“Well, I have to,” Akara sighs. “They’re not budging no matter what pitch I give.” To Banks, he says, “Thatcher gave me some updates on the guys back in Philly.” He must be referring to Quinn and Donnelly.
“What’s the word?” Banks asks.
While they talk, I study the hiking trail guide on the corkboard. My finger travels the line to The Bitterroot Buttress.
No part of me wishes to return to the rock face. The path there is cursed. And I don’t want to replay the cougar attack every time we trek to the base of the crag. I’m leaving the goal unfinished.
Incomplete.
Safety is more important, and I need to be completely focused. Not halfway back in the past. And anyway, I’ve become more used to scrapping goals and beginning new ones. It’s not that devastating.
Moffy not being able to run the Chile ultra-marathon helped me take small bumps and hiccups in better strides. Shit happens.
Fuck it all and start again.
I tap a finger to the next rock face my dad once free-soloed. The climbing route is dubbed Rattlesnake Knuckle.
“I don’t remember him bringing home any girls since we’ve been living together either,” Banks says to Akara. My ears pick up mid-conversation.
“Who?” I ask.
Yeah, I’m fucking nosy. Maybe because I over-share my life, and it feels like everyone else under-shares.
“Donnelly,” Banks tells me.
Akara explains more, “Quinn said he hasn’t seen Donnelly bring home any girls to hook up with.”
While we trek up the path to RV Campsite #12, they flank either side of me, and I ask them, “Is that out of the ordinary for Donnelly or something?”
“Yeah,” Akara says. “When I was living with him in Epsilon’s house years ago, his one-night stand stole his wallet, mine, and Greer’s in the morning and then bolted.”
Greer Bell. He was my bodyguard before Akara. From age 8 to 16, Greer protected me, and he’s currently the 24/7 bodyguard to my sister Winona. Since Greer joined security at twenty-two, he’s now in his mid-thirties.
I snort. “She was able to steal from legit security guards.”
Banks laughs with me.
Akara tries not to smile. “That’s so not the point, you two.”
“Yeah, what’s the point then?” While we walk, I go to lightly slug his shoulder, then retrack. Remembering he’s hurt. Good call, Sulli.
“Donnelly usually brings chicks home,” Akara tells me, “but he hasn’t been. Any change in my men, just puts me on edge. I’m just worried about him.” He pushes his hair back and fits on a backwards baseball cap.
Banks reminds Akara, “And he’s been sleepwalking.”
Akara let that slip one time to me. So it’s not news to me that Donnelly sleepwalks.
“On one hand, is he okay?” Akara muses out loud, our feet in sync as we pass the camp bathrooms. “On the other, is he fit for duty?” He touches his chest. “I’m not around enough right now to make that call.”
“Then don’t,” Banks says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Just let Thatcher keep an eye on Quinn who has eyes on Donnelly.”
Akara nods, exhaling.
I understand competitive pressure from sports. But not the kind of pressure that Banks and Akara face daily. They’re both in charge of human lives, but Akara is also in charge of Banks’ life and the rest of SFO. If anything goes wrong, if anyone is hurt, that falls on his shoulders.
While we continue up a hill, we go quiet and I feel their eyes flash to me every now and then. Being between them is the greatest comfort but the biggest challenge I’m going to meet. For some reason, it feels tougher than any rock I’m going to climb.
27
BANKS MORETTI
Firewood and branches pile high in Sulli’s arms. I grip an axe and a bunch of wood, while Akara glares at me and then Sulli. I’d say Yellowstone Country is beautiful this evening with the yellows and oranges cresting the horizon as the October season descends on Montana, but the more beautiful thing is Akara’s annoyance.
Love to push his buttons and see him switch from friend to shut up, Banks, and it’s been too easy lately. Strangely enough, it has nothing to do with Sulli.
“This is ridiculous. I can carry a log,” he combats.
“I know you can,” Sulli says. “But that doesn’t mean you should.”
I crack a lopsided smile. “What she said.”
Akara gives me a look. “It’s been seven days since Farrow stitched me.”
“And I’m no doctor, but as far as I know, if you’ve got stitches, you can still break them open.” I nod to