3
Ramsey
My gear was spread out all over my floor, my bed, my desk, and my dresser. With my checklist in my hand, I ticked off each item as I counted it;
“…extra socks, check—I’ve got…let’s see, one, two, three, four, six pair. That’s good.” I had a habit of talking to myself out loud as I went over my gear list for a trip like this. “What’s next? Hatchet—check. Bowie knife? Check, plus a spare. Pistol? Check. Ammo? Check. Could use more, but it’ll be enough. Clothes?”
I went through my clothes again, making sure I had clean underwear, thermal underwear in case it got unexpectedly cold, plenty of T-shirts, a thick sweater, a pair of jeans, plus a fleece shell jacket, a wool beanie, and thin but warm gloves. It was summer, but you never knew what could happen out there, and I believed in being prepared. I could carry the extra weight easily, and the warm gear only took up a tiny corner of my backpack.
“Check,” I said, when I was sure I had enough clothing. “Food?” I very carefully went through my food supply, making sure I had enough food for the three days I planned to be gone, plus two day’s extra rations in case of emergency. “Check. Canteens? Check. Flares and flare gun? Check. Portable cooktop and fuel? Check. Toilet paper? Check. Matches, lighter, and flint and steel? Check. Fishing line? Check. Hooks? Check. Fishing pole? Check. GPS unit? Check. Paper map? Check. Compass? Check, plus a spare. Tent?” I examined the tent, making sure it was intact and that I had the rain shell and all the stakes and poles, and then checked it off my list.
Item by item, I made sure I had everything I’d need to survive on my own in the wilderness. And then, once I had double and triple-checked that I had everything, I began packing it all into my backpack, which was a long, laborious process, and one I took as seriously as the checklist itself, if not more so—the even distribution of weight was essential to being comfortable on long hikes.
Finally, I was ready. I had my lighter, flint and steel, Bowie knife, pistol, ammo, compass, and hatchet all on my person, either in pockets or on my belt. The rest of the supplies I might need while on the move, such as canteens, GPS, and maps were within easy reach without taking off the backpack. I’d made sure every item was secured in such a way that nothing would jangle, shift, flop, or sway, and I made sure the items I would need at a moment’s notice were easily accessible and easy to put back, and that the items secured to my person wouldn’t rub or jostle against the backpack.
All that was left now was to actually head out. I shouldered the backpack, adjusted my well-worn, sweat-stained, frayed-brim California Department of Fish and Game ball cap on my head, settled my Oakleys on my face, and headed out of the apartment to my battered old pickup truck.
When the three of us brothers first moved to Ketchikan, we’d all shared the one ancient, rattling, deathtrap pickup we’d driven up here from Oklahoma but, in time, each of us had acquired a used truck for personal use. Mine was a blue Silverado, only eight years younger than I was, with over a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it; the owner had replaced pretty much all the major parts over the years, though, so it ran like a top, and I’d gotten a great deal on it. It had a three-inch lift on the suspension and thirty-inch Toyo off-road tires, an exhaust kit to pump up the horsepower output a bit, and a fairly new A/V head unit receiver. Basically, my truck had everything I’d want in a customized truck, but I didn’t have to do any of the work myself, which was why I’d paid the guy his asking price.
I tossed my backpack in the bed and strapped it down, and then drove over to the saloon to give my brothers the heads-up that I was leaving.
I arrived to find Juneau, Remington, Kitty, and Roman all having breakfast together, and Izzy was fifth-wheeling it.
Roman and Remington eyed me as I approached the table, taking in my high-end hiking boots, the military surplus web belt kitted out with a pistol, knife, bear spray, and compass.
“Taking off?” Rome asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. Thought I’d just swing by and let you know.”
Rome dipped a sweet potato French fry in ranch dressing. “How long you gonna be gone?”
I shrugged. “Planning on three days or so.”
Izzy was eyeing me curiously. “Road trip?” she asked.
I laughed. “Not exactly.”
Roman chuckled. “Ram doesn’t do road trips, Izz. He just about went batshit on the drive up here from Oklahoma.”
“Being trapped in a car is the only hell worse than getting trapped in a city,” I said.
She frowned in confusion, eyeing the gear I was strapped down with. “But you said you’re going to be gone three days.”
I nodded. “Yeah…on foot.”
She blinked at me as if my words weren’t registering as intelligible English. “Three days? On foot?” She shook her head. “Why?”
I frowned, tilting my head. “It’s called hiking, Isadora.”
She shot me a glare. “You don’t have to be a dick about it, Ramsey.” She shook her head again. “I just…I guess I can’t fathom why anyone would want to walk anywhere for three days.”
I spun a chair around to straddle it, reached out, and stole one of her sweet potato fries. “Backpacking is the only time I’m ever really…I dunno. Free, I guess. Getting out there, alone, just me and my gear and the trail? That’s fuckin’ heaven, to me.”
She was still staring at me as if trying to understand. “And you just…start walking? Just like that?”
I shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah. I’ve got my backpack in the truck that has all my gear in it. Once I get to the trailhead, I’ll park my truck and get going.”
“Ohhh. So you don’t just walk out there like that?” She gestured at me with a finger.
I laughed, hard. “You really are a clueless city girl, ain’tcha? Yes, Izzy, I have gear. Tent, food, clothes…” I leaned toward her as if telling her a secret. “I even have a Kindle so I can read at night, because yes, I can and do actually read.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I do realize you’re not the uneducated country bumpkin you pretend to be, Ramsey.”
“I don’t pretend to be an uneducated country bumpkin,” I snapped.
She widened her eyes. “Oh?”
Rome was cackling uproariously. “Oh man, oh man, oh man. You two are too fuckin’ much.” He wiped tears from his eyes, and then elbowed Izzy. “Sweetheart, he’s not pretending to be an uneducated country bumpkin…he is one.”
“Fuck you, Rome,” I snarled.
“Hey, all three of us are,” Rome said, holding up his hands. “We grew up in Buttfuck, Oklahoma, and we barely graduated high school. That makes us uneducated country bumpkins.”
Izzy seemed embarrassed. “I just…I only meant that I know you’re not stupid. I know you can read,” she said, her voice quiet.
I grinned at her. “Aww, babe. I didn’t know you cared.”
She glared, then, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead. “Don’t push your luck, asshole.” She tossed her hair to the other shoulder with an annoyed huff. “And don’t call me babe.”
“I live to push my luck…babe.” I winked at her. “That’s how you know you’re alive.” I rose, then, and headed for the door without a backward glance. “I’ll see ya’ll in a few days.”
I paused at the bed of my truck to check that my backpack was still strapped down nice and tight. As I did so, I heard the door of the saloon creak open and slam closed, and I assumed it was Rome coming to give me more shit for leaving him and Rem to run the bar without me.
Without turning around I said, “I told you months ago, Rome—don’t expect my help around there much longer. I’m done, bro. I need air.”
“Are you really going to go hike in the wilderness alone for three days?” I heard her soft, musical voice.
Something about that voice, man; it got my cock hard just hearing it.
I turned slowly, eyeing Izzy as she stood on the sidewalk, purse on her shoulder. She was dressed to kill, as usual: skintight knee-length white skirt, a sleeveless green top that plunged daringly between her breasts, three-inch white heels, silver bangles on her wrists, and a string of pearls tight around her neck…and fuck me running, the look was killer.
I didn’t realize someone as young and fashion conscious as Izzy would wear something as old-fashioned as pearls, but it just worked for her somehow.
“Jesus, Izzy,” I murmured. “Why are you always dressed like that?”
She frowned, glancing down. “Like what?”
I indicated her with a finger sweeping from head to toe and back up. “Like that.” I bit my lip and shook my head. “Like a billion fuckin’ dollars. Like you’re about to go meet the fuckin’ president or some shit.”
She shrugged. “It’s just how I dress, Ramsey. I like to look nice, and I feel best when I’m dressed well. I’m not trying to impress anyone, and it’s certainly not to get your attention, or anyone else’s.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, remembering the comment I’d made that she was referring to. “Shit…Izzy, listen—that was a dumb thing for me to say. I was just trying to push your buttons.”
Her eyes narrowed, staring daggers at me. “Well, it worked.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t generally make a habit of apologizing to anyone about anything, but…I do apologize. You’re a classy dresser.”
“Classy?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
I shrugged. “Yeah. Classy. Sexy, but…sophisticated, I suppose. I dunno.”
“Not slutty?”
I sensed the trap, but plunged ahead with honesty anyway. “I think sometimes some of your outfits could be seen by some as slutty. Not by me, though.”
She huffed. “Nice.”
“Hey, you asked. You want me to lie to you? If you want someone who’ll blow smoke up your ass, go find someone else. I call shit like it is. Dress however you like—you said it yourself, you dress for you and not anyone else, so who cares what I or anyone else thinks?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “This is a stupid conversation. I don’t know why I asked.” But then she moved up to the side of my truck and leaned in to look at my backpack. “Wow—that’s a lot of gear.”
I gently nudged her away from the truck. “Watch yourself, Izz. This truck is dirty and that skirt is awfully white.” I patted the backpack. “Yeah, it’s a lot of gear, but then it takes a lot to survive in the wilderness.”
“What do you mean, survive in the wilderness?”
I shifted to lean back against my truck, so I was between her and the vehicle—leaving only a scant few inches between her and me. “Not sure what you’re not understanding, Izzy. Here’s how hiking works in my world: I pack everything I need in that backpack, and I go…away. I walk out into the countryside, where there are no restaurants, no grocery stores, no malls, no department stores, no Wi-Fi, no cell service, no hotels, no bathrooms…out there, there’s nothing but trees, lakes, rivers, animals, and me.”
She shuddered. “No bathrooms is where you lose me.” She eyed me. “How do you stay clean?”
I snickered. “A little-known secret: it’s called soap and water. You see, there’s these things out there called lakes and rivers and waterfalls. And you take off all your clothes and you get in the water, and you scrub off with this stuff called soap. And then you lay out in the sun all naked and happy until you’re dry, and then you get dressed, and bingo, you’re clean. It’s kinda like taking a shower, only better.”
She managed to narrow her eyes, glare at me, and roll her eyes at me all at the same time. “You’re such a fucking dick, Ramsey.”
I just laughed. “Well, shit, Izzy, how else do you think I get clean? You think I just spend three days stinking?”
She nodded. “Absolutely.”
“I do happen to care about personal hygiene, you know. I brush my teeth and wipe my ass and wash my hands and everything.”
She tilted her head back in a gesture of long-suffering annoyance. “Wow. You are the most sarcastic person I’ve ever met in my life. How did I not realize this until now?”
“Because you’ve been avoiding me for the past year?”
She steps closer to me, eyes sparking. “I’ve been avoiding you?”
“Yep.”
Her body language and facial expressions were screaming warning signs at me to stop this line of attack, but it was too much fun to piss her off. She was hot as fuck when she was pissy. Granted, she was hot as fuck all the time, but when angry she was just that little bit extra that turned me on like flipping a light switch.
“Newsflash, toolbag—you avoided me.”
I guffawed. “Toolbag?”
“Yeah—you’re not just a tool, you’re a whole bag full of them. In fact, you’re such a tool, I might just start calling you Ace, like Ace Hardware.”
“Fine by me, diva.”
“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you need to rethink your insults. I consider ‘diva’ a compliment.”
“You would.” I pointed at her. “You did avoid me, though. Like the plague.”
“You are the plague.”
“You didn’t seem to think so when I was eating your pussy. You screamed so loud they sent security to see who was being murdered.”
She flushed, and I was amused to see that she was even capable of blushing. “And that’s why I avoided you. You’re an immature, arrogant bastard.”
“Hey, just telling the truth. I heard security talking over the radio about someone screaming bloody murder.”
“Need I remind you that you couldn’t stand up after I was done with you?”
My eyes blazed, and I moved deeper into her personal space. “No, Izzy. You don’t need to remind me—I remember that very, very well.” I let a slow smile slide across my face. “In fact, I’d be down for a repeat.”
“Not happening.”
“No?” I tsked. “Too bad. I think I could make you come at least three times, each time just as hard.”
“You could not. That was a fluke.” She wasn’t backing away from me, letting me stay in her personal space, staring up at me with a defiant glare.
“Oh yeah? You think so? Hop in my truck and let’s find out.”
“No, thanks.” She jutted her chin at my truck. “You’re going hiking, remember?”
“Yeah, but I could take a few minutes to hike that skirt up around your waist and make you scream again.” I licked my lips. “Be a nice little snack before I leave.”
She blinked a few times, and then backed away. “I have another question.”
I was left slightly off-balance by the sudden shift in topic. “Ummm, okay.”
“Where do you shit?”
I couldn’t help a laugh. “Dig a hole, shit in it, and bury it. No mess.” I reached back and patted the backpack. “I even have toilet paper.”
“Sounds messy.”
“Not really. Squatting is actually a better pooping posture anyway.” I rolled my eyes at her. “You wouldn’t last two hours out there, would you?”
“I could, I just choose not to.”
“You choose not to because you know you wouldn’t make it a single mile.”
I saw the moment I’d fired up her ire. Her eyes blazed, snapped, sparked, her chin lifted, and her expression hardened. “You think I’m weak?”
“I think you’re a spoiled, rich, city girl who’s never spent a single night away from air conditioning and Wi-Fi.” I wasn’t faking the dismissive tone in my voice. “You’ve probably never done a day’s labor that involved the possibility of breaking a fucking nail.”
And I may have gone a little too far, judging by the raw fury in her eyes—her anger was so palpable and venomous, I reared back.
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Ramsey, so fuck…you.” She lifted her chin. “I could last three days out there with you.”
I snorted. “Yeah, okay. You—miss prim and proper and always in a miniskirt and pearls—you are going to go on a three-day hike into the Alaskan bush? You’re going to shit in holes, get eaten by mosquitoes, eat out of cans, and carry a fifty-pound backpack?”
She paled, but didn’t relent. “Just because I’ve never done it doesn’t mean I can’t.”
I eyed her steadily. “I know you’re not weak, Izzy. That’s not what I was saying. You’re clearly in shape, you work out, and you’re obviously a strong girl. But surviving in the wilderness is a whole different ball game, sweetheart. It’s not just about being physically able to carry the pack, or make it up the trails.”
“No? Then what is it about, almighty nature god?”
“It’s mental. It’s being away from the comforts you’re used to. This isn’t glamping in an RV with a TV and a microwave and a bed. It’s sleeping in a sleeping bag in a tent on the ground. It’s fucking hard, literally and metaphorically.”
“I’ll say it again—you know nothing about me, or what I’ve endured in my life.” She stabbed a finger in my chest. “I’m going with you.”
“The hell you are. The whole point of this trip is to get away from people—all people. You’ll just slow me down and annoy the shit out of me.”
“You don’t think I can keep up.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m going. I’ll show you I can keep up.”
I let out a slow breath. “Izzy, honey—you have nothing to prove to me.”
“You think I’m weak. You think I’m spoiled.”
“Yes. Well, no, but yes. I think you’re a city chick who knows nothing about the wilderness or camping or hiking. Do you even own a pair of jeans or hiking boots? Do you have the first clue about what to pack or how much?”
Her chin lifted again. “No, but I’ll figure it out.”
I laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
“You are seriously such an—”
“Such an asshole. I know.” I sighed. “You’re not really serious about this, are you?”
“You really want to come on this hike with me, just to…what? Prove something to me? Spare us both, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe.” She glared up at me. “Give me a few hours to get ready.”
“A few hours? Sweet cheeks, you have to buy everything—clothes, gear, and backpack. And you have no clue where to even start.”
“Sweet cheeks?” She hissed. “Asshole.” She jabbed a finger into my chest again. “Watch me.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s eight o’clock right now—I’ll give you three hours. I’m leaving at eleven with or without you.” I leaned in through the open window of my pickup and snatched the crumpled piece of paper that had my packing checklist on it. “I’ll even help you out. This is my list. Obviously you don’t need everything on this list—like, you don’t need a pistol or flares or a tent or a survival knife or any of that shit. Just the backpack, lots of extra socks, durable clothes, and boots—don’t skimp on the boots or you’ll be miserable. And food—you’re carrying your own because I’ve got mine rationed for one person. Ask one of the people at the outfitter store—they’ll help you.”
“Why can’t you help me?”
I sighed. “Fuck. Fine.” I flung open the passenger door of my truck. “Jump in. I’ll show you what to get.”
She eyed me as she climbed in and buckled up. “You’re really going to let me come?”
I snorted. “I didn’t think I had an option. Plus, I think I know you well enough to know you’re stubborn enough to try it on your own, and if you did that, you’re liable to get yourself killed.” I grinned. “Plus, this oughta be entertaining, if nothing else.”
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“You ever get tired of saying that?”
“You ever get tired of acting like one?”
“Nope,” I said, popping my lips on the P sound.
“Figures.”
Our first stop was a secondhand clothing store. I parked and hopped out; Izzy was slower to emerge from the truck.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, staring at the sign like she’d never seen a secondhand store before.
I led the way in without answering, and she had to trot to keep up; I headed right for the women’s section, angling for the jeans. I indicated the rack of denim. “Pick a few pairs. Don’t look for style, look for fit—not too tight, not too baggy. Roomy enough to move around freely, long enough to hang over boots without dragging on the ground.”
She started sorting through the hangars looking for her size. “I don’t wear secondhand blue jeans. I manage a fashion boutique, Ramsey.”
“You gonna wear these after this?” I asked.
She made a face as if disgusted. “Hell no.”
“Then buy them secondhand. Save money. You really want to spend fifty or a hundred bucks or whatever on brand new jeans? Plus, these’ll be worn in—not as stiff or uncomfortable.”
She selected four pairs of jeans and headed to the changing room to try them on. A few minutes later, she came out with three pairs, leaving one pair in the changing room.
“Okay, now what?” she asked.
“Shirts. Cheap T-shirts you don’t mind ruining. Flannel shirts, too, or something like that. A thick hoodie or two.”
She perused the shirts section, taking half a dozen different T-shirts and, to her credit, she picked for fit rather than style, although I noticed even the shirts she chose were cool in a retro sort of way. She didn’t find any flannels or hoodies she liked, so she went to the men’s section and found a few of both that were small enough to fit her; although, she didn’t try either the flannels or the hoodies on, and I wondered if they were going to fit her across the chest. Not that I would mind if they didn’t.
She lifted her selections. “Next?”
I indicated the register. “Check out. The rest we get new from an outfitter.”
I stood back and let her get rung up, noticing she paid cash for everything. As we headed for the truck, I opened my mouth and put my foot in it.
“I’d have taken you for a credit card sort of chick,” I said.
She got into the truck, tossing her bags of clothes into the backseat. “Shows what you know about me. I don’t have a credit card.”
“At all?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I learned that lesson the hard way.”
I headed toward my favorite local outdoors outfitter. “Oh?”
She wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air in the cab. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
I tugged on the three pine-scented air fresheners hanging from my rearview mirror. “I don’t—the guy I bought this truck from was a smoker. I’d rather choke on pine tree scent than smell old cigarette smoke.” I glanced at her. “So. What was the lesson about credit cards?”
She sighed. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I once opened up a credit card, spent fifteen hundred dollars on booze, porn, strippers, and rifle ammo, and then closed the account and moved.” I chuckled.
Izzy spluttered. “You did not.”
“Sure did. Thought I’d gotten away with it, too.”
“Did you?”
“Hell no! Next time I registered an address, I got a bill for almost three grand.”
She snorted. “How do you spend fifteen hundred dollars on porn and strippers?”
I shrugged. “Honestly, the porn and strippers was only about three hundred bucks, and most of that was for a private lap dance. The rest was booze and ammo.”
She rolled her eyes. “Men and strippers. I swear. So stupid.”
I chuckled. “I agree, as a matter of fact. The lap dance was for a buddy.”
“Well, I don’t know any strippers, but I’m sure they’re lovely people. I just don’t get the point of strip bars. What’s the fun of a bunch of naked chicks shaking their tits and ass at me if I can’t touch ’em?”
Izzy laughed, throwing back her head—and goddammit, her laugh just had to be so fucking musical and beautiful. “Exactly! I went to a strip bar once, and I couldn’t see the point.”
“Male or female strip bar?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Female, meaning naked women.”
I frowned in confusion. “Really? Why not a Chippendales sort of place?”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “Because cocks are good for one thing, and it’s not looking at. Objectively speaking, penises are ugly and weird. They’re only fun in a…um…hands-on way, if you know what I mean.”
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, I think I do.” I frowned, my laugh halting abruptly. “Not about dicks, though, obviously.”
She snickered. “No? So, you’re not a hands-on dick sort of guy?”
“Nope. Not so much,” I answered. “More of a hands-on tits sort of guy.”
She rolled her eyes again. “Nice.”
“So, you, a heterosexual female, didn’t see the point of a strip club full of naked women? Who’d’a thunk it?”
She laughed. “Yeah, well, I was with a group of girls who wanted to go to one, mainly because the drink specials were really killer, but I was just like…why? Why get all worked up and whatever about these strippers—who honestly weren’t all that hot anyway—and you can’t even touch them? What are you supposed to do, go in the bathroom and whack off? Yuck. I just didn’t see the point.” She shrugged. “The drink specials were good, though, and the men were all too mesmerized by the strippers to bother us.”
“I feel the same way. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like tits and naked chicks as much as the next guy, but like you said, getting all hot and bothered and then having to keep my hands to myself is not my idea of fun.” I winked at her. “I’m a hands-on kinda guy.”
Her gaze cut to the window. “Yeah, I noticed,” she muttered.
“What was that?” I asked. “Didn’t quite catch that.”
“Nothing.”
I laughed. “That’s what I thought.” We arrived at the outfitters and headed in. “You never told me what the credit card lesson was.”
Izzy sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I ended up on my own pretty young, and got a job nannying for this family. Well, they moved up here to Ketchikan, and I came with them thinking I’d keep living with them. I was a live-in nanny, so I had room and board and all that covered as part of the job. But then once they got settled in up here, they kind of abruptly decided they didn’t want a nanny anymore. So I was here in Ketchikan, where I knew no one, alone, eighteen, with no job, no home, and a few grand in savings.” She was examining the backpacks and canteens and rope, just sort of looking at the all the various equipment as she spoke. “So I found a cheap apartment with some random chicks who needed a roommate—”
“Kitty and Juneau?”
She shook her head. “No, this was before them. These roommates are why, when I finally met Kitty and Juneau, I sort of latched on to them. These bitches, the first two girls I lived with? They were toxic.” She waved a hand. “But the point is, I found a place, and found a shitty job folding clothes in a department store. I wasn’t making it. The job didn’t pay enough to make ends meet, so just to survive, I opened up not one, not two, but three credit cards. The assholes were giving them away like candy, and I was so young and naive I didn’t really understand how they worked. So I was racking up debt and only making minimum payments, if that, most of the time.”
I winced. “Ouch. That never goes well. Three cards?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Three, with fifteen hundred on each, and I maxed them all out in less than a year. And I really was trying to keep them for emergencies only.”
“Except, when you have a credit card, everything feels like an emergency.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“How’d you get out of that one?”
She laughed. “Oh man, I didn’t. Not for a long time. I maxed them out and couldn’t pay them off, and the job still wasn’t paying shit, and the rent wasn’t getting any cheaper, and I was already barely eating, because that was the only place I could find to cut expenses.” She shrugged. “I walked by this storefront right as a lady was putting out a now-hiring sign. I asked if I could apply, and she interviewed me right then and there, and gave me the job—and she paid me double what I was making. So, I kept living like I had been, cutting corners and scrimping every penny, only I put every dollar I had into paying those cards off. And then, once they were at zero, I cut them up and never opened another one. I have a debit card for my one checking account, and that’s it. I pay cash for pretty much everything as much as possible, because if I don’t have cash for what I want, then I can’t afford it.”
I took down the backpack I thought she should get. “Yet you’re about to spend at least five hundred bucks on gear for a last-minute backpacking trip to prove a point to a guy you don’t even like?”
She gave me a nasty look, taking the pack from me and examining it. “I’m not trying to prove anything to you.”
I just arched an eyebrow at her.
“Okay, fine then. I am, a little.” She toyed with zippers and compartments and straps and buckles. “But I’m also proving something to myself, via you.” She hefted the bag. “Why this one?”
“For the price, it has the features that are most important. It’s comfortable, wears the weight well, it’s durable, and it’s got great back ventilation.”
She frowned at me. “Back ventilation?”
I helped her put it on and clip everything into place, adjusting the straps to fit her properly.
“Yeah. You wear a backpack all day, the place you sweat the most is your back where the bag lays against you, and that shit gets miserable real fast—hello chafe city. So yeah, back ventilation is a big deal.”
“I never would’ve considered that.”
I sighed. “I know.” I tapped the list in her hand. “For most of this, you don’t really need to worry too much about brand or price, especially this being last minute, and probably a one-time deal. You don’t want to spend a fortune on gear.”
I helped her pick out the rest of what she needed until the list was completed and she had a sizable pile on the counter by the cash register. The young man checking her out was thin and whipcord lean, with blond dreadlocks under a slouchy beanie, and a wispy chin beard.
“First backpacking trip, huh?” he asked, grinning at her. “Where you goin’?”
Izzy shrugged. “I dunno. Ask him.” She jerked a thumb at me.
“I was thinking the Johnson Pass Trail,” I said.
He nodded knowingly. “Good one. Nice and easy. A strong hiker can do it in one day easily, but if you want to just go slow, you can make a couple nice fun days out of it.” He indicated Izzy. “Good choice for a first-timer.”
“Good to know.”
“Lots of bugs this time of year,” he said. “And I mean a shit-ton. You want to really protect against bugs.”
I went back and grabbed extra sprays and a few other sundries. When she was rung up, I watched Izzy gulp a little at the total, but she took out her debit card.
“Izzy, you don’t have to—”
“Shut up. I’m going.”
I held up both hands. “All right.”
She took a deep breath, glanced at the pile of gear, then at the total on the screen—and then at me, with a long, lingering stare. The stare hardened, and her jaw set, and she swiped her debit card with a determined lift of her chin.
Damn—she was really going through with it.
We piled the gear into the backpack and carried the rest that wouldn’t fit and piled it onto the backseat. Our next stop was a grocery store for food supplies—canned beans and fruit, beef jerky, things like that. Once her food was paid for, bagged, and added to the pile on the backseat of my truck, we sat in the parking lot for a moment.
“Now what?” Izzy asked, glancing at me.
“Now we go to your apartment, take your stuff out of the packaging, go through the checklist to make sure you have everything, and then pack it.”
“Okay.”
We drove in silence to her apartment, and I helped her carry the stuff up to her room. We spread it all out, took it out of the packaging and ripped off the tags, and Izzy sorted it all piece by piece, going through the checklist.
“Okay, I think I’ve got everything,” she said, glancing at me as she handed me the list back.
I smirked. “I think you’re forgetting a couple things.”
She frowned. “I am?”
I nodded. “See, some of these items on the list have their own sub-lists. Like clothing.” I indicated the pile of shirts, jeans, hoodies, and thick socks. “You don’t have any bras or underwear.”
“Oh.”
I couldn’t stop a smirk. “I mean, I know you like to go commando under those sexy little skirts you wear, but that ain’t practical on a hike.”
“You don’t know that.” She went to her dresser and opened the top drawer. “Wait—regular bras, or sports bras?” she asked, holding up one of each.
I shrugged, leaning against her bedroom doorjamb. “Well I don’t fuckin’ know, I ain’t got tits.” I flicked a finger at the sports bra. “I guess since we’re hiking, a sports bra would make more sense, though.”
She grabbed a handful of sports bras and tossed them on the pile, and then rummaged in a different drawer, rifling through a dizzying rainbow of colors and styles of underwear.
She shot me a look, catching me watching her. “Quit being creepy.”
“I’m not being a creep, I’m just surprised.”
“At what?” she asked, sounding like she was gearing up to be pissy.
“At the fact that you have so many pairs of underwear,” I said, ignoring the warning signs of an about-to-be-pissed-off female.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “What, you think I just traipse around commando all the time?”
I stifled a laugh, sidling over to her dresser to peer into her underwear drawer. “Yeah, kind of.”
“And you’re basing this on what?”
Her underwear drawer held a dizzying array of thongs, boy shorts, briefs, high-waisted French cut briefs, barely there lingerie bits—scraps of lace and silk in a profusion of bright colors. “I’m basing it on the fact that when I pushed your skirt up in the hospital, you were naked as a jaybird underneath. And also, I fully admit I’ve spent quite a lot of time staring at your ass, and I rarely ever see panty lines.”
She whacked my hand away. “Get your dirty paws away from my underwear!” She shoved me backward, and then snatched a thong out of her drawer. “Have you ever heard of thongs?”
I eyed her up and down pointedly. “You’re wearing underwear right now?” I smirked, trying not to picture what that’d look like, because I did want to go hiking, and if I pictured Izzy in a thong, we’d never leave. “You’re telling me you’re wearing a thong?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s none of your damn business what I’m wearing.”
“What color?” I asked, moving to tower over her, invading her space. “Black? Pink?”
She backed up…into the dresser. “None of your business.”
I smirked, trailing a fingertip over the hem of her skirt. “If I tugged this up I have a feeling I’d find your pretty little pussy bare. Wouldn’t I?”
“Shut up. You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t know. But your response tells me I’m right. You’d tell me if you were wearing a thong right now.” I slid my finger upward, past her knee, taking the hem of her skirt up with it. “What color is your underwear, Izzy?”
She knocked my hand away and squeezed past me, taking a handful of underwear with her. “Stop that.” She set the underwear with the pile of clothing and perched on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over her knee. “Anything I’m forgetting?”
“Yeah.”
She frowned at me. “What?”
“That I know you’re attracted to me. You can’t pretend you’re not.”
She shot to her feet, tugging the skirt down. “I’m not pretending. I’m just ignoring it, because it doesn’t matter.” She pushed me toward the door. “Now leave. I need to change.”
“We still have to pack.”
“After I change.”
I grinned, glancing down at her legs. “Why the rush?”
“Because you keep staring at my legs like you’re hoping I’m going to accidentally flash you or something.”
“I was kinda hoping for a Basic Instinct sort of thing, I admit.”
“Dream on, Bullwinkle,” she said. And with that, she closed the bedroom door in my face.