Forsaking Truth (8 page)

“I’m not fucking gay!”

“My memory calls you a
liar.”

His eyes
narrowed, his gaze sharpening. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough. I know
you’ve never been with a man before and it terrifies you because you liked
being with me. I know you aren’t such a hard ass underneath all that bulk.
Don’t forget it was my shoulder
you cried on last
night.”

Luke’s arm shot out
and he shoved him. Unprepared for the blow, Tristan stumbled back a few steps
and caught his hand on the table. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened.

“You gonna hit me now
too?”

Fuck. He hadn’t meant
to la
sh out. His heart beat erratically. He bit back
his apology. He felt like the horrid character in some animal movie throwing
stones at the poor family dog so it ran away and returned to where it was meant
to be.

Tristan rose to his
full height. “You aren’t
going to push me around,
Luke. You throw a punch and I’ll swing back. I may not have as much mass as
you, but I ain’t no slouch.”

“I’m not gonna hit
you.”

“You sure about that?”

He shut his eyes,
wishing he could hit himself. “Look, last night…I’ve never
done anything like that before and I don’t plan on doing it
again. I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.”

Tristan’s nostrils
flared. “Are you suggesting I’d otherwise inform the town—who by the way is all
strangers to me—that I was used and tossed
out on my
ass the next morning when my lover’s shame set in?” He laughed dryly, harshly,
and without humor. “Yeah, I’m good with keeping that little tidbit to myself.”

They weren’t lovers
and it pissed him off that Tristan had used that term. Before Luke c
ould reply, Tristan snapped, “Just take me home.”

They rode in utter
silence. Tristan didn’t even whistle like he often did when the quiet stretched
on. Each time Luke glanced his way he noticed the hard set of his jaw and the
tightness around his eyes.

Wh
en he pulled up at his aunt’s he turned to make some
excuse, but Tristan was out of the truck before he had the chance, slamming the
door in his face. Great.

“Luke, take Tristan
over to the shed and get him suited up. Why don’t you work with him
today and show him the ropes of climbing. He’s gotta ring
the bell a dozen times before we can give him a chainsaw.”

Luke sighed and headed
to the shed. He wasn’t going to argue with his dad. That would stir up
questions. As he passed Tristan, he snapped,
“Come
on.”

In the shed he dug
through the equipment racks searching for lanyards, proper sized cleats, and a
decent harness. “What size are your shoes?”

“Thirteen.”

His brow lifted as he
kept sorting. Thirteen was a big foot. He found a set of cleats in th
e back that would work, but they needed to be sharpened.
“How much do you weigh?”

“Around two hundred.
Maybe two ten.”

That surprised him as
well. Tristan wasn’t bulky. He was lean. He was obviously hiding some muscle
mass under all that firm flesh. “How t
all are you?”

“Six-three.”

They were the same
height. He grabbed the right strength J hooks and the right weight harness.
“Get yourself some glasses and a hard hat from the pile.”

They left the shed and
went to the hanger where all the lockers were. Luke g
rabbed
his spikes and handed Tristan the wide stirrups to support his size thirteens.
Settling onto a bench, careful not to make eye contact, he withdrew two gaff
gages and tossed one at Tristan. He caught it without flinching.

“All right, this is
your sta
ndard spike. You got the shaft, that’s this
long part that runs along the inner calf, the cup, that’s the soft part that
supports the climber under the knee, and the stirrup, that’s the part that fits
under the boot. Most climbers get their own spikes once
they learn their preference of support.”

He held up his gage.
“This is your gage. It keeps you alive and you use it every day, no matter
what, before you leave the ground. Once a gaff blade is replaced it’s garbage.
Do
not
toss it back with the others.”

He knew he was going
fast, but he wanted this done with. He pointed to the blade at the bottom of
the stirrup. “This is the gaff. You want to check its radius, width, length,
and sharpness. A chiseled point gives you easy penetration.” He swallowed.

Keep
it about
trees.

“Yours probably needs
to be sharpened. I’ll show you how to use the vise.”

Tristan silently
followed him to the sharpener in the back of the shop. He instructed him on how
to effectively clamp the spike in place between two blocks of wood a
nd unrolled his sharpening tools.

“You got your smooth
cut file, honing stone, and gage.” He ignored the sensation thrumming through
his body as Tristan crowded behind him. He reached for the file. “Take your
file in both hands and draw from heel to tip i
n a
smooth, over and down motion along the underside.”

Was it his
imagination, or did Tristan just step closer? Sweat beaded at his temples as he
gripped the file and indicated the proper procedure.

Clearing his throat he
said, “You don’t need to exert to
o much pressure.”
His voice sounded constricted as the words rasped out. “Next slip it in the
hole of the gage and check the fit. You wanna also check the thickness and
width to make sure there’s no difficulty penetrating.”
And
there was that word again…

L
uke quickly finished checking his spike and removed it from
the vise. Grabbing the plank of soft pine on the table, he lined up the shaft.
“To test the tip, you want to line up the wood. You shouldn’t need to use too
much pressure. A good point will penetr
ate easily,
sliding through the wood.”

Fuck. Is it a thousand degrees in here?

Once he was finished,
he stepped aside and nodded in Tristan’s general direction for him to try.
Tristan fit the climber into the vise, tightened, measured, filed, and
sharpened
with little issue. He quickly completed the
process with the other climber and removed the equipment. “Done.”

His voice was clipped
and indifferent as though they were merely strangers, one orienting the other
with job and safety procedures. Good. That wa
s likely
the best way to go about business, regardless of how much his gut seemed to
squeeze in protest.

They left the hanger
and Luke led him through the forest to the practice tree. He sat on a nearby
stump and latched up his straps, rings, and fasteners
,
monitoring Tristan’s actions to see that he was keeping up. When he glanced at
his profile it was set with focus and there were no signs of anything other
than determination.

Luke secured his
harness and approached the tree. “Bell’s at the top. You got t
o ring it a dozen times before we let you play with the big
tools. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He flicked his lanyard
around the trunk and planted his spikes in place. Taking quick steps, he
shimmied up the hundred-foot tree in a matter of minutes. Fisti
ng the rope of the bell, he gave it a hard ring and
shimmied back down.

Landing on the ground
with a crunch that jolted his bad knee, he smothered the urge to wince. “You
ready?”

It would likely take
Tristan a day or two to build up the technique and stami
na to reach the bell. Most guys weren’t given saws until their second or
third week of training.

Tristan stepped in
front of the tree and checked all his gear. Without comment, he mimicked Luke’s
example and swung the lanyard around the trunk, locking it i
nto place. His first step was smooth and he wasted no time
leaving the ground.

Luke frowned as he
crossed the halfway mark without pausing for breath. He was speechless when he
heard the echo of the bell. His lips twitched, wanting to praise Tristan, but h
e bit back any compliments.

Tristan shimmied back
down in no time. His spikes cut into the soil as he reconnected with solid
ground. He nodded in Luke’s direction, not boastfully, just assertively.
“Eleven to go.”

It took only a few
hours for Tristan to ri
ng that bell twelve times.
Luke knew his body had to be feeling it. Even though he’d met his quota, he
wouldn’t be playing with tools today. His limbs needed to be rested and sure.
There could be no room for slip-ups fifty feet in the air while operating a
power tool capable of killing a man.

When he was making the
final trek down, Luke’s father approached. “Been hearing a lot of ringing. What
number’s he on?”

Eyes focused on
Tristan’s body smoothly descending, he said, “This is twelve.”

His dad let out a s
low whistle. “That’s a first. Think he’s trying to prove
something?”

Maybe. But it wasn’t
about proving what his dad might think. He lied anyway. “I think he’s trying to
prove he’s capable and prepared to work.”

Frank nodded. “Good.
We need more guys of th
at mindset. Don’t let him get
near the tools today. Tell him to organize the equipment room until it’s time
to clock out.” With that he returned to his truck and drove away.

Tristan turned and
faced Luke when he made it to the ground. A hard glint resonate
d in his eyes. His hair was tied back and sweat left his
throat damp. He guzzled water from the bottle that had been holstered to his
utility belt and said, “That’s twelve.”

“Come with me.” Luke
led him back to the equipment room. “You can hold onto those
spikes if you’re comfortable with them. Get yourself a lock
for your locker. The rest of this stuff needs to be organized and the floor
needs to be swept out when you’re done. That should take you until five.”

“What do I look like,
the janitor? Give me a r
eal job.”

Luke bristled. “This
is a real job. You don’t like it, door’s that way.”

“You’re sticking me in
here on purpose. What the fuck?”

Luke took a quick step
forward and pointed in his face. “I’m sticking you in here because after
exerting yourself all
morning it isn’t safe to send
you up again with a saw. This is a family-run business and as such, we all pull
our weight. Broom’s in the corner. Get to work.”

He turned and grabbed
his hard hat on the way out and nearly crashed into his brother, Finn. “Yo
, bro, where you rushing off to?”

“Sorry. I’ve been
training all morning. You know I hate that shit.”

Finn eyed him
curiously. “Ryan’s friend, right? I heard he got his twelve in record time.
Pretty impressive.”

Luke shrugged as if it
made no difference to
him. “Where’s everyone
working?”

“Just got back from
the 246
^th
Acre. I need to switch out my gaffs
then we’re heading over to 247 to clear out those oaks. Got room in my truck if
you want to wait.”

“Nah, I’ll meet you
there.”

“All right.”

He pressed past
his brother and didn’t raise his head until he got to his
truck. Jamming his key in the ignition, the engine rolled over, and gravel
spewed from his tires as he backed out of the lot. After making it to a rarely
used road, he jerked the wheel and threw the
truck in
park.

His palm stung as it
slammed down on the steering wheel. “Fuck!” He hit it several more times and
was panting by the time he calmed himself.

He should not be
having these thoughts. He liked women. Tiffany sang his praises all night after
h
e’d blown off Tristan. He wasn’t fucking gay!

Scraping his hands
over his face he fisted his hair and growled long and hard.
“God
damn it!”