Striking Edge

by Kelsey Browning

“Two words for you. Hot and Sex.” Way grinned at him. “Can you imagine going to bed with a pink-tipped blond on Monday and then having a pixie redhead go down on you the next morning?”

  “If you took two women to bed at the same time, you could easily have that,” Shep said. It was just logical.

  “My God, you two are pigs,” Maggie scolded. “Dad would be ashamed to hear you talking that way.”

  “Oh!” Understanding dawned in Shep’s brain. “I get it. It’s like that time Mom dyed her hair really blond and Dad chased her around the dining room table. I think her hair increased his sexual appetite.”

  Way laughed and clapped Shep hard on the back. “And now, my man, you know the value of three hundred wigs.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and Maggie turned on full cop mode again. Eyes scanning, missing nothing. “I’ll see you two Neanderthals later. Maybe when you’ve made it to the Stone Age.”

  She stalked away but had only made it about twenty feet when the schwoop-schwoop-schwoop of rotors rumbled overhead. Shep spotted a helicopter off to the west over the treetops.

  The crowd went quiet.

  “That’s gotta be them,” Way said. “They rappel down ropes sometimes.”

  “That is flying too low for a skydive.”

  “Oh, hell. That’s not a… Do they have a…” Way sputtered, and Way never did something as wishy-washy as sputtering.

  But when Shep spotted what was dangling below the helicopter, he totally understood, and it was all the proof he needed that these TV people were idiots. And that they didn’t give a damn about safety. He wanted to grab Puck’s leash, get in the truck, and drive directly home.

  “Do you think the contestants have any kind of harnesses on?” Way asked.

  Not that Shep could see. Sure, the bulky PFDs—personal flotation devices—they were wearing would help keep the three people inside the raft from drowning when they hit the water. But what was going to keep them from breaking their necks if they fell out of the raft from that height?

  From the chop of the rotor blades and the breeze coming from the south, the inflatable raft was swinging round and round like a yoyo at the end of its string. A cameraman—who was in a harness—was leaning out of the helicopter to catch the action from above.

  Shep scanned, looking for more people up there, but that was it. A cameraman and three idiot contestants. Buffalo Moody and the rest of his crew must already be somewhere on the ground.

  What kind of decent guide would let his group dangle in the air while he had his feet safely on the earth? “That guy’s a douche, letting them swing up there alone.”

  “They won’t be swinging long,” Way said. And as he said it, the ropes tethering the raft to the helicopter began to extend. Fucking fast.

  And someone from up there screamed. Shep was already in motion, running toward the water, with Puck keeping pace. “Don’t do what I think you are going to do, you fuckers,” he yelled up at the helicopter.

  Faces peered over the side of the raft. At least they’d had the good sense God gave a turnip and had settled their asses on the bottom of that inflatable boat. The helicopter bucked, sending the raft into an even wider, wilder circle.

  Noise swelled from people on the ground—gasps, shouts, and a few encouraging hoots. When the raft was about twenty feet above the water, the ropes harnessing it to the helicopter completely disengaged.

  The helicopter banked right and swooped over the crowd.

  The raft plummeted down, down—

  Whomp!

  The sound of rubber hitting water and screams rolled over Shep and echoed off the mountains. He shoved his way through a cluster of young pine trees and made for the creek bank. This area of Deadman’s—more river than creek—was known for being a fast run when the water was high, and Steele Ridge and the surrounding area had received a decent amount of rain at the end of the summer.

  Those stupid TV fuckers had dropped the raft less than thirty feet behind a class IV rapid. Good thing the contestants in the raft—two in front and one in the guide position—were at least wearing helmets and the PFDs.

  As Shep watched the boat hurtle toward the churning water, the person on the front right gingerly dipped a paddle into the water. Big mistake. It was ripped away by the current and went whirling downstream.

  “Shit! Someone do something!” a man yelled from the front left spot. “Or we’re all going to die.”

  Shep cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Paddle right!” If they could get closer to the left bank, they’d miss the killer drop between two massive rocks well known for pinning rafts and spitting out rafters.

  He had to give the person in the back credit. He or she tried like hell to steer them to the left, but the guy in front was also digging deep on the left, sending them to the right. Unexperienced rafters didn’t always understand directional commands, and paddle right meant to paddle only on the right side of the raft.

  They were headed directly for the boulders.

  “You in the front, stop paddling and slide to the right side of the boat!” Shep yelled at the dude screwing up their direction. “You in the back, keep paddling!”

  The rafter in the back followed his commands, but in combination with the flow of water, the movement almost pulled the person out of the boat. Whoever was in the back position was short.

  “Hook your feet under the thwart—the inflated cross tube—in front of you!” he yelled. “Stay in the damn raft! Don’t fall out.”

  To do as instructed, the competitor had to pull the paddle partially out of the water, and the movement just wasn’t enough to change the raft’s course. It slammed nose-first into the leftmost rock and went into a wild spin.

  Hell, they were about to go over the rapid sideways. Hopefully, Moody had explained what to do if they fell out of the boat. To never, ever put your feet down and try to stand up. Look for an oar. Grab on and let someone drag your ass back in the boat.

  But if no one was left in the boat…

  Sure enough, the raft hit the hump of the rapid and the entire left side dipped sharply. The person who’d initially lost a paddle went sliding across with the force of gravity and body checked the other rafter in front. That was all it took for both of them to go over the side and disappear under the swirling water.

  The only rafter remaining in the boat used the oar to push off the rocks and navigate clumsily through the passage. Once the raft was over the rapid, two heads popped out of the water. Limbs flailed and it was obvious they were both trying to fight the current. One head went back down. Damn.

  Downstream, Dan was wading into the water, angling toward the spot where the rafters had been dumped into the water. His progress was slow, though, because he was also fighting the force of the rapids.

  “Puck, stay,” Shep told his dog.

  Then he ran upstream and executed a shallow dive. Slick as a seal, he turned on his back and let the water navigate him toward the rocks. He’d probably only get one chance at this, so he had to make it count. A few feet from the rocks, he flipped over and kicked his way underwater.

  Sure enough, one of the rafters had a foot caught between two rocks on the creek bed. And the current was keeping the person’s head under water. Dan had actually beat Shep to the rafter and was yanking the person by the underarms but making no progress freeing them.

  So Shep grabbed an ankle and worked what felt like a female foot out of a Keen sandal. Freed, the woman kicked out, catching him in the solar plexus.

  They both came out of the water gulping for breath, with Dan right behind them.

  Shep called out to the woman, “Don’t put your feet down. Float on your back until the water is calmer.”

  “But—”

  “Do it!”

  The other person who’d been dumped out of the raft was already a good fifty feet downstream, apparently having had the good sense to work with the current instead of against it. The raft was bobbing its way toward a bridge spanning t
he creek.

  Shep grabbed his floater’s arm and towed her toward the bank.

  “Don’t! Stop! I can’t get out here. I have to make it to the markers.”

  “What?”

  She ripped out of his hold and pointed downstream. “If I don’t make it down there, I don’t get any points.”

  For. Fuck’s. Sake.

  “If you don’t get out of this water, you could drown.”

  Rather than answering, she took off swimming. Away from him.

  This was even worse than Shep had imagined. Maggie should call him Mr. Optimism because he’d obviously painted too rosy of a picture about this whole clusterfuck.

  Dan said to him, “Let her go! It’s not your job to interfere with the game.”

  Then what the hell had Dan been doing?

  “And for your information,” Dan continued, “I would’ve saved her. You actually slowed me down.”

  With Dan dogging him and yapping about how he’d had everything under control with the drowning chick, Shep swam toward shore and called out to Puck, “Release!”

  Tongue lolling and tail wagging, Puck came loping up from where Shep had left him on the bank. His dog was a lot happier than he was right now. Happy was no longer in Shep’s vocabulary. The word should be ripped from the dictionary.

  Still, Shep grabbed Puck’s leash and squished his way back toward the waiting crowd. Miraculously, all three rafters had made it to the green markers, two on their feet and one in the boat.

  From this vantage point, Shep spotted turquoise hair spilling out from under the lone rafter’s helmet. Based on what Riley had told him, that rafter had to be Joss Wynter. She was smaller than he’d imagined—probably five feet if she was an inch.

  But she’d fought and stayed in that raft. That would’ve been a feat for someone twice her size.

  Even though the smartest course of action would be for Shep to walk away, leave these nut jobs to their own devices, he couldn’t. And only partially because of Dan’s threats about his job.

  He had to get a better look at the itty-bitty woman who’d conquered that Class IV. Because right now, if he had to put money down on one of these contenders, he’d lay a solid hundred on her.

  3

  Joss was a freezing frenzy of molecules. Everything inside her was pinging around and knocking together. The chaos would probably never stop.

  Yes, the water on her skin and soaking her sneakers was cool, but they didn’t account for the gut-deep shudders radiating from the very center of her body.

  They had put her, Lauren Estes, and Bradley Woodard into a flimsy rubber boat and dropped them. From the sky.

  When Joss had set eyes on that helicopter, she’d turned around and walked away. Unfortunately, one of the production assistants apparently had Jerry’s phone number because Joss had found herself on the phone with her manager.

  He’d promised her anything—any gig, any arena—if she would just get on that helicopter. It would be fine, he said. She’d asked for this, he said. It was time, he said.

  No, it hadn’t been time. It would never be time for the insanity she’d just been a part of.

  After outfitting the contestants with a helmet, a life jacket, and a paddle, the guys in the helicopter had simply cut the ropes. Adios. See ya later. Bu-bye.

  And what Joss had thought would be a fluffy play at a survival game for a few days had become real damn real as that raft hurtled downward. How she’d stayed inside it without passing out, she still had no idea.

  She couldn’t do this. She’d been an idiot to think she was ready. As soon as she could get off this water, she was calling Jerry and backing out. Who cared if she had to return to being a hermit inside her house?

  She looked around wildly for a way to escape, to get to shore. She blinked down at the paddle in her hand. Should she be doing something with it?

  Probably, but her arms were frozen.

  Slowly, the buzzing in her brain began to change frequency and morphed into the shrill sound of people on the water bank yelling and clapping. They reminded her of arena crowds, fans just waiting to get their hands on her, gleefully anticipating snatching a piece of her.

  Her already rapid breath shallowed even more, and little spots played ring-around-the-rosie at the periphery of her vision. The water would take her downstream. Away from these people.

  Go, go, go.

  If she could make it past the bridge ahead of her, she’d somehow navigate her way to shore. And run screaming all the way back to California. But before she and the raft could rush under the bridge, two shirtless muscular guys waded waist deep and caught the boat. Then Bradley and Lauren came dog-paddling down the river past her. Some other guys kneeling on the bridge snagged them under the arms and lifted them up.

  Woozily, Joss looked up at the bridge to see that Buffalo Moody was standing there, smiling and waving at the throng of people. He was saying something, but the words seemed to disintegrate before her ears could catch them. Buffalo’s teeth were big and white. Made her think of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood.

  Joss rubbed her hands over her face and tried to get herself under control.

  Focus on what’s in front of you.

  As people continued to hoot and holler, two camera operators were panning the spectacle. The Western North Carolina mini-season of Do or Die was obviously underway.

  Was this what she got for failing to stream a single episode of the show? For popping a sleeping pill before stepping a foot on the airplane from LA. She thought luck was with her when she conked out and slept the entire way to Charlotte. Especially since she hadn’t suffered through the dark demon dreams that had become her constant companions lately.

  Or maybe this was the true nightmare.

  She opened her mouth to ask if all this was real, but the only sound that came out was a moan.

  “Ma’am, are you okay?” A man with short blond hair peered down at her. A frown marred his apple-cheeked, All-American good looks. The kind of looks that could get him cast in a reboot of The Waltons. No, The Waltons on steroids.

  “Uuuuhhhh.”

  The other man shot an alarmed look at John Boy. “Gage, I don’t think she’s okay.” This guy was tall, probably almost a foot and a half over Joss’s minuscule five feet. He too had short hair, but his was dark and looked as though it would curl if left to its own devices. Yep, coloring aside, he could play John Boy’s brother in Waltons: The Buff Years.

  “Ma’am, we’re gonna get you to the first aid station. Deke, let’s tow her in,” the blond said.

  But they were intercepted by another big man wading into the water straight toward them. This guy’s hair was longer. Wet, it clung to his head and neck, making it hard for Joss to tell if it was dark blond or light brown. He cut through the water with determined strides, water dripping down his golden torso. He wore a pair of low-hanging cargo shorts, giving her a glimpse of strong hip bones and perfectly formed abdominal muscles that seemed to have the singular purpose of drawing a woman’s attention to what lay behind a man’s zipper.

  “Am… Am I dreaming?” she forced out.

  “No, ma’am,” the blond man said. “This is as real as it gets, and Shep doesn’t look too happy about it.”

  As the other man drew closer, the guitar intro to Imelda May’s “Big Bad Handsome Man” began to pound in Joss’s mind. Then she heard the lyrics join the guitar. This man was definitely tall, mad, mean, and good-lookin’.

  He was Devil Divine.

  Divine’s nipples were drawn tight and so was his mouth. And with the way he was bearing down on her, he was looking to take something out on her.

  “Wh… Why is he mad?” All she’d done was try to make it down the river alive and with a sliver of her sanity.

  With a rough jerk, Devil Divine grabbed the cord ringing the raft and said to the other men, “I have her. I don’t know how the hell they roped the two of you into this idiocy. But she is my responsibility.”

  “God help
you.” The blond man laughed. “And I thought my job wrangling Reid Steele was tough sometimes.”

  Without saying a word, Devil Divine started to drag her raft toward shore.

  No, this was not okay. She lunged toward him and grabbed his wrist.

  With a quick shake, he threw off her hold. Alarm ricocheted through her, and she forced out a hoarse “Stop!”

  That, at least, earned a glance from him. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know who you are or where you’re taking me.”

  “I’m Harris Sheppard Kingston. Adventure guide at Prime Climb Tours. And we are getting out of the water.” As the water shallowed, the man’s saturated shorts drooped further, revealing the top curve of his ass cheeks. Joss’s chilled skin began to warm.

  She couldn’t help but give his backside a quick peek, and holy guacamole. Something told her this gluteus beauteous was most likely homegrown, as were his bulging triceps and Atlas shoulders.

  For the first time in a long time, Joss experienced a jolt of something besides self-loathing. It felt a lot like lust.

  And if she was capable of that spark, was it possible she might be capable of competing on Do or Die?

  Maybe.

  That maybe grounded her, helped her shake off a little of the terror still trickling through her.

  “Why are you pulling my raft in?”

  “Because I am the local guide,” he said, striding toward land and dragging her and the raft onto the bank with a scritch. “And they were stupid to drop you the way they did. Unsafe and stupid.”

  Amen and hallelujah. Joss held out a hand, expecting Devil Divine to take it and help her out of the raft. But his attention was focused back on the water.

  “That one.” He pointed toward Lauren, standing on the bridge beside the show’s host. Lauren had stripped out of her life jacket, giving the public a good view of her leanly muscled body, showcased in a thong bikini. Strangely, she was only wearing one sandal. Still, with chin up and chest out, she looked like the warrior princess that she played on the Netflix exclusive, Amazon Rises. “She almost drowned.”

  That statement shocked a little more sanity back into Joss’s brain. “Lauren Estes?” When Joss arrived in Steele Ridge and realized she’d be competing against the actress, her competitive instincts had been sparked. Because winning—both the game and the hearts of the public—would be tough against her. Bradley Woodard, the third competitor, wasn’t as physically fit as Lauren, but people liked him because he was the son of George Woodard and Beverly Blaise—Hollywood royalty—and he gave a great deal of his family’s money to different environmental charities across the world.