That had been polite, hadn’t it?
He shut his vehicle, locked it, and carried Gabby, still inside her carrier, toward the front door, angry at himself, angry at the kid. He’d known the media would catch up with him sooner rather than later. He’d gone to Knockers where a lot of people had seen him. Word had gotten out.
What the hell did you expect?
“Cute puppy.”
“Thanks.” He slid his key into the lock.
“Rumor is that you’ve given up climbing for good.” The kid now stood shouting at him from the sidewalk where he had a legal right to be. “Is that true?”
Conrad opened his door and took a step inside, fully prepared to shut the door behind him and ignore the son of a bitch.
“One bad accident, and you’re giving up? Man, I thought you were the greatest
alpine climber in the world, but you’re just a pussy.”
Rage punched through Conrad’s chest. He set Gabby down on the floor just inside the front door, shut the door behind him, and then turned to face the little fucker, pulse pounding. “How many eight-thousand meter peaks have you climbed?”
The kid looked surprised by this question.
“Come on—answer me.”
“I haven’t climbed any yet. I—”
“That’s what I thought.” Conrad kept his feet rooted to the spot, afraid he’d put the kid in the hospital if he got too close. “How many friends have you watched die in climbing accidents?”
The kid’s stammered. “Well, I … um…”
“Right. Have you done anything more dangerous than hang out with your bros at the rock gym?”
The reporter’s face turned red.
“Let me get this straight. You’ve climbed nothing big, lost no one, and have done nothing more than jack off at the rock gym, and you’re calling me a pussy?”
The cellphone went back into the kid’s pocket, his face still red as he made his way around the front of his vehicle. “Asshole.”
Conrad watched him drive away, opened the door, and stepped into the dark warmth of the house, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it. “Shit.”
What the hell had he been thinking? He ought to have come inside and ignored the kid, rather than allowing that asshole to provoke him. The fucker had recorded most of what he’d said. In a few minutes—an hour at most—it would be all over the Internet.
So the fuck what?
The bastard had staked him out and stepped onto private property without identifying himself as a reporter. Conrad had gone easy on him.
Inside her crate, Gabby whined.
Conrad had almost forgotten she was there.
“Hey, girl.” He bent down, opened the crate, and scooped the puppy into his arms.
She rewarded him with kisses, the solid, warm feel of her taking the worst edge off the surge of darkness the reporter’s questions had stirred to life. He sank onto the sofa, taking a wriggling Gabby with him, trying to get his anger under control.
Why did the media think it had a right to his memories, his grief, his anguish? Did being a public figure mean that he wasn’t entitled to private feelings? Did they want his bone marrow, too?
What really happened up there?
Conrad closed his eyes, trying to ward off the images that flashed through his mind, his rage giving way to grief and guilt.
