He admits that he hides things. He covers himself up. He shows the version of himself that he wants others to see. Which means that there could be a whole sea of thoughts, emotions . . . fears hiding behind his blasé charm.
A voice in my head tells me that even though I criticized him for not being honest, I’m worse than he is. I let my duty toward my clan override who I am and what I want for myself. And I haven’t only been pretending to my clan about it . . . I’ve been lying to myself.
As soon as that thought bursts its way into my consciousness, I push it back out and lock the door.
It takes us another tense half hour of driving on the main road as we watch for any vehicles approaching, either from Vaughn or from the direction of the ranch. When we pull off onto the one-lane road leading to the mountains, we both breathe a sigh of relief. Another half hour and we’re driving up into the foothills, where scattered yucca plants grow like spiky green porcupines.
The road finally ends in a dirt path that stops abruptly at the base of a butte. We go off-road for the last bit, and do our best to hide the truck behind a rocky outcrop. There is nothing in sight—no houses, no cars, no phone, no electricity lines. It’s only us and nature. Just the way I like it.
I step out of the car and the desert heat slams me in the face. We’re just a few hours south of where we camped last night, but the temperature is noticeably hotter. I strip back down to my tank top, then pull a pair of jeans out of my pack. Taking my bowie knife, I cut off the legs, halfway up the thigh, and then roll the hem up twice to keep it from fraying. Unzipping the pair of jeans I’m wearing, I start changing into my new shorts. Miles sees and abruptly turns around, supposedly to give me privacy.
“Miles. You’ve seen me naked,” I remind him.
“Although technically true, we were in the tent and it was unfortunately very dark,” he responds, but keeps his back toward me.
“I went swimming in my underwear just yesterday, and my semi-nudity didn’t seem to bother you then,” I say with a smile.
“You were treating it like a bathing suit,” he says. “You’re changing clothes now, and when it’s under your clothes, it counts as lingerie.”
I laugh. “You’re a prude, Miles Blackwell.”
“I most definitely am not a prude,” he insists, and forces himself to turn around. But by this time I’ve got my new shorts on, so there’s nothing to see. “I would describe most of my friends as letches,” Miles continues. “I, on the other hand, have always prided myself on being a gentleman. And unless you are intentionally undressing for my benefit, I’d prefer not to take the experience for granted.”
“All just pretty words,” I say, but catch myself blushing.
Miles notices, and crows, “See, you do prefer gentlemen to wild men! Admit it!”
Ignoring his taunt, I clear my throat, picking up the knife, and gesture to his jeans. “Do you want me to make yours into shorts, too?”
“Gentlemen don’t wear cutoffs,” he says, crossing his arms defensively.
“So you’re basing your choice on fashion, and not the fact that it’s about ninety degrees out?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Miles says. He nods up toward the mountaintop. “I was just thinking of how it’ll probably get cold up there at night, and I’d rather be too hot now than cold later.”
“Right . . . ,” I say skeptically.
“Juneau, there is no way on this earth that you will persuade me to wear cutoff jeans.” Miles laughs and walks away. Discussion over.
“Your choice.” I shrug and, unable to hide the smile on my lips, slip the knife back into its leather sheath.
I stow most of our supplies in my backpack, and Miles picks up the tent and a bag of food, and we’re off. Even though we’ll be taking the time we need for surveillance instead of rushing right in, I don’t want to lose any time.
We climb directly to the top of the first hill. My hiking boots provide traction, which would have made the trek a quick one, if Miles didn’t keep slipping with his smooth-soled tennis shoes. It’s funny—the star on the side makes them look like sports shoes, but he might as well be wearing ballet slippers for all the good it’s doing him on the rocky slopes.
We crest the hill after a half hour and stop to drink some water. The sun is high above now; it must be noon or just after. “Are you hungry?” I ask. Miles shakes his head, but doesn’t speak. I’m not sure if he’s able—his face is all red and he’s breathing heavily.
I remind myself that he just went through the Rite. Plus, the pure oxygen of the mountains must be hitting him like a brick wall. I have breathed the air in Los Angeles, and considering the difference between that and this nature-filtered mountain air, Miles might as well be on another planet.
I hand him the water bottle, and he takes a long swig. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees, still breathing heavy. “You know, it’s funny,” he says with his wry smile. “I’m in perfect shape. It’s probably just the altitude that’s getting to me.”