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“I’ve found my voice.”
Connor grins while Lo feigns surprise, “Jesus Christ? Should we take you to the doctor? Is this curable?”
“No,” I say, “I’m going to die an awfully peaceful death. What do you want of mine when I’m gone? Surf boards, roller skates, ticket stubs to Amour, my unicorn Pillow Pet.” I gasp. “My porn stash.”
Connor arches a brow.
Lo pats my head. “Ryke isn’t here. Try back next time.”
Yep, Ryke would’ve loved that one. What fucking porn stash, Calloway?
Connor’s phone rings, and he checks the cell. I see the name Henry Prinsloo across the screen, probably someone from Cobalt Inc. “I’ll be a second,” Connor says, sliding away from the bar and towards the bodyguards to take the call.
The bartender pushes three glasses of water towards us. I hand Lo his and then raise mine. “To amber-eyed brother-in-laws, may they be happy and well-fed.”
He clinks his glass against mine with a shadow of a smile, practically a grin in Loren Hale’s world. I sip my water, my gaze drifting to three of the televisions across the long wall, empty tables below.
The left plays a tennis match. The middle soccer. The right national news.
I zone in on the right screen, red ticker tape scrolling across the bottom in Spanish. The screen shows Peruvian mountains with a sidebar that says Cusco. My stomach clenches, and I set down the water.
I narrow my sight on the ticker tape, hoping to understand a couple of the words before I jump to conclusions. And then—
“Lo,” I say in horror, my body rushing blood-cold. There’s his name. Ryke Meadows. On the news. Everything else is foreign to me.
“Connor!” Lo yells, already following my gaze. His jaw cuts to ice, sharpening to battle emotion.
I swivel towards the bar while Lo catches up to Connor. He speaks briskly into his phone, and all of our bodyguards have risen from their seats.
“Remote?” I ask the bartender, shifting my weight from one foot to the other with deep-seated panic. Clutching my ribcage. I motion to the television and mime a remote, but he understands before that, already passing it to me.
He’s hurt. He’s hurt. I try not to picture anything, but I fail before I’ve even begun.
Ryke falling…screaming…down a mountainside—my eyes well and burn. Stop please stop. I squeeze my eyes closed to drown these images.
He can’t survive that.
He’s alive.
Stop please stop.
I have to believe he’s alive.
I open my eyes and rub them hastily. Then I start changing the channel, the middle television surfing through them.
“What does it say?” Lo asks Connor, pointing at the right television.
Connor plugs his ear to clearly hear the person on the phone.
“Goddammit, Connor!” Lo yells and shoves his friend’s shoulder, hard, before returning to me.
Connor only sways a little, but rare hurt actually crosses his features for a split-second. Find the channel, Daisy. I keep clicking through them, hoping to land on GBA international news that plays in English.
I suddenly remember that Price can speak Spanish, so I swing my head towards him. He’s staring at the right screen. Reading. His face strict, lines across his forehead, bunching his brows, toughening his jaw. Hiding dread.
No.
My whole chest tightens.
Two-thousand feet to the summit means two-thousand feet to the ground.
Lo steals the remote from me, flipping almost immediately to GBA international news. The reporter speaks, but the volume is muted. Closed-captioning flashes on the screen in English, thankfully.
Ryke Meadows and friend…are being…life-flighted to hospital in…Lima.
He’s coming here.
“We need to go,” I’m the first to say, spinning towards the door but my head whirls five times faster, the rush disorienting. He’s hurt. He’s hurt. I grip the barstool, just recognizing the cascade of hot tears sliding down my face. I inhale choppy breaths. Stop please stop. I glance back at the television while Lo grabs my hand, leading me out.
We’re still getting the details…but we know…that there was a serious rock…climbing accident. Both men are in…critical condition…we’ll bring you more information…as we receive it.
* * *
I’m wedged between Connor and Lo in the backseat of our rental car. Price drives, Lo’s bodyguard in the passenger seat, and Connor’s bodyguard trails us in an identical SUV.
While I frantically update GBA news on my cellphone, Lo peers over my head, both of us waiting on edge for new information.
Connor is quiet, staring past the headrest in front of him. After a minute or two, traffic moving so sluggishly, Connor rotates towards us, resting his arm on the back of the seat.
His haunted expression chills my bones. I glance at the phone and then the road, the hospital not in plain sight yet.
Ryke will be there, cursing up a storm.
Sully will be grinning beside him, recalling their adventure of a lifetime.
Both with a few bumps and scratches.
They’ll laugh together. We’ll laugh too and say, God, how scared we were. Silly us. You two have climbed far harder, far worse cliffs in your days. This one wouldn’t bring you down. It couldn’t.
This is what will happen.
“Can you both look at me, please?” Connor asks in a gentle, soothing tone to ease us.
Lo is purposefully avoiding Connor like he’s the harbinger of grim things. By the tension spooling between us, he might be.
I take a chance and meet Connor’s deep blue eyes. I grip the seatbelt. Tugging it off my chest, but the uncomfortable pressure still remains. The weight bearing down comes from an unseen force inside of me. Hurting.
“Please, Lo,” Connor says again. He’s still not budging.
Price turns on the radio, an English-speaking news station giving a similar report. “All we know is that Ryke Meadows was climbing on the outskirts of—”
“Turn it off,” Connor says, almost heatedly.
“No,” I say before Price touches the button.
Price listens
to me.
Lo narrows his bloodshot, desolate eyes at Connor. “What’s wrong with you? We’re trying to figure out what happened to our friend, my brother, her goddamn husband.” His voice cracks.
My thighs shake, a brutal tremor ripping through my body. Husband. I lean forward to catch my breath.
“I think we should wait until we reach the hospital,” Connor tells us.
It’s like he knows already.
Lo’s face sinks with this realization. “What’d that person on the phone tell you? What—do they work for a news station or something?”
Connor is silent, blank-faced. Stop please stop.
I cover my ears for a second, like I hear the answer even when it never comes. I shield my eyes, sick. My husband.
“What is it? What the fuck is it?!” Lo screams. “Just tell us?!” He’s crying, raging tears dripping down his face.
I’m crying, grief-stricken ones choking me inside out.
We know.
We know.
And then the reporter from the radio says, “We have new information about the climbing accident involving Ryke Meadows.” I click into my phone. I barely see the answer through a blurry gaze. I touch my throat that closes. No, no.
Anguish steamrolls my chest, but I keep clicking.
I keep clicking.
Why am I clicking?
My arms shake, nearly dropping the phone. I hold tight.
I see the same result over and over. Three media outlets. Four…then five, all reporting the same outcome, citing GBA who broke the news.
It’s real.
I sob, throttling my body forward. No, no.
“On transit to the hospital,” the radio says, “Ryke Meadows was pronounced dead.” Price shuts off the news.
I cry into my soaked hands, agony rippling through my veins. He’s gone. “No,” I cry louder, my throat raw, my lungs screeching in pain. “He can’t…” He can. He’s gone. No, no.
Lo brings his foot up to the seat, shielding his face with his knee and hands. He bawls behind them, his body lurching each time.
