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“What rule?” I mutter. “I don’t remember a rule about no touching?”

A game winning smile pulls at his lips and he replaces his hand over the shifter. “Good,” he says, pulling out of the gas station, leaving me ravenous for his hands to find their way back up my
thigh.

CALI

I HOPE HE HAS
a plan. This place is monstrous—canyons for miles.
It’s all I can see. Dad could be in any crater, nook or under any rock for all I know. I hate to even think where he’s getting his source of
food from, or where we’re going to acquire ours from.

“We have nothing to camp with. Are we just going to wing it?” I ask, knowing I sound a bit apprehensive about surviving in the
wilderness for an indefinite amount of time.

He ignores my question and unlatches the top cover from the bed of the truck. “I slept in the sands of Iraq and Afghanistan with explosions in the wind for about eighteen months each time. We’ll be
fine.” He pulls two large packs out and sets them both on the ground in front of me. “Take whatever contents you might need from your personal bag and evenly distribute them in this.” He leans over and sets my pack upright, lifting it as if it weighed less than a pound. He rips the zipper open and pulls the seams apart. “Go ahead.”

I don’t have much in my personal bag as it is, which is good since
there’s not much room in the pack he gave me. I pull a change of
clothes out, my cosmetics bag, my pills and running shoes.

I toss my personal bag back into the truck and turn back to see him prepping my pack with something else. “What’s that?”

“Camelbak. Water. You really haven’t been camping before?”

“Not really. My dad wasn’t around, and the only outdoors Mom enjoyed was the beach.”

He walks over to where I’m standing and kneels down in front of me. I look down at him and give him a cutting look, feeling foolish as he unties the laces of my boots and yanks the top cross as
tightly as possible. He pulls the loose lace until there’s enough slack left to tie
around my ankle twice. My circulation feels borderline cut off, but I assume he knows what he’s doing. He moves over to the next boot and does the same thing. “You need to support your ankles when
hiking through here. There’s no time to twist or sprain anything.”

He moves back over to his pack and retrieves a few more items.
He returns to me with a holster and a handgun. “Wildlife, and
maybe assholes.”

“Hmm. You better watch yourself then,” I say, inspecting the pistol.

He narrows his eyes at me, and takes my hand into his.
“Carolina
Tate. You might have scared a lot of people off during the course of your life, but being scared of you is like being afraid of a spider weaving a web. No one likes a nasty spider, but the web it builds can turn out to
be one of the most spectacular wonders of the world. And like the
spider,
I know you are capable of much more than terrorizing people.” I think it’s funny or ironic that I was scared about getting tangled up in his web, and now he’s calling me a spider. Seems like another case of fate.

I’m not sure he was expecting me to say anything, and I’m not
sure how to respond. He continues organizing his pack and finally pulls it over his shoulders. I follow his lead and lift mine from the ground. Uh? This thing weighs like eighty pounds. I can see him trying not to laugh at my struggle as he walks over to me, carrying
his pack as if it
weighs no more than an empty bag. He pulls the straps from the side of my pack and clips them over the top of my chest, and then another set around my waist. He tightens them and I feel the weight
distribute more evenly over my hips. I guess this isn’t as bad now. I readjust my posture and stretch my neck to each side. “I guess I’m ready.”

“You’ll get used to it. I promise,” he says.

Yeah. Before or after I croak?

Each step through the rocky terrain stretches the muscles in the back of my calves, and it feels good after sitting in the truck for so long. Although, the sun’s heat is another story. Thankfully, it’s later in the afternoon, and I can see the glare dipping beneath some of the
higher
canyons, eliminating part of the direct blaze. I imagine it must be brutal here in the mornings—something to look forward to
tomorrow, I
assume. I push forward, keeping up with his pace, careful not to
appear as the weak link. Although, we both know he’s been trained for this, and I have not.

We find an arched cave-like boulder blocking a bit of sun. Tango
drops his pack to the ground and tugs at the waterspout on his Camelbak. “You need to drink more than what you’ve been
drinking,” he says, breathing heavily.

He crouches down into a dip against the wall and pours some of
his water over his head. “God damn, it’s hot.” So. Are. You. I have to stop myself from biting on my lip. I look eager and hungry. Which I am, but still. “You sure you’re all right? You’re a little flushed,” he
says. As he’s clearly worrying about me, he pulls out an inhaler. I’m not sure why I keep forgetting where this is all leading. He’s sick. He’s dying. And I’m starting to have real feelings for him.

“Are you in pain?” I ask.

“It’s getting worse, yeah.” He sucks in the medication, puffing his chest out and holding it briefly. He purses his lips and slowly blows the remaining medication back out of his mouth. “It feels like there’s a fire burning in my lungs,” he sighs. He presses the heel of
his palm into the center of his chest as I’ve seen him do a few times and rubs it in a circular motion before releasing a dry painful sounding cough.

I wrap my tired arms around him and place my head against his
chest, listening to his struggle. I can’t understand his pain, and I can’t feel it, but I can hear it. It sounds like someone trying to suck a lot of air through a little straw. I don’t know how he’s going to
survive this hike.
“Why don’t we sit down for a few minutes so you can catch your
breath,” I suggest

“I’m good,” he lets out a wheezy laugh. “You’re the one who looks like hell.” His sarcasm might just be my favorite thing about him.

“Gee, thanks. I’m really fine, though.”

I’m dying. So fucking hot. I peel a layer off, noticing his eyes watching my every move as I pull my shirt over my head and drop my pants to my ankles, revealing my last layer: running shorts and a tight black tank top. When I pull my shirt off over my head, he
stands up
and walks over to me. He places the tip of his finger gently down over the curved line of the tattoo on my shoulder, and I flinch away from his touch. My skin is sensitive in that area, still painful most of the time. “Sorry.” I’m not sure why I’m apologizing for being in pain.

“Don’t be. Does it hurt when I touch it?” I nod my head and lean down to shove my shirt and pants into my bag. “I’m sorry they
couldn’t remove the bullet,” he says.

“It’s fine.” Not really, but I hate talking about this damn scar.

“Does this tattoo really mean death?”

It’s as if showing him the entire tattoo unveiled another dimension of my persona. “Yes.” That, I have no problem talking
about. “What does
that
mean?” I ask, pointing to one of his tattoos poking out on
his neck above the back of his shirt. It depicts a skull within a spade stretched across a playing card. I tug on the bottom of his shirt and
lift it
up to see. I find four more of the exact same tattoo—five skulls on
spades.

I release his shirt as he turns around and glances up at me with a dark look in his eyes. His pupils dilate as he appears to stare right through me. His voice sounds robotic when the word
death
escapes his mouth. His tattoo means death as well. We’re so alike in so many different ways.

Acknowledging that this conversation clearly just hit a wall, I lift my pack and throw it back over my shoulders. “Ready?”

The eagerness in his eyes agrees with my thoughts. “Yeah, let’s go.”

The burning rays are becoming weaker and the heat isn’t
permeating my pale flesh as much. I glance down at my freckled
arms,
and I notice the subtle pink glow I had a couple of hours ago has
turned into lobster red. I slathered on sunscreen before we left, but it seems ineffective here.

The path we’ve been on seems to be spiraling us up toward the peak of a high canyon and it feels endless. “Have you checked that
tracking information against a map recently? I think we’re walking in circles,” I say breathlessly.

“We are. We need to find a place to camp tonight, but I’d like to climb a little higher before we stop.”

I’m not cut out for this shit.

***

The peak appears to be getting closer, but my legs are becoming stiff and numb. Tango reaches his hand back to me, and I don’t hesitate before grabbing a hold of it. His hand is covered in red dirt—it’s hot and strong. Putting aside the sensation I feel every time this man
touches me, I remind myself this isn’t for romance. This is to survive the rest
of this hike. Although, I should probably be the one pulling him up. His lungs hate him, and I don’t know where his stamina is coming from.

***

The view forgives all pain and sweat. The sun’s glare is now teasing
the plateau of canyons on the horizon. The glow of the red clay meshes with the yellow hue of the fire in the sky, creating the most exquisite sunset I’ve ever seen. I can understand why some people
would hike
up just for this view. It’s unfortunate I hiked up in hopes of finding the man who put me on this earth, and in turn saving the man I
don’t want to leave this earth.

No one else is up here right now. It’s just us. We’re alone, staring down at the world beneath. My eyes couldn’t possibly focus on every detail below me, but I could spend every second of my life trying. I miss the times where I would have tried to paint this scene. I would have tried to study the shadow in each pit and nook on
every canyon below
me and the hues of each grain of dirt. I’ve been taught to take a closer look. To always notice every detail. And I do. Every. Single.
Detail. Ugly or beautiful, I see it all.

I shove my hands into my back pockets and suck in the freshest
air I’ve ever breathed. I hear Tango’s pack drop to the ground behind me, and I turn around to find a tent already pitched. He’s inside and the dimming sunlight is illuminating his shadow, along with every arch and bend of his perfect body. I force myself to turn
back around and I find a rock to perch on. I pull my knees into my chest and wrap my arms tightly around them. My focus drifts up into the large gingered sky, staring through the forever, wondering if Mom and Krissy are looking back at me.

Tango’s shadow hovers over me and he sits down on the rock beside me. “I think my buddies are up there staring back at me too.”

I look over at him, wondering how he knew what I was thinking, but maybe it’s how everyone thinks when they lose someone close.

“How many friends did you lose over there?” I might be
stepping on unchartered territory, but it’s just us up here and my question is just one of an endless list.

“Which tour?” he asks. My face responds to his question.
Probably
the same look he gets when he tells anyone this. “The first tour, we lost five guys. I was pretty close with one of them. The second tour,
we lost
one. He was a good guy. We weren’t too close, but we were all closer than just friends. I was actually the one who had to greet his parents when we arrived home. The third tour was the worst, though. We
lost
twelve men. Three of them were part of my company, and we were closer than any people could be without being related by blood. Camaraderie
and friendship is a given when you don’t know when you’re going to take your last breath.”

I sadly understand way more than I should. I didn’t volunteer to
protect my country. I didn’t even volunteer to protect my friends and family. I was forced to. He’s a better person than I am. He’s
worked for the greater good. I have not.

“You hungry?” he asks, nudging his shoulder into my side.

 “Yes, starved.” We haven’t eaten all day, and I haven’t asked since I was figuring we’d be hunting our food down tonight. If that
is
his idea, I might go on an eating fast. He turns around and digs
through his pack for a minute before he pops back up and tosses me a green air suctioned bag with the letters
MRE
written across the front. “What is it? Not that I’m complaining, obviously.”

He takes it back out of my hand and studies the back of the
package. “This one is chicken and rice.” He lifts up his other hand with another green package and reads the contents on that one as well. “And this one is beefsteak.” He hands them both to me.
“Choose which one you’d
prefer. They’re meals ready to eat, MRE’s. I lived off these things
when I was overseas.”

“I’ll have the chicken and rice.” He drops the bag back on my lap and I inspect it, looking for a way to open it. He hands me a knife.

“Can I trust you with this?” His brows arch, and I’m almost waiting for him to crack a smile, but I’m also thinking I seriously pissed him off
with my knife threat the other day. I wasn’t going to do anything to
him—just trying to make a point, but he might not know that.