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“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Harley’s arms are crossed, her glare and raised eyebrows saying it all. Her tone is all business. “This is StormTV, not Baywatch. Or is all the adventure on the show always BS?”
“No, not at all.” It takes all my self-control to keep my voice cool. “I just can’t in good conscience put a bunch of underqualified people in harm’s way.”
“You’re not forcing anyone,” Harley argues. “And I don’t know about the others, but this is exactly what I signed up for: trying my luck against dangerous odds in nature.”
“Still.” I shut up as she strides towards me, her jaw set. She looks like she’s about to slap me… or kiss me. I’m angry enough to do the same: catch her slapping hand, kiss her.
She stops a foot from me, less. Close enough to slap or kiss. But she only leans in to hiss, “I didn’t come here for the opportunity of a lifetime, only to throw it away because things aren’t perfect.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” I hiss back. “And I’d remind you who you’re talking to. Your boss.”
Her chin rises, then wavers. “Sorry. I… my point is: I do know what I’m getting into. I’m here for StormTV with Greyson Storm, the supposedly notorious daredevil, no-holds-barred producer who lets nothing get in the way of a good show. Nothing.”
Her words echo in my head annoyingly. Notorious daredevil, no-holds-barred producer… nothing get in the way of a good show… Nothing.
“You’re out of line,” I finally snap.
Harley may be hot and mouthy, and I may even be getting the beginnings of a hard-on right now, but at the end of the day, I’m the boss and she’s just someone I hired yesterday.
“Thought you said this was a place of suggestions, a team,” she snaps, although she takes a step back and folds her arms across her chest.
“Lip-service and you know it.” I’m mad, suddenly, really mad. Mad enough to say what I really think and not just blab Good Boss 101 BS. Harley’s right, and it pisses me the hell off.
Backing down from a challenge? This isn’t me. But with her there… it’s scrambled my brain. If anything were to happen to any of the crew, I’d feel responsible. “Fine.” I turn to the others. “Your decision: Stay or go?”
Silence.
Harley raises her hand, eyes on me. “Stay.”
Russel half-raises his hand. “Beach?”
“You mean ‘go’,” I tell him, then turn to the others. “What about the rest of you?”
Sighing, Jorge raises his hand. “What can I say, I’ve never been known for my wise choices. I’ll stay.”
“Stay,” Manuel squeaks.
Samantha gives Harley a death glare as she intones, “Stay.”
“Alright.” I nod. Who knows whether what’s on my face is a relieved smile or an ugly grimace. Only time will tell whether this was a worthwhile risk or the biggest fuck-up of my career. No point in overthinking it now. “We’re staying. But I’m not about to go stumbling back into the rainforest without a detailed game plan, tight schedule or no. Russel, tomorrow you’ll plot out the path you took to get here, everything you know about what’s in there, and we’ll figure out our trail. Tonight, and maybe tomorrow night even, we’ll camp here. Alright everyone, let’s move.”
And just like that, everyone disperses into a flurry of activity. Not that I can blame them. I did get in a quick nap on the plane, but I’m dead tired and still pissy as hell. Hearing about so many difficulties isn’t exactly an upper.
“Greyson, my man, have I got the thing for you.” Russel’s gesturing me forward with what may or may not be a come-hither gesture.
“Not now,” I tell him. “Got to help set up tents.” I’ve already about had it with his jolly attitude. We may all die in here if we screw up. Doesn’t he get it?
I start with helping Jorge, then end up helping the others as well.
While everyone in this crew claimed they had ‘camping’ experience on their resumes, I know enough to realize that means anything from roasting marshmallows in the microwave one time to actual tent setting up. Plus, there’s something meditative about the repetitive staking of the tent, assembling the poles, attaching the rain fly. And I need anything I can get to calm me, right now.
Once the tents are set up, Russel leads me over to what looks like an outhouse.
“My dude,” he says, “You have to check this out.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, then pause, peering inside. “Is that…?”
“A shower.” Russel lets out a low, self-satisfied whistle. “Hell yeah, it is.”
“But… how?”
Russel reaches in, and next thing I know, hot water is spilling down my arm.
“Don’t ask how,” he whispers with a gleam in his eye. “Just say yes.”
“Yes?” I say.
But Russel’s already walking off, with a wave. “Thank me later.”
