Wild Like Us (Like Us 8)

Only Moffy could.

“Free-soloing is different than the ultra,” I told him. “Bodyguards can be at a cliff site if something happens—but it won’t. I’m going to climb the route with gear first. Over and over.” I’d never free-solo without practicing with safety equipment.

He kept shaking his head. “No. You’re not doing it. End of the fucking story.”

“You can’t force me not to,” I said stubbornly. “I’m twenty-fucking-one.”

He went pale. “You’re still my kid.”

“And you know me better than anyone,” I said. “You know that when someone says, you can’t. I’m going to prove them wrong.”

He ran a hand through his hair and then dropped it to his side. “You step foot in Nevada, California, Montana”—he listed the states off his fingers—“Wyoming, Colorado, Utah, Arizona…I’m coming to collect your ass.”

That left the smaller rock faces. Easier climbs. Less preparation and training. Ones I could do in a few hours.

I frowned deeper. “You’ve always believed in me. I don’t fucking understand.”

His face shattered for a second. “I still believe in you. But Sulli…you drive his fucking Jeep.” He pointed at the door. “You have his fucking name.”

I waited for him to add another fact that we both knew. The one that would send a blade through my heart. My birth almost killed my mom. And even before that, my conception was harder than hell. It took a lot for me to make it into the world, so I don’t hold my life in my hands with carelessness. I understand the toll it took to bring me here. And my mom’s fertility struggles meant she couldn’t even get pregnant again after me. Winona is biologically my mom and dad’s daughter, but she was carried to term by our Aunt Rose.

I waited for those words from my dad. Sulli, your birth almost killed your mom.

But they never came. A silence hung in the air, and I realized that no matter how angry my dad was, he’d never hurt me that bad.

I breathed in harshly. “So if I were Winona, you’d be okay with this?”

He didn’t say anything.

It was a resounding yes.

If my name weren’t Sullivan.

If he didn’t give me Adam Sully’s Jeep.

If I hadn’t been so wrapped inside his best friend’s death, then maybe my dad would’ve given me his blessing.

Instead, it’s seven in the morning and I’m currently riding in that old green Jeep, the one I treat like my baby.

And I’m on the way to Montana. To Yellowstone Country.

My dad and my mom have no clue.

It’s fucking killing me.

I don’t think I’ve ever lied to them. Growing up, they’ve been my best friends and being “rebellious” feels like a suffocatingly tight swimsuit. It crushes my ribcage. Cuts off my circulation.

To circumvent the guilt that gnaws, I’ve been busying myself with rechecking supplies and mapping out the first few climbs. With winter approaching, I need to knockout several major climbs in Yellowstone before bad weather hinders what I can do.

Tablet on my lap, I scroll through some of the popular climbing forums and focus on various areas around the Yellowstone region, including south Montana (aka Yellowstone Country), Wyoming, possibly Grand Teton.

If I filled my dad in on this trip, I think he’d be at least glad I’m not hitting the most difficult climb first. California—Yosemite National Park—that pit stop is dead-last. Possibly even off my radar. The Yosemite Triple Crown, three cliff faces, were the hardest climbs my dad ever free-soloed, and I can’t imagine climbing those behemoths without safety gear.

I know what I’m capable of with the time I’m given to practice. Yosemite—I’d need years to master those rock walls. Research is a big part of climbs, and I’m not going into this blindfolded.

I’m also not going to Montana alone.

Banks mans the wheel and chews on a toothpick, while Akara messes with the air vents in the passenger seat. They’re broken…again. The Jeep is old, and normally, I’d just roll down the windows, but paparazzi are still trailing us.

I’m used to the muggy, too-warm feeling from winters at indoor heated pools, but Banks and Akara are noticeably sweating.

“Hey, Kits,” I call up to him. “I swear if you rub the dashboard and whisper to the vent, you’re not a piece of crap, three times, cool air will come out.”

Akara glances back. “You’re fucking with me?”

Banks nearly smiles. “Sounds legit to me.”

“It’s worked almost every time,” I assure.

“I’ve been with you almost every time and I’ve never seen you do that,” Akara refutes.

“It was in private,” I say. “She’s shy.”

“What’d you name her?” Banks asks me. It’s not the first time we’ve all ridden in the Jeep together, but lately, she hasn’t had as much attention as family gossip.

“Wait for it,” Akara tells Banks with a wiseass smile. Kits was there when my sister and I coined the nickname. Plus, he’s heard me use it.