Ryke runs a hand through his hair and then gestures to me. “I don’t ever want you to feel like I fucking brought you here to work for me.”
I try hard not to smile, finding him extremely attractive for caring so much. I’ve never felt how he described, not even a little bit. I love being a part of his process for free-soloing. At a northern rock face, I’ve cleaned grass out of crevices for over five hours with Sully, just so Ryke could free-solo climb with less risk of potential injury or death.
Every minute, I treasure. I neither slowed him down nor sat on the sidelines.
“You have it wrong, you know,” I tell him. “You’ve included me in something you love, and I’m only grateful and so happy that you’ve shared this with me. I would hate it if you never told me when you’re climbing or if you drove five hours without me and did everything alone.”
In a low, husky voice, he says, “Vieni qui.” He uses Italian with me mostly in intimate moments, muttered quietly and softly. I’ve heard this phrase enough to translate it without asking.
Come here.
I step closer, and his rough hand slides against my cheek with so much tender affection.
My body warms. “How do you say hold me?”
“Abbracciami.” He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me until our chests meet.
I can’t contain my smile. “How do you say give me a kiss?”
He lowers his head and whispers, “Dammi un bacio.” Then his lips press to my cheek, leaving a fiery, tingling imprint.
“What about lick me?” I tease.
His brows rise but there’s a smile toying with this lips too. “Leccami.”
Swiftly, I lick his neck and then nuzzle his jaw like a puppy.
He draws me back, only enough so he can kiss me right on the lips, like he’s been aching to be there all this time. It lasts maybe a couple seconds, broken by applause behind us.
We both turn to Sully, who stops clapping but his dorky smile never shies. “Can’t a guy appreciate romance? Will there be tissues at the wedding because I’m a crier. I’m not against using cloth napkins.” He pauses. “That’s if I’m invited.” His eyes ping between us. “I’m invited, right?”
“No,” Ryke deadpans at the same time that I say, “Yes.”
Sully points at his friend. “Traitor.”
“Loser.”
Sully gapes. “Toad-face.”
“Ginger root.” He tosses him a carabiner, and I can almost see their friendship at eight and nine years old, right before my eyes.
Sully scoffs and pats his hair. “You just wish you were part of the Weasley clan.”
Ryke almost smiles. “Don’t drop my fucking fiancée.”
He grows more serious as he says, “On my life, man. I won’t.”
* * *
I’ve made it safely to the top with Adam Sully. He’s already set an anchor, and Ryke has solo-climbed once and repelled. Now at the base of the cliff, he sheds his gear to free-solo.
I watch from the top, the surface mostly flat and grassy. I stand near the edge, the wind whipping my hair, reminding me that today’s conditions are “fair but not optimal” (Sully’s words).
Ryke clips his chalk bag around his waist, about ready to climb. The tips of my climbing shoes peek off the edge, fear extinguished, but I snuff out adrenaline-fueled ideas that would do damage if I let them take hold.
Sully snatches my harness from behind. “Hey, crazy.” He tugs me backwards until I’m five feet from the edge. “He can go without a rope, but you can’t.” He attaches a carabiner to my harness. Following the rope, I’m secured to the anchor that Ryke no longer uses. So is Sully.
I smile. “Unless,” I say, “my death is imminent, in that case I could probably go without one. I’d just, you know, die. The tragedy of it all.”
Sully shakes his head at me. “So morbid.”
A giant part of me wishes I feared death. I fear people who’ll hurt me. Who’ll hurt Ryke. Who’ll hurt my sisters, but I don’t fear the end.
Though being a huge part of someone’s life makes me stop and think and ache. I hate imagining Ryke alone, so I try not to dwell or let sadness consume me. I have so much to live for, and I’m not ready to slow down.
I nudge his side with my elbow. “Aren’t you the one who said in climber life-span, you’re nearing your seventies and Ryke is already a hundred and should die by next year?”
Sully ponders this by staring at the sky. “Yeah, well…death is relative to those who play with it.” He meets my smile and says, “We’re all a fucking morbid bunch, aren’t we?”
“Seems that way.” I rock on my feet. “So where’ve you been living?” I ask, changing topics. I have a feeling Ryke is climbing, but I don’t want to disturb him by suddenly appearing by the edge.
“Everywhere and anywhere.” Sully spreads his arms. “I’m a certified nomad on wheels.” He still lives out of his Jeep then, climbing every day, wherever he can. He gestures to the rock face. “I only come back to Pennsylvania for this grump.”
“He loves climbing more when you’re here,” I tell him.
Sully’s lips rise. “You think?”
“Definitely,” I say. “His whole demeanor is different.”
“Yeah, he’s surlier.”
“He’s happier.”
Sully stares down at me. “He’s happier with you too, you know.”
We’re both smiling for a long moment. Being the cause of someone’s happiness, well—that feels like love, doesn’t it?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I check the text.
You have to reconsider the reality show, Daisy. You and your sisters are getting major heat from the tabloids. Last one I read called you a spoiled brat. Assholes. – Cleo
Since my engagement party and the dismissal of Queens of Philadelphia, Cleo and Harper have been texting me nonstop. Giving me updates on what Twitter and gossip mags are saying. I never asked for their opinions or updates, and I never respond to their texts. They won’t take the hint.
A second later, a few more texts ping through.
Shit. Someone’s started a #CallowaySistersSuck h
ashtag – Cleo
Don’t read the newest Celebrity Crush. They took a horrible picture of you. Like you look ugly as fuck and you’re a freaking super model. Or…were. – Harper
Please reconsider the show. I’m telling you this as your concerned friend. – Cleo
I’ve already seen Twitter, and for as many fans that hate us for turning our backs on the show, there are still those that understand our choices. It’s just that hate tends to be louder and more volatile.
My stomach knots when Cleo sends a third text.
Love you always, girl – Cleo
I could reply, for the first time, and tell her to stop texting me. But I don’t want to open a dialogue with her, so I make a plan to change my number. It’s the option that feels right.
I’m about to put my phone away, when it pings again. My head throbs, but as soon as I see the screen, I realize it’s not my ex-friends at all.
Bad news. Your bodyguard quit. I need you to stay at home or have Garth go out with you until I can find you a new one. – Dad
Why would Mikey just quit on me? Especially without telling me first?
I reread the text, my stomach sinking. Mikey doesn’t always follow me when I’m out with Ryke. Like today. My dad has no idea but I doubt he’d approve. I liked everything about Mikey, and I worry his replacement will be ten times worse.
I’d rather pick out the new bodyguard than hand this over to my dad—
“Ryke!” a girl shouts, a voice that I’ve never heard.
Sully curses, and we both take off towards the edge, a lump rising in my throat.
“Ryke, look here!” a man shouts next.
What is this? Sully pulls me down so we’re both sitting, our legs dangling off the cliff. Ryke is midway up the wall, his pace slow since it’s a difficult climb. He’s about to reach the section where he has to be slightly inverted.
“Sul,” Ryke says once, knowing his friend would appear. Sweat rolls down his forehead, and he takes one hand off to dip his fingers into chalk.
“You two!” Sully yells, my pulse rocketing. A man and woman with expensive cameras stand by our gear and Ryke’s backpack, snapping photos. “You need to leave!”