Chapter 18 #2
I sighed, hands on my hips. He’d be fine. I just needed to brace myself for what was coming, praying he wouldn’t—or would—resort to a spanking.
Giggles burst out of me.
I couldn’t help but think it. Devious sexual desires happened more often than I liked to admit in Gray’s presence.
Making him grumble and growl was a favorite pastime of mine.
I knew if we had a different relationship right now, I’d be getting some toe-curling rewards with a few ‘yes sirs’ for good measure.
I knelt and searched my pack, pulling out my cell phone. My long-sleeved thermal remained on as I shed other layers of clothing. I stuffed all the extras back into the pack. The cold wind cut through the fabric, but it was a welcome sensation after my workout.
Looking down, phone in hand, I said a brief prayer and turned it on.
Every time the phone booted up, it was a relief. Blue light bathed my face, and the phone beeped once as each status icon lit up at the top. The signal indicator was spinning in search. I held it up, turning slowly, moving left then right. Nothing.
Until.
Dings flooded in, the phone buzzing in my hand like a timer going off. Missed messages popped up on the screen, one after another. I let out a squeal of delight as they poured in, ebbing and flowing as the phone repeatedly found and lost signal.
Short on time, I began to read.
Nash: What did you call about?
Nash: Betty?
Nash: I called Dad, and he said you left to come see us, but you’re not here. Where are you?
Nash: Dammit, Bee!
Shit. These messages date back two days. I was cooked on both ends.
Notifications continued pouring in, each one more urgent than the last. I skimmed through them, relieved when I read he hadn’t told Dad because he didn’t want to send him to an early grave. It was better that he remained in the dark.
I quickly typed out a response.
Me: With Gray. Had to leave. I’m safe. Stay in Scotland. It’s not safe in New York for you. Mafia. Rembrandt. The FBI is keeping Dad safe. He doesn’t know. He’s fine, I think.
I sent it, anxiously awaiting confirmation of receipt on his end. When it was verified, I let out another squeal. Success!
Almost immediately, bubbles popped up on the screen. Nash was replying. I glanced at the battery. It was at 4%. I had little time. My phone sometimes crashed and died, even when it still had 5% charge.
“Come on, come on,” I urged the device, my ungloved hands feeling like icicles. They’d stayed warm while climbing thanks to good blood flow, but now they were growing stiff and red.
Nash: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?
I nearly laughed at his use of all caps, but then the screen went black and I immediately scowled.
“Damn it!” I shouted, the words echoing back from the mountains several times.
Just my luck. Furious at being cheated time, I couldn’t blame myself for what happened next. Cocking my arm back, I hurled my cell phone off the cliffside with all my might, letting out another guttural yell of frustration. It soared, like an eagle, into the valley below, never to be seen again.
I squeezed my eyes shut and my frozen fingers pressed to the bridge of my nose.
I wanted to cry, but I had to look on the bright side. Nash had been warned, and now he’d be safe. That was all that mattered. Though it didn’t feel like it, I’d achieved my goal.
With nothing more to do, I pulled on my leather gloves and grabbed my belay device for descent.
After zipping up my pack, I returned to the rope.
I yanked it free from the flimsy bush, taking the entire branch with it.
I threaded the end back through my harness and belay device, then approached the edge.
Rappelling down would be quick, and this was the best part.
I leaned back over the precipice, trusting the cam anchor as I began the first section of my descent.
This top part was the least exciting, the incline too gentle for a true glide, but by the second section, I was ready to fly.
I leaned back on the second cam anchor and launched myself off the granite, swinging out and back in a rhythm, controlling my descent with the belay device feeding the rope.
I landed and approached the final tier, peering over the edge.
It was six to seven stories down, not daunting, but the thrill came from the roof overhang that tapered inward, resembling a diving board or awning.
Climbing up, this had been the hardest part, my weight resting heavily on my arms and fingers.
But the descent was pure enjoyment. This was the moment to leap from the ledge and soar.
I gave the last cam anchor a final check and did just that. My adrenaline surged.
As I fell several stories in seconds, I let out a hoot before the brake caught and slowed me down. I swung in and under the overhang, kicked off the wall, and was ready to do it again. I soared away from the cliff face, releasing the belay brake as the rope slid again.
Until.
The rope pulled taut like a bowstring, the belay snagging and halting the fall. I jerked to a near neck-snapping stop. As this happened, the weak zipper on my old backpack ripped open, its contents spilling to the ground twenty feet below.
Damn it.
“Yard-sale,” I joked out loud, trying to calm my nerves as I swung over the scattered remains of my pack. I was alive.
I worked the belay device in my hands, trying to figure out what was causing the jam-up.
My neck ached, and the harness straps dug into my hips, constricting me like a seatbelt after a crash.
From what I could deduce, the old belay had seized up, fraying the rope and tangling the remnants in the system.
I glanced down. Fortunately, I wasn’t so high that I couldn’t just cut the rope and drop the rest of the way.
It would sting, but no serious harm done, just a new bruise on my backside to add beside the others.
The snow below, thankfully, had drifted deep against the rock, offering a soft landing along with my luscious ass cheeks.
I reached for my knife, but my hand found an empty backpack. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, peering down.
There they were, all my knives, scattered across the snowbank beside my extra layers and snacks.
“Okay...” I whispered, trying to think of a solution. There had to be one.
Larry chittered from his perch in the tall evergreen, still where I’d left him, almost at my eye level.
“Could you get me a knife?” I asked.
He didn’t budge, instead stretching out on the branch and gnawing on something long and hard that looked like a bone.
I let out a sigh and slumped back for a moment, my neck aching and stiff from the whiplash.
Pulling myself upright again, I started searching my body for anything sharp enough to cut the rope.
My cargo pockets were empty, and so was my coat, though the pack had some metal buckles.
I carefully disassembled one of the shoulder straps, keeping the other one wrapped around my arm.
I wasn’t about to lose anything else, not even an empty bag if it could help keep me warm.
I held the buckle up, noticing its rough edge. It might just work—it had to work.
Clutching it between numbing fingers, I sawed at the rope as the sun dipped lower, taking the temperature with it. Hanging there, all I could wonder was just how mad Gray was at this moment, and hope that he really was a good tracker, if not the best.
“Please… come find me, asshole.”