I shake my head.
“One sister, who has”—Easton’s picking up and piling pebbles in front of himself—“two kids, twins. What about Zane?”
“A sister.”
“Okay, good. But he does mention her a hell of a lot.”
“That means nothing. You’re being absurd. You don’t know anything about me.” What in the hell does he think he’s getting at, anyway?
“One brother who cheated with your girlfriend. They have two kids. Your parents live on the family farm. You have a degree in archeology, but you prefer motors. You spend your free time taking them apart and secretly want to break the world record for speed putting a small engine back together. You love your parents, but going home is too hard?—”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not?—”
“An asshole? No, some of the time you’re not.”
“Enough. We don’t know that the pirates didn’t land. I might be an asshole, but what the fuck will it matter if we’re bothdead?” I stand and close my eyes. “Stay fucking there. Behind that rock. I’m going to get some water for you.”
“With what? Your fucking pocketknife? Just sit down and rest. The last thing we need is for you to be flashing your pasty white ass at the pirates.”
I look down at my legs. The strip of skin that would have been under the bandage I cut off for him is pasty white. “It will give them a target since you’re too fucking slow on land. Just stay put. I’m going to scout up ahead and see if there’s a better place to stop for the night. Move behind that rock outcropping on the side. You’ll be less likely to be seen.”
He inclines his head to me, which I take as afuck you. I make my way back over to the side we were coming up before we stopped on the ledge. I reach and stretch for each foothold before I make it up. I’m hoping the damn pirates gave up on us, because Rockwell’s right. I’m a pretty large target when I’m pulling from one handhold to the next. What I’m really hoping for is that this side of the mountain has a cave or two like the other side. But there’s nothing so far.
I’m up another ten feet when a small ledge opens up with a path that cuts across the mountain. Fucking hell. The little path is big enough to walk one foot at a time. I turn back, staring at the way I came. Is there any possible way that Rockwell will be able to get up forty vertical feet before the sun goes down?
The sun wavers on the horizon. I’ve got no time to see where this path leads before I go back and try to haul his ass up. Him staying on the ledge with no water? Sunrise won’t bring anything but heat. I fucking kick myself for making the decision to charge up here. Hiding in the underbrush on the other side of the stream—that would have been a much better idea.
Fuck. Second-guessing myself isn’t how I operate. Ten feet down the path, twenty. I don’t have time to see where it goes, butif it doesn’t open out onto something... staying where Rockwell is, that’s the better plan.
Pebbles skitter down the side of the cliff from where my bare feet are moving quickly. The goat path goes on. I’m going with my gut. The path straight up isn’t one a goat could make. They’re coming from somewhere. And that somewhere is better than here.
Holding on to the side of the wall, I pivot and make my way back to the sheer cliff. I map out the best holds for coming up as I descend to Rockwell.
When my feet drop down onto the ledge, Easton stands. He’s not holding his arm. So maybe we can do this. “What you find? Water?”
“No. The stream’s coming down farther north up over the side of the mountain. But I did find a goat path. One that might take us over the side ridge to where the pomelos are.”
“I thought you said Chicken Beach and the pomelos don’t connect?”
“I didn’t think they did. And they might not. But we fucking don’t have much daylight left. I’m betting on this goat path taking us to an easier way back to camp. Or at least not here. We haven’t seen any goats here. And I didn’t see any evidence of them down where we started climbing up. The best thing for us to do is follow the damn trail and see where it goes. It’s up higher, though.”
“Let’s do it.”
“You sure you’re up for it?”
“Fuck, Green. If you tell me we have to do something to survive... I’m not going to lie down like a toddler and beat my one good fist in the dirt like I have to have it my way. You know this shit better than me. If there’s anything competition taught me, it’s when someone knows more than you and they tell you to do something, just fucking do it.”
I give him a nod. I have never, not once, taken someone else’s advice without questioning it. But what the hell? “Let’s go. I’ve mapped out a route that I think will be the best to do with one arm. It’s going to be hard.”
“Anything worthwhile always is.”
He’s not the typical rich son prick. Some of the time.
I scramble slowly up, pointing out each hold as I go. It’s a longer path than the one I zipped up the first time, but this one doesn’t have him stretching his body out, letting his feet do most of the work. Still, he’s keeping up.
He’s right behind me. And from what I can make out, he’s following my handholds mostly. “The rest did me good,” he says.
We’ve got another ten feet to go before the little trail. Rockwell’s huffing with each reach of his good hand, but he’s not slowing or complaining. I’m going at half-speed, letting him catch up with every few holds.
