to go to find your path again?”
He throws a couple of marshmallows in his mouth and, cheeks poofed ludicrously, grumbles, “No. No idea how we got here. No idea how to get back.”
“We’ll all check together tomorrow,” Greyson firmly, in the tone of having said this before. “Any rate, we’ve already got a great bunch of shots.”
“But the alligators!” Russel exclaims, throwing both arms out in his fervor and dropping the marshmallow bag in the process. “The big, terrible, gnawing murderers of beasts, what of them? This special was supposed to be great. It was supposed to be about them.”
“You were supposed to know how to get back to the camp,” Greyson growls.
Then, catching my ingratiating smile, he takes a breath.
“The show was supposed to be finished and sent to post-production over a week ago,” he says. “But here we are. As much as I want to capture those alligators, I’m not about to sacrifice everything to do it. Anyway, Harley’s right: people do love babies, and she got some good footage today.”
“Only a few minutes of it,” I say, although my heart is hop-skipping with his praise.
If a few years ago, you’d have told me that I’d be working with Greyson Storm—hell, hooking up with Greyson Storm—I would’ve thought you were crazy.
Samantha sniffs loudly. Manuel hands me a sausage. Meanwhile, Russel is eyeing Greyson with what looks to be admiration. “Taking charge like that—you know, you are your father’s son.”
Greyson grunts noncommittally.
Russel seizes the marshmallow bag, grabs some, and declares, “What! It’s a compliment!”
Greyson’s looking at the fire, doesn’t seem to see anything else. “In some ways.”
“Oh?”
“I won’t badmouth the dead,” Greyson says flatly.
“Oh,” Russel says, “But he was a good father?”
“Yeah,” Greyson says. “He was that.”
Russel rubs his hands together contemplatively. “And a good businessman?”
“Depends on your definition of good.”
“But he did what he had to, yes? Paid the price.”
The silence after his words stretches so long that it seems like Greyson isn’t going to respond at all, until he finally murmurs, “Some prices aren’t worth paying.”
“Maybe,” Russel says, after a pause of his own. “But in your personal life, your brothers and you are like him, no? All grown men and perpetual bachelors.”
Greyson shrugs.
“Come now!” Russel exclaims. “Remember, I have partied with you in LA! I’ve seen the beautiful, work-of-art beauties you all have enjoyed, I—”
“Russel,” Greyson says curtly, “Shut up.”
As if remembering the rest of us for the first time in a while, Russel casts a musing look around. “Ah. Yes. OK, boss.”
As I eat the rest of my sausage, and roast and eat another, and chat with Manuel and Jorge about their own backgrounds (Manuel is from Spain, and Jorge grew up on a remote farm in BC), I can’t get a weird twist out of my belly. A weird twist that came right after Russel’s words.
Oh well.
**
The next morning, we set out bright and early. Russel doesn’t find the path, but we do stumble on a mother puma and her cubs. As we are slowly creeping away, with Greyson coolly hissing instructions to us and Russel blubbering about how he doesn’t want to die, I manage to get a good shot of the mother puma hissing ferociously at us, probably puma for: “Come any closer and I’ll bite off your face.”
By the time we choose our campsite, Greyson’s decided that we have enough footage to head on back, alligators or no. He’s also successfully avoided being alone with me for the entire day, while also making sure I don’t wander as much as two feet away from the others without him noticing.
Which isn’t as much of a burden as it sounds, considering we trekked a good eight hours, on and off, and I’m dead tired.
It’s a nice kind of tiredness, though, one that doesn’t allow any extraneous thought other than a sluggish awareness of itself and how many times I’ve yawned lately.
The others are busy getting dinner started, while Greyson and I are fetching firewood, when suddenly Greyson freezes.
“Hey—” I begin.
He shushes me, points.
A few feet away from us, a weird grey-brown creature is eyeing us uncertainly, its curled snout twitching.
“Camera,” Greyson hisses. “Slowly.”
I’m on it in seconds that feel like hours. And to think I was beginning to wonder if hauling around this heavy-ass thing 24/7 was worth it.
“Don’t move, though,” Greyson mutters, as if reading my mind for my next thought.
Not that I was about to bound at the thing with camera flailing, but it would be nice if I didn’t have