Anywhere but Home-Chapter 1

Not everyone got to watch a billionaire cry, Cricket thought with a little smirk.  Not tears of sorrow, but those involuntary drips that leaked out when fatigue became so intense that a man’s head jiggled around on his body like a bobble head doll.
Those kinds of tears.

“Only a mile to go,” she encouraged.  “You want to take a rest?”

Conner Burrows, founder of one of the largest software companies in the world, gave his head a weak shake.  “No.  I might not get up again.”

She handed him a gel pack.  “Pop this when you’re ready.  You want to look your best at the finish line.”

“Damn media,” he muttered.  “Who told them?”

Clearly a sensitive subject.  It was always best to avoid those.  “Who knows how they get their info.”

“I bet it was Jan,” he grumbled.  “Silly woman has been talking this up since she heard about it.”

Don’t pick a side.  “Pride would be understandable.  How many men with office jobs hike the most difficult peak in the US?  I bet your stock holders will be interested to find out you’re an enviable sportsman.”

He smirked through cracked lips.  His nose had seen better days, too.  Money could buy a man a lot of things, but not immunity from the forces of nature.  Connor Burrows looked like he was emerging from the center of the earth, not the top Mount McKinley.  The cameras were going to love the dynamic and tattered image he made.

Cricket looked back to check the distance between them and the other two CEOs who had completed the journey.  A sherpa accompanied each man as they carted down provisions from their last base camp back to sweet civilization.
Connor wanted to be the first to cross the finish line.  Not a wise choice on his part given the toll the mountain had taken on him, but since it wouldn’t kill him Cricket couldn’t see how she could stop him.  So he would stumble into the camp like a man out of a desert, eyes glazed and body upright by sheer luck.  All the sooner his entourage of specialists and doctors could see to his rich needs.

“Got any sunglasses?” she asked.

It took him a few steps to muster up a response.  “Why?”

“For the cameras,” Cricket replied.  “To obscure your face if you’d like.”

“Hmm,” he grunted and took another wobbly step. 

She didn’t push the subject.  Once upon a time she had felt as Connor did now.  The first time she hiked Kilimanjaro Cricket had been quite certain she might never walk again.  Inside she felt how Connor looked, but it was a familiar, almost comforting sensation now.  She was alive.  She had faced the ruthlessness of the mountain and survived.  Again.  Anyone who didn’t stumble a little when they walked away from that was superhuman.

“Want me to open that packet for you?”

“Yeah.”  He didn’t even try to hand it back to her, so she moved to him, took it and ripped it open.  Knowing the man had his limits, she didn’t ask, but just held the pack to his mouth.

“Suck on it,” she said.  “You’ll feel better.  Just under a mile left.”

He sucked, stumbling on but visibly gaining some strength from the intense infusion of carbs.  When he was done she pulled the packet away.

“Better?”

“Much!” he agreed.  Even his voice was stronger.

“What are you going to have for dinner tonight?”  It was a classic distraction question.  If asked too soon it could backfire, but with the finish line nearly in sight, it was time to take his mind off the task at present and let it dwell on the pleasures of the future.

“Spaghetti,” he said without hesitation.  “I’ve been dreaming about it since the 17K camp.”

“Really?” she asked, expecting to hear about steak or just a good old fashioned hamburger.

“It’s true.  My maid is Italian and makes the most amazing sauces.  Nothing touches authentic traditional food.  Handmade pasta blanketed with whatever magic is in the sauce, topped with imported parmesan with a side of divine garlic bread fresh out of my adobe oven.  It’s a miracle when it hits the mouth, better than any contrivance they serve at a five-star restaurant.  You can just taste the history of the recipes when they’re made by the local people with indigenous ingredients.”

Wow.  The man could throw a sales pitch out there when he chose.  Now Cricket wanted spaghetti.

“I know what you mean,” Cricket agreed, mouth watering.  “The flour for the noodles is even different in Italy.  Don’t know what it is, but you couldn’t make Italian pasta here with a magic wand without shipping the ingredients over.”

“Exactly!” he agreed as she felt his eyes drift down her body.  “I must confess that a man in my life position does not frequently find contact with a woman half his age who has seen more of the world than he has.”

Cricket hid a smile.  The guy was strong enough to flirt, huh?  Maybe he wasn’t as tired as he looked.

“I like change,” she said simply.

“You must, considering your list of exploits.  And a little bird told me you’re leading some filmmakers to Antarctica next.  Tell me, is there a man out there who can keep up with you?  Is that why they named this mountain after you?”

“Coincidence,” she laughed.  It was the best thing to do under the circumstances.  It sent the subconscious signal that she thought the idea of him keeping up with her was laughable implying lack of interest on her part.  He was a client—at least for the next ten minutes or so—and her professionalism demanded she treat him like one.

“The hearts you must break,” he mused.  “A centerfold who can’t be pinned down?  It’s just a shame.  There isn’t a man alive who wouldn’t want to mix DNA with you.”

She shot him a look.  “That’s a frank way of putting it.”

“Just the truth,” he said, trying to shrug under the weight of his pack.  “And an offer, should you find yourself available and interested.”

“So noted,” she said and changed the subject, briefing him on the order things would be done once they reached the base.  She told him the precautions she suggested taking in addition to anything his personal doctors would prescribe, explained him how his body would likely react the next few days and how to help it along.  By the time she finished photographers were already moving their direction.

“I was serious about putting on your sunglasses,” she finished.  “Those flashes are going to blind you and the pictures will look like hell.  Total tabloid fodder.”

Within five seconds his sunglasses were on and Cricket made eye contact with the security officer closest to them.  The man nodded a silent indication that he was on top of the dozen or so reporters who made the effort to be there, and Cricket saw him and another security officer move to create a pathway in between the barrage for Cricket and the great Connor Burrows.

The questions were inane.  How do you feel?  What was it like at the top?  Are you glad you did it?  Do you believe in God now?  Predictable questions with predictable answers.  Cricket looked up the slope and saw that the other two CEOs and their sherpas were in view.  It would have made a much better visual for the three powerhouses to cross the finish line together, but such was not her decision to make.  After all, to finish together would have been contrived, since unity was clearly not their modus operandi.  If they could still be competitive at the end of the trek that sent one of their co-workers to the hospital on day 4 then that was her partner’s department.  Not hers.  Jean-Marc knew their business goals and must have addressed them.  If part of their business model was that Connor Burrows was always a step ahead of even his highest-ranking staff then so be it.

For now Cricket had to deal with her least favorite part of her job, made easier by highly paid attending physicians and harder by even higher-paid attorneys.

“Ms. McKinley,” one lawyer said motioning to a door.  “We have some paperwork for you to fill out, if you could please follow us.”

Loosening her pack, she shrugged out of it and left it leaning against her company helicopter.  Where the hell was Jean-Marc?  The traitor.  He always was one to duck out of the hard parts.  He was probably posing in front of some camera and snagging some free PR.  Between his French accent and his Italian shoes, he always found something to entice a camera his way.

Meanwhile, Cricket got to deal with the sharks who reminded her that she needed to sign her real name, not any nicknames.

“This is my name,” she said, scribbling Cricket McKinley on the dotted line.  “Want to call my mom to verify it?”
They glared.  Did they not understand that she had more reason to be grumpy than them?  They had just gotten off a long flight.  She had just led four—then three—moderately qualified up Mount McKinley and back in fifteen days.  If anyone had a right to be grumpy it was her.

Unfortunately, no one told the lawyers that.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure.  Mr. Burrows has my number if you need anything else,” she said, making her escape when the last paper was signed five minutes later.

“We have your number,” they said watching her go with unsmiling faces.  People like that were why Cricket preferred nature to cities.  City people took things so seriously and were so stressed all the time.  That was not for her!

Escaping back out into the fading day, she found Jean-Marc waiting for her by the door.

“Chicken!” she accused without missing a beat.

“Oh, my sweet.  You know I don’t deal well with American lawyers.”

“You could have had all that done before we even came down the mountain and you still leave it for me?”  She shot him a coy look.  “Remind me what you do in this company?”

Picking up his cue loud and clear, he fell in step behind her and began rubbing her shoulders as his voice turned seductive.  “I make sure the company star is in tip-top shape at all times by providing her with every pleasure the mind can imagine.”

“And?”

“And letting her sleep while I jet her away to luxury accommodations where a hot tub, grass-fed steak cooked to perfection, inversion tables, acupuncture, herbal remedies and talented hands await her every command.”

“You had me at sleep,” she purred as they reached the helicopter.  “Get me out of here.”

“As soon as you lift your pack in, it is done.”

She tried to find humor in the fact that he was either incapable or unwilling to hoist the pack up as she did so herself before fighting the urge to crawl into the helicopter like a baby.

And speaking of babies, Cricket was definitely going to sleep like one.