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We trek for a good few hours amidst the muggy jungle, following Russel’s clumsy zig-zagging path, before setting up camp.
This time, we quickly set up our tents almost side by side. Afterwards, we sit around the fire roasting the last of the marshmallows.
“Anyone know any good ghost stories?” Harley suggests.
“Now’s probably not the time for ghost stories,” Samantha grumbles, nursing a new scrape.
She ignored my suggestions to stay behind with the others and rushed so much to keep up that she tripped over an unnoticed lump of dirt.
“What, afraid of a ghost hippo?” Russel teases.
“No, just a real hippo,” Samantha snaps back.
“There are no hippos here,” I point out. “Only in Africa.”
As if she didn’t hear, Samantha’s eager gaze swivels my way. “Why don’t you tell us one of your great stories?”
“Great stories?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know—you’re Greyson Storm, you must have some crazy stories to tell.”
“Well…”
Truth is, I do, and lots of them. But most of them involve near-death experiences in similarly difficult climates, and something tells me that’s not going to be a crowd-pleaser right about now. And talking myself up always makes me feel like a huge tool anyway.
Without a word, Harley rises and walks off.
“Buddy system?” Manuel asks, looking after her.
“She probably wants to pee and doesn’t want me coming along,” Samantha says officiously.
In the flickering firelight, Russel’s eyes look downright humorous. “Why ever not? You are such a pleasant individual.”
I resist the urge to laugh—or get up. Harley shouldn’t be out there alone, whatever the reason. More than that, I want to talk to her. I barely said two words to her while we were trekking today. Mostly since I was up front and she was behind, joking with Manuel and Jorge, but…
Focus, Greyson.
I grab myself another few marshmallows. It’s probably good that I haven’t picked up where I left off with Harley. Jerking off to her was supposed to get her out of my head. Doesn’t look like it worked.
Only a few more minutes of diminishing chit-chat and everyone else is dispersing to their tents. A long, hard day of trekking will do that to you, even if it weren’t for the murderous hordes of mosquitoes coming out now.
My tent is at the end, and I’ve just gotten in and laid down when I smell something that has me jolting upright in my sleeping bag.
Smoke.
I wait a few seconds to be sure, then rise. My tent is the farthest from the fire, so the new smell probably isn’t from there. As for another source…
Poking my head out allows me to make out a grand total of nothing in the pitch black. But once I get out and start walking, I’m able to follow the smell quietly, a minute or two into the rainforest, until…
For fuck’s sake.
It’s Harley, sitting on a mossy log, looking out into the darkness. In the moonlight, she’s as beautiful as I’ve seen her—long legs crossed, hair spilling over her shoulders.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss.
She freezes, then turns to smile at me. “Caught me.”
I sniff the air again. “That’s pot, isn’t it?”
Another lazy smile. “Yep.”
“You can’t be doing that.”
As I approach, she looks genuinely curious. “Why not?”
Anger spikes in me, sudden and unreasonable and hot. “You could get yourself killed!”
I’m surprised at the vehemence of my own voice.
The curl of her lip corners is pure amusement. “Didn’t know it bothered you so much, Mr. Storm.”
“Of course it… what kind of boss do you take me for?”
“Honestly?” She looks at me head-on. “A talented one. Other than that, I… don’t know.”
I find myself going to sit down beside her. “I don’t pretend to know you, either. But I thought you were better than this.”
“Better than what?”
“Endangering yourself and the camp needlessly.”
“How am I endangering the camp? Afraid a snake will be drawn to the mouthwatering scent of la ganja?”
I want to laugh, but stop myself. “Harley.”
“What?”
“Fine. Endangering yourself, then. Being out here alone would be dangerous even if you were sober.”
Eyes on me, she slowly lifts the joint to her lips, takes a puff. Like a challenge. A sexy one that’s damn near irresistible.
My eyes on her lips now, what I even came here for is slowly rolling away, like the smoke from her lips, dissipating in the clear air.
“Is it that big of a deal?” she asks lightly, “Camp is literally a minute away if anything happens.”
“If you’re here, you’re my responsibility. And if anything happened to you…” Once again, I fall silent, surprised at how I’m talking. None of the cool all-business tone I’ve gotten more and more practiced at using. The words I’m saying sound too… real.
Her chuckle is throaty and infuriating at once. “Nothing’s going to happen to me, promise. It’s a perfectly safe way to chill out—I can prove it to you.”
As she holds out the joint to me, her gaze holds a different sort of challenge.
