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And they’re the only other campers at this tents only area. We’d move further away, but this is the closest spot to the new rock Sulli is gonna free-solo.
Plus, they popped up their tents after us.
Back in South Philly, I wouldn’t move my ass off a pub stool during an airing of Friday Night Fight (pro-wrestling), and I’m not about to move my ass now.
Name’s Banks Roscoe Moretti. I’m a prideful motherfucker. I almost laugh out loud at my own joke like a dumbass.
Get your mind right.
Snap to.
I narrow my gaze on the campers.
They look like granola-eating, B.O.-smelling, earth-kissing twenty-somethings. Basically older versions of Ben Cobalt and Sulli’s little sister Winona.
Right now, they ogle Sulli like they recognize her. Maybe not know her. But they at least know of her. And in the past week, this isn’t the first time their eyes have super-glued to Sulli.
Akara slips his phone in his pocket. Sidling to me, he follows my gaze. “I found those four on Instagram.”
“Right on,” I say, impressed.
“It wasn’t hard. They hashtagged Rattlesnake Knuckle, and it’s not a popular tag to filter through.”
Sulli has been climbing the Rattlesnake Knuckle route this week. Only with safety gear so far. She said it’s a harder climb.
It’s taller at over a hundred meters. 400-feet up. The rock is a slick slab with a wide fissure running through the center.
Just as I’m about to ask more about the campers, Sulli closes the trunk. Akara and I focus on her like she’s the only living, breathing soul in these woods.
She sees us watching and checks us out like our staring is an invitation. “Hey.” Her voice sounds raspier as she nears.
Mary, Mother of God, I’m in way too fucking deep.
Akara adjusts his earpiece, his muscles flexed. “You ready for that shower?”
Her face reddens. Don’t blame her when Akara’s question could imply we’ll be taking a shower with her. Like we did after the cougar attack.
He runs a hand through his hair and his eyes drift over her for a second. “We’ll be outside the door.”
“Fuck, yeah. No, I knew that.” She’s quicker than normal hightailing it to the bathroom. And it takes me a second to catch up and jog out in front of her.
The campground only has one communal bathroom, equipped with three shower stalls. Before she reaches the knob, I open the door and check each stall. Confirming they’re empty.
I nod to Akara in the doorway.
He nods back.
Sulli bypasses me to the furthest shower from the door.
“We’ll be right outside,” I tell her. Christ, my voice sounds fucking deeper. “Yell if you need anything.”
She gives me a thumbs-up, her chest rising in a heady breath, then disappears. Tension strings between her and us, and I can’t cut it. The campground isn’t as private as the other one.
It’s not like before.
But holy hell am I pent-up. Moments like this from an Olympian are giving me Olympic-quality blue-balls.
Going outside, I shut the bathroom door and stand beside Akara.
He leans against the brick siding. “I screwed that up,” he exhales, his eyes drifting to the other campers. “I hate this campsite.”
“Copy that.” I pop a toothpick in my mouth. “Can’t even pee in the woods without looking over my fucking shoulder.”
We go quiet.
I want to ask him something. I glance at him, then scan the campsite.
He glances at me like he wants to ask something too, then looks away. “Are you going to say it or am I?”
“You are my leader.” I bite on the toothpick.
Akara goes ahead and asks, “Did we have a threesome?”
I lean back too. “Is it a threesome if you and I didn’t do anything?”
“Fuck if I know, man.” Akara snaps a finger to his palm. “I’ve never hooked up with a girl with another guy before.”
“Me either.”
Akara asks, “What about two other girls?”
I shake my head. “No, have you?”
“Once.” Akara frowns, thinking. “This felt so different than that. It wasn’t casual or…” He has trouble finding the exact words.
“Yeah, I know,” I nod, already understanding.
It was the most emotional, intimate moment I’ve ever had with a girl. And we didn’t even have sex. And another guy was there.
The worst part is liking what we did. Because one of us isn’t going to be with her. The silent fact lingers, and we share a more distraught look before our gazes return to the campsites.
“Incoming,” I say.
Two campers have left the orange tent.
A dirty-blonde, curly-haired woman and a wiry, white guy with a North Face headband venture our way.
Tilting my head, I whisper to Akara. “What do you know about them?”
“They’re a climbing team named Team Apex. They live in Bozeman, but they hop from campsite to campsite around the Yellowstone region for climbs.”
Do they have ulterior motives?
Some fans are masquerading as hecklers. They go in for a simple autograph or selfie but actually wish a famous one would do something awkward or say something stupid—just so they can post a human slipup for clout with their friends.
