Page 68 of It Happened on the Lake

“Chase,” he warned. “Let’s . . . let’s not do this, okay?” Even though his blood thundered in his temples, nearly drowning out the roar of the river, and he knew that this fight was no answer, he wanted to hit Chase again. To pound some sense into him. To make him realize what he was doing to Harper. To wise him up to the fact that he was talking about options when Rand had none. To end this. Now.

Too late.

Head down and bellowing, Chase rushed him like a bull. He ran straight at Rand, ready to tear him from limb to limb.

“Fuck you!” Rand sidestepped the tackle.

Chase flew past.

Too late Rand realized his mistake.

Too late, Chase caught sight of the edge of the ravine.

Frantically, he tried to put on the brakes. “No! Shit! Rand!” The ground crumbled beneath his feet.

He tumbled forward.

Scrabbled wildly in the air.

No!

Rand threw himself at Chase and caught him by one arm. “You fucker,” he said through clenched teeth, his hand on fire.

Pain screamed up his arm to his shoulder. For a split mind-bending second, he considered letting go. Just releasing his best friend and letting Chase drop into the blackness. In a heartbeat he remembered how Chase used and abused all of his relationships, including Harper.

He caught a glimpse of Chase’s face, his features distorted by panic. “Son of a bitch,” he said, “God, Rand, help me!”

Chase didn’t deserve any kindness. Not after using and abusing so many people. But this—to let him drop into the roiling, frigid waters of the river? To be swallowed and dragged by the current to drown? No.

“Help me,” Chase pled. “Jesus, Rand, help me!”

Pushing past the agony in his hand, Rand set his heels into the mud, trying not to be dragged over the edge by the weight of his heavy friend. Gritting his teeth, Rand pulled, every muscle in his back and shoulders straining, beads of sweat forming on his face from the painful effort.

Chase was swinging slightly, trying to get footing on the cliff face, clawing at the dirt with his free hand.

Rand strained, certain his own tendons would rip, his muscles tear. Pain tore through his arm and shoulder as he tried to save his friend.

Using all his strength, Rand pulled. Sweat poured off his forehead and ran down his arm. His grip was slick. His hand throbbing. His muscles screaming. His back bowing with the pressure. “Climb!” he gritted out between clenched teeth. “Climb, you son of a bitch.”

Chase scraped at the dirt, sending rocks flying, frantically, catching hold of roots with his free hand, his feet finding something hard it seemed because suddenly the tension eased a bit.

With all of his strength, Rand threw his back into the task at hand. He leaned hard, straining, his shoulder aching to the point he thought his arm might wrench from its socket. “Come on, come on,” he ordered through a locked jaw.

He saw the crown of Chase’s head. Rand inched backward, afraid at any second his feet might slip.

But all of a sudden Chase was able to help. He quit swinging, got some sort of purchase. He flung his hand over the edge and grabbed hold of a rock. With a roar, he pulled his shoulder over the ledge and as Rand dragged him, Chase was able to pull himself away from the overhang.

Finally Rand released him. Chase crawled forward, then fell onto the wet ground beside Rand, the long fringe of his jacket slapping Rand in the face as he landed.

Breathing hard, Chase ground out, “Thanks, man.”

Rand spent several seconds breathing hard and feeling the sweat cool on his body. Every muscle ached as he finally pulled himself into a sitting position, his knees bent. He was exhausted, his hand throbbing. He looked up at the stars as he took in several more deep breaths of the cold, river-scented air. “You’re a fucking lunatic,” he finally said.

“I know.” On his back, staring at the night sky, Chase was breathing so hard Rand could hear it. Chase shoved his sweaty hair from his eyes. “Damn it, I know.”

Good. Maybe his near-fatal fall sobered him up. Could it be the shock, the adrenaline rush of facing death that made Chase Fuckin’ Hunt reevaluate whatever the hell it was that he’d been thinking? In the half-light of the moon, Rand looked over at his drugged-out, scared friend.

Athletic but no longer clean-cut, a bruise developing beneath his scraggly beard, his once-clipped blond hair now in disarray, long locks fanning around his face, Chase slid a glance in Rand’s direction. “Holy Christ, that was a rush.”

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