First Comes Love - Ashlee Price Page 0,14

more and more enticing,” Jorge mutters, almost under his breath.

Clearly, everyone else has picked up on the mood of uncertainty among the leadership. Better not to mention that we have no usable maps.

Seeing Harley’s pointed look—Wasn’t this supposed to be a team?—I clear my throat. “Any questions?”

“Yes,” Manuel says, raising his hand tentatively.

“Yes?” I ask him.

“What if… we fall off his trail.”

“Good point, almost forgot.” I reach into my pack and fish out the spool of ribbon I threw in at the last minute. “We’ll be tying this on trees every so often as we go. That should help. Although I don’t expect to use it.”

“Besides,” Russel cuts in, “my path-finding skills are out of this world. I can get us back to the big fat alligators before you can say ‘big fat alligator’.”

Samantha grumbles something that sounds like ‘big fat alligator’ and the others exchange uncertain smiles. Only Harley looks ready. Time to take this show on the road.

“Right. Any questions? No?” I smile at everyone with more confidence than I feel. “Then let’s get trekking.”

As we walk, I try to believe my own words. Even though, after everything, I’ve come up with a plan that could’ve been brainstormed in five minutes: Go back the way Russel came, following the tramped-out, slashed-down path through the forest. And hoping it’s still there.

“I did survive my way here,” Russel keeps reminding me with a winning grin as we continue along, as if this is supposed to be the greatest endorsement in the world.

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