Chapter 9 #2
I punch the elevator button. Again. Useless piece of shit. This is why someone needs to live here. Every electronic in this place withers away without daily attention.
Like me.
Footsteps clap against marble, and my hand stalls halfway through wrestling my glove on. Shit. Maybe I did wake him.
But the shadow is too large, too wide, too… Jameson. It could be Asher or Atlas. Impossible to tell without seeing ink. Half his face disappears behind a ski mask, already locked and loaded while my jacket sags open at my waist, clipped to my overalls. I look a dysfunctional mess. Valid.
He rips the mask to his neck, closing the gap between us. “I know why I'm out at five a.m.” His head cocks as he slides free from the shadows. “What's yours?”
Asher.
Forcing a laugh, I clear my throat. “Well, I'm a famous snowboarder, you see, so naturally I sneak out to shred at night and stash secret girlfriends away from my friends…”
His lip twitches. “Ah, she's got jokes.” Each step forward sucks the oxygen from my lungs, his proximity crushing the air between us.
This here, this is why I need to re-evaluate my current friendship with him, because yes, okay, we have almost kissed a couple times, but this—all of this—somehow feels different.
“And I didn't tell you because you never fucking asked.”
I’m going to ignore that jab.
My chin lifts after finally wrestling the glove over my knuckles. “You coming down? I mean, you do still remember the passcode from last year, right?”
He turns over his shoulder before resting back on me.
Please come with me. Even to just spend a moment convincing me that I didn’t imagine who you were before you went weird.
“Yeah, I do, but…”
“Oh good!” Her voice drifts in from behind Asher, and I lean to the side to see Camille zipping up her jacket.
My heart drops.
She pulls at her tacky fur coat that better be fake. “I thought you left me behind!” She’s all playful until her attention lands on me. “Oh! Hello…”
Well. This isn't awkward. Looks like I have to allow more people into that previously impenetrable space I keep talking about.
“You up at this time to?” I ask, brow arched.
Her head tilts to the side as she assesses me from head to toe. “I’m wherever Ash is.”
A chuckle catches my throat. This would only happen to me. Fuck you Asher.
More footsteps, and then Punk's hair glistens as Atlas tucks her under his arm.
She turns to see me, and her smile widens. “Hey! What are you doing up?”
I hitch my thumb toward the elevator, that’s still not fucking open. “Just heading out. You?”
Her cheeks flush. “I’m going shredding!” Amusing considering Punk hates snowboarding, or anything outdoorsy.
“Do you have…?” Punk studies my face pleadingly, and I'm aware of the eyes on me. She wants a spare board. I guess.
My smile softens, and I jerk my head into the small space. “Of course.” They all pile in. I should have asked how much they weigh to see if we needed to do two trips, but before I can open my mouth, Asher's arm brushes mine, and my breath catches.
Doors shut us inside.
“Wow. Suddenly it's small in here…” Camille laughs. I don't know if it's the undertone that always lingers, or her slow, deliberate assessment whenever she's near, but I don't like her.
Or maybe it's that I don't like anyone.
Or maybe it's because you're jealous and Asher is fucking yours.
In the cramped space, I try to keep my focus straight ahead while Punk and Atlas dissolve into each other. I’m out of luck though, since the walls are mirrors, so everyone is everywhere.
What's the fucking term when you're the unwanted extra wheel? Oh yeah. Just Ivanya.
Asher's stare sears through me, his proximity scorching my skin. My stomach twists and curdles, and the second the doors part, I slide between the two tangled bodies in front of me, desperate for air, even though the quality down here is shit.
Are we ever going to address the massive elephant in this room, or is he going to pretend he hasn't spent an entire year with this girl without telling me?
“Holy shit!” Atlas's voice cuts through behind me, but I block him out, zeroing in on what needs doing.
The bottom level sprawls out. Flat concrete basement with boards mounted across the walls.
A giant U-shaped sofa squats in the center, angled toward a TV clinging to a floating wall that carves the bedroom space behind its concrete face.
“Welcome to the main bedroom!” Punk sweeps her arms wide.
A billiards table hunches behind the sofa, a dark corner bar lurking in the shadows.
Above each deck, silver plates gleam with engraved names.
Near the back wall, a trophy cabinet towers, crammed with portraits. Wrinkled faces frozen in time.
All ancient.
All dead.
All strangers I'd never met.
“Ash, wanna grab Punk a board?” I say, dismissing them as I head toward the floating wall where a Cali King presses against one edge, the TV hanging above it.
I duck into the walk-in closet, a spiral staircase coiling upward through three levels, every rack stuffed with my shit.
On the opposite side, the open bathroom sprawls out.
A claw-foot tub perched beside a shower that drops from ceiling to floor.
Textured concrete coats every surface, rough and cold.
His voice pins me in place. “You wanna talk about this before it escalates into a fight?”
I exhale, snatching a bracelet off the dresser. Metal clicks against my wrist as I fasten it, gaze drilling through him. “No. We're good. I get it. You ghost me and then roll up with a fiancée. Message received, loud and clear.”
I move to brush past him, but his fingers lock around my wrist.
My heart erupts and spits lava, tearing through my veins.
“Don't fucking do this shit, Ivy.” He yanks me closer until we're both pressed against that same wall. He searches my face, between my eyes and my mouth. “All you've ever had to fucking do is say the word and you know it.”
I rip my hand free, jaw angling up to meet his stare. “And all you ever had to do was not wait for me to say it.”
I dart around the wall's edge before he can respond. Or before I do something like throw him on the bed and fuck him in front of his fiancée. Consequences be damned.
“Everyone ready?” I beam, way too chirpy for someone who wanted murder and sex a second ago.
I slam the lock home and punch the button on the standing machine that cranks the gondola to life.
Atlas drinks in every corner of the space until his attention snags on the narrow closet packed with boards, boots and gear.
“Ah,” I say, tracking his line of sight. “Those are for guests.”
He glances between me and the gondola suspended behind him, then lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I never thought I'd say it…”
“Say what?” Camille's voice breaks through ours, and Atlas grins, looking back at me.
“Oh, nothing. I'll clip us up.”
I gesture to the boards behind me. “Help yourself.”
Camille doesn't move, but the tension and anger rolling off her is palpable. Whatever. This is why I don't bother with people, because all they are is drama, especially girls like Camille.
Ten minutes later, we're all inside the hut of the gondola, and I'm tapping buttons on the remote control. It jerks forward before the doors open behind in a spray of sunlight.
My favorite time to hit the slopes is when darkness bleeds across the mountains, and because of all the drama this morning, I'm drained. Too drained to care about Punk filling the cramped space with endless chatter.
I prop my leg on the edge and pivot toward the window, tracking the thick blanket of snow-covered trees as the ground drops away beneath us.
Honestly. Anything to avoid eye contact with the two people across from me, especially Asher, who's planted right fucking opposite.
The gondolas are spacious, but Atlas and Asher are massive, so with them crammed inside, the walls press in.
Punk's laugh tangles with Camille's as they jabber about some TV show one of them binges. Probably The Witcher. Punk watches that shit on loop. Can't say I blame her.
I tug the ties at my hip loose, convinced everyone's eyes are glued to me even though they're buried in conversation. Arms through the loops, shoulders locked in. Beanie tugged down, hair spilling out to shove under my jacket later. Goggles dangling around my neck.
My foot settles as Asher stretches his leg out, all lazy confidence while he answers Atlas.
I'm clocking every single move he makes. Since fucking when?
Why do I care?
Only now, if I'm looking at the position right, he's trapped my legs inside of his own, the position intimate.
Or I need to get laid.
Camille twists toward whatever Punk's pointing at through the glass, and my gaze climbs the man across from me until it hits those trademark blues.
Thick lashes frame them, dark as the ink covering his skin, matching his dense brows and hair. His jacket's zipped high, mask hiding half his mouth, hands buried in pockets. I’d be lying if for a brief moment I didn’t imagine climbing him like a damn tree.
Especially now, spread out like a cheese platter.
“What?” I mouth quietly when I think my heart might flatline if he keeps looking at me the way he is.
He shakes his head, and even though I can’t see his mouth, I damn well know he’s smirking. Then his eyes drop to my lips and stay there.
The look hits somewhere deep. Somewhere I've locked down tight.
Punk's thigh presses against mine, and Atlas clears his throat. Maybe we were obvious. Maybe I don’t fucking care.
“This is so pretty! It reminds me of,” Camille turns into Asher, grabbing his hand and tilting her face toward him. “What was that place you took us to?”
I battle my instinct to react, returning my attention to the scenery beyond the glass, but Punk's tap against my thigh suggests I failed spectacularly at keeping my disdain hidden.
“What?” Asher couldn’t seem more interested if he tried. “I don't know.”
“Yes, you do!” She purrs, her voice dripping in a tone that would make even a toddler hurl. “Remember! It had the lights, and the town was, like, all Christmassy!”
“Lights?” Punk asks, confused.
“Yeah! The, oh my God, what are they called?”
My attention snaps to her, irritation sparking hot beneath my skin. Is she for real?
Only she is.
Asher lost two points because he's with a girl who talks like this and thinks that shit is attractive.
“Are you talking about the Northern Lights?” I ask just to shut her up.
She turns frigid for a beat before brushing me off and going back to Punk. “Anyway, so it kind of reminds me of that town.”
My face betrays every thought, and in this cramped pod, my obvious annoyance radiates.
Fifteen minutes later, we stop, and the doors could not open fast enough as I jump out.
I need to get out of here before I do something stupid, like shove her down the mountain and claim it was an accident.
The half-pipe stretches below us, its walls carved into perfect curves of ice and packed snow. Normal riders never venture to the peak. It takes out boarders every year who think they're invincible.
Not me, no way, fuck that. I'm far from invincible. In fact, I wouldn't let my fate rest in God's hands that easily, since I'm sure he'd love nothing more than to take my ass out.
I like breathing too much to test fate.
This spot, though, halfway up, where the powder's still fresh but the risk is manageable. This is perfect. This is where Asher spent hours last year teaching me how to carve properly, his hands on my hips, adjusting my stance until muscle memory took over.
Before her. Before whatever this is.
I don't give a shit if I seem rude. Don't care that Punk's probably laughing quietly or that Atlas is likely watching my every micro-expression. I need space between me and that sugar-coated voice before I snap.
My boots crunch through fresh powder as I trudge toward the starting line. The familiar weight of my board under my arm grounds me, reminds me why I'm here. Not for him. Not for whatever twisted game we're playing. For this, the rush, the freedom, the only place where my head goes quiet.
I drop my board onto the snow with more force than necessary, the slap echoing off the mountain face, and pray that my brain can't keep up.