenches. No one is close, but I don’t want to risk being overheard. “You are going to be on the same route as a guy you don’t trust?”
“I’ve been on mountains with him before. My plan’s to get a head start. I’d rather be in front of him than behind.”
I glare at the rust-colored wall of granite before me. The base of La Aguja has no scrap of vegetation on its menacing flank. My cheeks tingle as my head tips back, the low cloud blocking any further view. “Can we please talk about the fact I work for Outsider magazine? Back there, on the trail, you had a reaction.”
“I’m going for a walk,” he says, hammering in the last peg. “Go in the tent; don’t move until I return.”
“That’s a joke, right?” I know he likes to control situations, but this isn’t the military, and he’s sure as hell not my drill sergeant.
“Wrong.”
“You aren’t the boss of me.” I should add a foot stamp for good measure. Or lie on the ground and kick my legs. “We need to talk.”
“Fine. Talk. So you work for Outsider magazine.” He rocks on his heels. “Am I supposed to believe that you didn’t know who I am? That you hadn’t heard about the accident?”
“OK, OK, look. I didn’t put it together at first. It wasn’t until the next day.” I hate the look on his face. The look I put there.
“Stop.” He scrubs his face with his hands. “I need space before I say something I’ll regret,” he says. “I don’t want anyone bothering you, so if you stay in the tent, you should be unbothered.”
“Fine,” I say flatly.
“Good.”
“Great. You know what, I do want to talk to you, like an adult. There is a lot to say, so let me know when you’re ready for that. In the meantime, I’m going to go fill up my water bottle.” I grab my Nalgene and storm off for the tap.
I know I’m in the wrong, at least partially, but damn it, so is he. For years I put up with Harper’s attitude and bad behavior, and what did I get but fucked and over? I can’t take that from anyone anymore.
I go to grab my hair and twist it into a messy bun, but I can’t. It’s all gone. Instead, I rub my temples, as if that’s the way to infuse myself with inner calm. If he would just relax, stop and take a breath, I could try to explain the situation, how everything got so messy, but the stubborn set to his jaw as I left didn’t seem promising.
I can fuck Rhys’s brains out, but I can’t knock any sense into them.
No one is around the water tap. I turn the handle to the left and hold my bottle under it, pausing to take a few greedy gulps. It was a long, hot hike today, and a cold drink sends a jolt of optimism into me. Rhys and I both got heated, but we’ll work it out. Our connection is undeniable, and if this situation is as real as it feels, this should all sort itself out.
I’ll tell Rhys I figured out who he was. But I didn’t want to tell him because…
Because…
Fuck.
Because that means admitting to the part where I almost screwed him over.
There are footsteps behind me and I brace myself. He must have come after me. I’ll have to tell him the truth. Will he understand?
I spin around and squeak with shock. It’s not Rhys approaching me, but Diedrick the Dutchman.
Am I hallucinating?
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just a little thirsty.” He holds up a water bottle and gives the dregs a swish. “I saw you come in a little while ago with a big fellow. That’s him, isn’t it? That’s Rhys MacAskill.”
“It is, but please, leave him alone.”
“You made it clear back in the valley that he is your story.” He imitates a cat hissing, batting a hand like a mock claw. “I wouldn’t want to go stepping on those pretty toes.”
“Good,” I snap, flouncing up the trail. The walls are closing in. I’ll have to find Rhys and tell him everything before things get worse than they already are.
A twig snaps on my right. I jump, expecting to see an animal. Instead, Rhys stares at me through the filtered forest light.
“Oh.” I pull up quick. “I didn’t know you
were here.”
“Aye, I got that idea,” he says without any trace of emotion. “I came up here to apologize.”
My heart drops to the soles of my boots. Shit. From the way he looks, it’s clear he overheard that whole conversation, or enough to think—
“Rhys. Wait. Please. Let me explain.”
“Is that guy for real?” His nostrils flare. “You are doing a fucking secret story about me?”
“No! At least it wasn’t a premeditated plan.” My left eyelid twitches. “I meant what I said earlier, that I didn’t even put it together at first, who you were. My asthma was bad and I was scared. It wasn’t until I tried to leave that I remembered why your name sounded so familiar.”
“That’s why you came back.” He rubs his chest as if in pain. “To write about me.”
“No. It’s really not. The stream was high; you saw that yourself.” I stare helplessly at his face. “Rhys. Look at my eyes. Will you please look at me?”
“No.” His gaze stays fixed on the ground between us.
“You aren’t sleeping with the enemy, OK?”
“I’m no’ so sure.”
“I’m not someone who can use people for my own gain.”
He shakes his head, resignation taking hold of his features. “I said I’d use you, and you promised me in turn. Guess I walked right into it.”
“Please listen. I changed my mind.”
“So you did think it, then? That you could get the story from me without me knowing?”
I duck my chin, hating the truth, but owing it to him anyway. “I did consider it for a few hours.”
His top lip curls. “Do me a favor, Auden.”
“Yes? Anything.” Tears well beneath my eyelids; his face blurs like an impressionist painting. “What can I do to put this right?”
“Get fucked.” It takes only a few strides before he vanishes into the shadows.
22
RHYS
I tear under a low-hanging tree branch without slowing pace, my mind unable to form coherent thoughts.
Auden.
She knew.
