Rogue Affair

by Tamsen Parker

  “Take it easy, O’Neal.”

  He flipped up the brake lever and shoved the chair forward, falling back into the familiar rhythm of crunching gravel under its tires.

  Take it easy take it easy take it easy take it easy, they spewed with every revolution. He’d said the phrase, though it didn’t mean a thing. Just empty rhythmic sounds, as pointless as turning wheels.

  Take it easy? What? Life? No fucking way. Death? Not even that was easy.

  He swallowed and pressed forward. About another half mile, he figured, until the picnic area and the trail where he’d camp tonight. Then up, up, up.

  He was so close to the end now that it scared the crap out of him. Because after the top of this mountain, he had no idea what he’d do, where he’d go, or—worst of all—who the hell he even was.

  2

  Disappointed, O’Neal turned around in the middle of the road and headed back down the mountain.

  How weird was that? Curve after curve, she drove and all the while, she couldn’t stop thinking about Kurt’s set, resigned expression in a face that clearly hadn’t seen a mirror in ages. How did a person go from high school golden boy to… Man, those eyes. Not quite dead, but close. Sad. Tired.

  How the hell long had he been pushing that chair? And where was the endpoint? The top of Mount St. Jacob? Or was this just one part of whatever quest he was on?

  The word crusader flitted by and she could envision the heroic headline. There was a story here. There had to be.

  Her skin heated at the memory of that night in high school. Never a big football fan, she’d gone to the homecoming game to watch him. Not that he’d have noticed her if she hadn’t followed him to the ER, where she’d found him on a gurney in the hallway, totally out of it.

  It was just a stupid kid crush, of course. And looking back, she couldn’t believe how much energy she’d spent on it, considering how out of her league he was. It got so bad even Mom noticed. She remembered the conversation, frank and open, as her mother always was.

  That boy you’re obsessed with is sexually active, O’Neal. And, unless there’s something you haven’t told me, you’re not quite there yet. Am I right? Just don’t be surprised if his expectations exceed yours.

  But Mom had been right, of course. Fourteen-year-old O’Neal had no idea about sex. She knew about the penis and vagina part, but she didn’t know about the…intimacy of it, the smell and sounds. That uncomfortable closeness.

  It had all been moot anyway, given his celebrity football status. Kurt Anderson hadn’t had so much as a second to spare for a little kid like her. She’d couched the whole thing as professional—just a journalist hunting down a good story—but when she’d finally gotten an excuse to talk to him, things had gone haywire inside. Like out of breath, dizzy crazy.

  Though he’d been kind, he hadn’t really noticed her. She’d barely been a blip on his radar.

  Something about that idea stopped her—literally, stopped the car halfway through a sharp curve. If she drove away right now, Kurt Anderson would keep on walking. He’d trudge up the mountain, pushing that chair, flying that flag, and keeping a tight hold on whatever motivation pushed him to do this strange thing. He’d be a blip on her radar, nothing but a moving speck on the map.

  But, crap, she had to get this turkey piece in on deadline, which was only half an hour off. Rather than race back to the office, she found a place to park and wrote it up—total fluff—and sent it to her editor, along with the couple decent pics she’d gotten.

  Finally, breathing hard, she hooked a ridiculous five-point turn and accelerated back up the mountain, excited to be following her instincts again.

  I’m doing this. I’m actually doing this.

  Driving slowly, she passed the spot where they’d spoken, her eyes searching the near-dark along the side of the road.

  A couple miles past the picnic area parking lot, she decided to turn back. He had to be there. She came close to giving up when she didn’t immediately see him, but that need to know—to help, if she could—pressed her to get out of the car. She grabbed her coat, water and a few protein bars, and after a second’s hesitation, threw her crampons and sleeping bag into her backpack, then headed up the handicap accessible trail.

  It wasn’t quite freezing, and her body warmed fast. After just a couple minutes, she caught up with him. The wheelchair rolling over dirt and rocks must have been loud, because he obviously didn’t hear her approach. Rather than scare the hell out of him, she called out quietly, “Hey, Kurt.”

  His bent back straightened, but he didn’t turn. In fact, he didn’t show much reaction at all, aside from that quick stiffening and a big inhale.

  “It’s O’Neal again.”

  After a big sigh, he let out a defeated sounding “Yep.”

  The path was wide enough for the two of them to walk side by side, so she slid in beside him.

  “Can we talk for a sec?”

  “Look, um…”

  “O’Neal.”

  “I know your name.” He stopped and turned. “I’m just trying to find a polite way to make you leave.”

  “Why?”

  “This is private.”

  He picked up speed and she worked to keep pace, feeling like a jerk, but unwilling to stop now.

  She wasn’t entirely sure why, but this was something she had to do. She had to.

  There were no birds up here, especially this late in the day, no animal sounds at all. The grinding of wheels and scuffing of feet was the only accompaniment to the huffing of their breaths. Well, that and the litany of thoughts racing through O’Neal’s mind.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I just… I told you about my insatiable curiosity, right? Some people are anxious about money and stuff like that. Some worry about their health or their family. But me? I’ve got this deep need to fill in life’s gaps.” Other people’s lives, at least. Her own was just fine riddled with Swiss cheese holes.

  He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised, but didn’t say a word.

  “You planning to walk all night?”

  Probably two minutes went by before he spoke. “There’s apparently a spot a little higher up. Quarter mile or so. I’ll set up camp there.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile.

  “For what?”

  “For answering my question. Not leaving me hanging.”

  “You’re relentless.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He huffed out a laugh at that.

  She searched for something innocuous to ask him. “You been up St. Jacob before?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a good climb. Although I’ve never taken this trail.” She didn’t need to ask why he’d chosen this route. The wheelchair wouldn’t make it up any other way. “Are you okay with this?” she asked, a while later, unsure what she’d do if he said no.

  “What?”

  “Company.”

  His only response was a half shrug.

  They carried on up the path, shoulders almost brushing, legs stepping in time, breaths synchronizing.

  She started slightly when his voice broke into her thoughts. “No more questions? I thought you couldn’t keep your insatiable curiosity under wraps.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out my angle of approach.”

  “I believe you mean attack.”

  “What?”

  “Your angle of attack.”

  “You think this is about hurting you?”

  “I doubt that’s your objective, but it could happen.”

  That tweaked something in her, made her almost regret the way she pursued stories—like a battering ram, she’d been told.

  No. It wasn’t an interview subject who’d told her that, it was a guy she’d dated. He’d complained that she wouldn’t let anyone get close to her. She almost snorted at the memory. Whatever, dude.

  She carried on in silence, beside this big, quiet man, whose outer shell she was dying to pierce. Despite his hardened, l
eathery exterior, the guy was hurting inside. She could see that in the way he worked hard to keep his back straight and his pace constant, the way he took care of that freaking chair.

  Finally, he stopped and forced the chair into a clearing.

  O’Neal stood awkwardly as he locked the brakes and set up his camp with quick competence. Not his first rodeo. By a long shot.

  He looked at her. “What’s your plan here?”

  Eternally late, always unprepared, O’Neal had never planned a thing in her life. Winging things usually worked, but here she was at a complete loss for words. She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally let the unexpected words flow out.

  “I had a crush on you. In high school. That’s why I was at that game, where you got hurt. It’s why I went to the hospital that night. I mean, I’d read something about concussions being bad, so when I heard you’d been hit in the head, I…I didn’t go to the hospital to ask you questions, I went to check on you.” God, she hated this part—giving an interview subject just enough of herself to get them to open up. She forced a wry smile to her face. “Would’ve been weird, right? Some kid you barely recognized hanging around the ER? So I ran with it and…” She couldn’t look at him when she told him the rest. “You got a football scholarship, right? Well, I got into college based on that series. Starting with the piece I wrote about you.”

  He didn’t look happy, which just confirmed why O’Neal never divulged a damned thing about herself. Ever. She might spend all her time getting people to open up, but nobody—including herself—wanted her ugly insides out in the world. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” O’Neal met his eyes, embarrassed but defiant.

  “Is that what’s gonna happen here? You follow me around, take pictures, use some messed-up version of my story to get ahead, and destroy my life in the process?”

  One hand flew to her mouth, covered it, held in a surprised little “Oh.” She wanted to sink to the ground, but held herself straight and spoke. “Is that what happened?”

  “In high school? Yeah. You didn’t hear about how they cut me off? Coach M and the entire team? Everybody blamed me for your story. They figured I’d gone to you instead of the other way around.”

  “Oh, man. I had no idea. I’m sorry.” And she was. She was sorry it had happened that way, but more than anything she was sorry she’d told him the truth. They’d have been better off without her stupid crush hanging between them.

  “That policy change you worked so hard for? They called it the Anderson Rule. I graduated that year and took off, but my reputation as a shithead whistleblower followed me to college.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.” She squeezed the words out. “God, you must be even angrier now that you know I did it for a crush.”

  His head cocked to the side. “No, actually. I understand a crush. It was the naked ambition I couldn’t wrap my mind around.” He reached into his pack for a stove and set to work prepping dinner.

  O’Neal couldn’t count how many times she’d camped growing up, or around here with friends, but she’d never seen anyone go about it quite so efficiently. Like he does this every day. Like I’m in his living room watching him prepare dinner for the night.

  “I should go.” She turned to leave, suddenly wracked with guilt at the notion that she’d screwed up his life then. And the possibility of doing it again now. Because following him up here wasn’t about a crush. This was about sniffing out a good story. She wouldn’t do that to him, no matter how bright her curiosity burned. “Take care of yourself, okay, Kurt?”

  Walking was slower now in the full dark, but she pushed through as fast as she could, through the hot shame. She’d hurt this man. Whatever’d happened to him since then, she’d somehow helped propel him to this place, and the responsibility weighed her down, made her stumble. She’d gone only a handful of steps when he called out her name.

  “Yeah?” She stopped.

  “I thought you were cute, too.”

  The words made her turn back to face him. “Seriously?”

  “Obnoxious as hell, but cute.”

  She considered. “I was a mega pain in the ass.”

  “You were a kid.”

  “We both were.”

  We’re not kids now. O’Neal wished she had the courage to say the words, wished she had the courage to stay—not for the story, but for the company. But that felt like unsafe territory.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you today, Kurt. And I’m so sorry I ruined things for you. Before.”

  He nodded. “You know what stayed with me, from that night? In the hospital?”

  She shook her head, waiting, breath bated, though she should walk away. Nothing moved on the mountainside, but a cloud must have skittered across the sky because the moon washed him out like a floodlight from the heavens.

  “You held my hand.” His voice broke on the last word. “Remember that? They made you leave eventually, when my parents finally got there. But you held my hand for what felt like forever. I looked for you when I woke up the next morning. You were gone.”

  She backed up a couple stumbling steps, but his words stopped her. “I looked for you at school again, later that week, all excited. Thought I might ask you out.”

  Something sharp twisted in her chest, and she opened her mouth to tell him that publishing that piece had been the first of many forays into the heads and hearts of others and she’d gotten high off of it, about how easy it was to poke around in someone else’s soft tissue. She opened her mouth to explain, but his next sentence shut her up.

  “Then the paper came out, and I swore I’d never talk to you again.”

  “You hungry?” The words were out before Kurt realized what his mouth was up to. “Got more of this freeze-dried stuff than I know what to do with.”

  “What about never talking to me again?”

  He ignored her. “I mean, it’s not five-star dining, but it’s mushy. And lukewarm.”

  It was dark where she stood under the trees, but her surprised little laugh hit him in places he hadn’t acknowledged in a while; places he hesitated to expose, like a cat’s soft white underbelly.

  “When’d you become such a smooth talker?”

  “You kidding me? My best moves were in high school.”

  “Never saw those.”

  “No, you got the extra-special concussed version.” She didn’t move and, for those few seconds when he was sure she’d turn him down, he went from wanting company to craving it. The loneliness he’d ignored came crashing in, turning him needy and desperate. “Please have dinner with me, O’Neal. It’s been a while since I talked to anybody.” Besides Sebio here. But that level of crazy wasn’t something he was willing to admit to.

  “All right.” That was easy. “But I’m bringing dessert.” She reached into her pack and grabbed a handful of bars.

  “Fancy.” He started the stove and pulled out a blanket, which he laid out beside it.

  She shivered. “I’m sad that we can’t build a fire up here.”

  “You come up here a lot?”

  “Whenever I can.”

  “I never pegged you for an outdoorsy type.”

  “We camped a lot growing up. Guess I took to it more than I realized.”

  “You want a tea?”

  “Sure.”

  He set water up to boil and settled a couple feet from her on the ground, suddenly awkward.

  He wished he could see her expression when she turned to him. “I assume you were deployed at some point?”

  “Did a few tours.”

  “Where?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “You see a lot of action?”

  All he could do was nod. Action seemed like such a puny word for it. Lives lived and lost; things he’d seen and done, and by some terrible miracle, survived.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He met her eyes in the blue glow from the camp stove. “Why?”

  “Must have been hard.”

  “Best tim
e of my life.” Jesus, did he really just say that? “Pathetic, right? But I miss it. Being a civilian’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Which is a good thing.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what the military’s for, you know? To keep people safe and ignorant. Maintain the dream.”

  Even in the dark, he could see that the look she gave him was half-annoyed, half-disbelieving. “You saying you went out and risked your life so we could maintain some kind of lie of an existence?”

  He put tea bags in his coffee cup and the top to his thermos, then reached into his pack for the flask he’d carried with him since he started this trip. He had yet to break it open. “Pretty much.”

  “You know how insulting that is?”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He flashed her a surprised smile. “Guess you’re right.”

  She indicated the flask with her chin. “What’s that?”

  “Bourbon. You want some in your tea?”

  “Sure.”

  He poured her a slug in one mug, topped it off with boiling water, did the same for himself in another, and put more water on to boil for dinner.

  “So, why don’t you go back?”

  And that was the million-dollar question.

  “You know you’ve got a knack for cutting right to the chase?” Kurt kept himself busy over his tiny camp stove.

  “So they tell me.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  He shot her a grin, which turned into a double take. The light of the camp stove washed her pale looks out even more. Her breath mingled with the steam from her cup to make her ghostly and delicate, and his hands twitched with the desire to test one long, slender cheek, or maybe her neck where it disappeared into her puffy parka.

  “How long have you been walking, Kurt?”

  He flicked his eyes up to her face, hoping she hadn’t noticed the direction they’d taken.

  “Almost a year.”