Chapter 6 Jett
JETT
Poppy fills my mug wordlessly.
She’s served me many times over the years when I’ve popped into the café. Every time her fingers lightly graze mine when she hands me my drink, my arm tingles at the contact.
Tonight is no different.
She leans against the counter opposite to me and sips her mulled wine, cupping her mug in both hands.
Her short dark bob is in natural waves, her bangs framing those brown eyes that never leave mine, like she’s studying me. Trying to figure me out. Even I can’t figure me out right now.
This scandal has rocked me, and I’m not someone that gets rocked easily. The marred reputation I can handle, it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. In fact, my playboy persona is certainly something I live up to most of the time.
But the thought of losing everything I’ve worked for? There’s a constant knot tightening in my gut at the lack of control I have over the situation.
The last I heard, my team was handling it.
Brooke would be trying to find some way of spinning the story, controlling the narrative online, and Jason would be trying to put out the fire with Chase Montgomery, trying to convince him that the scandal isn’t worth forfeiting the publicity—not to mention profits—I bring in for Nuclear.
Dan is the go-between, but he still doesn’t have any updates on the matter, and I doubt he’d loop me in right now even if he did. He wants to keep things under wraps until they have more information either way. So, for now, I’ve been crashing in my brother’s basement guest suite and spiralling.
“That was pretty rough, huh?” Poppy asks.
All I can do is nod. I’m not sure if she means for herself or for me. But I’ve already forgotten about my humiliation with the condom situation. I’ll get Mason back for that another time.
My thoughts have been stuck on the way Poppy looked when Wren brought up Crush. Like she was embarrassed to admit that she’s dating, or even wanting to.
“Thank you again for the gift, by the way. I don’t even know how you put it together. But I’ll treasure it, really.”
I wink at her. “I have my ways.”
Adorable pink splotches appear on her cheeks.
“My dad used to keep a lot of them, and I found them when I was moving, and going through old boxes. I thought you’d like to have it,” I admit.
Poppy has always had an affinity for anything haunted or hair-raising, and as soon as I found the newspaper story, I knew she’d love it.
“It’s incredible. It makes me love that place even more than I already did,” she says. “I want to try and communicate with it, the ghost. Maybe it has a trick for opening that one sticky cabinet in the storeroom.”
She chuckles, though it comes out kind of awkward and shaky. It’s like she’s nervous around me and I wonder why. I’ve known Poppy forever, practically. She’s been like a little sister to us Landry’s.
At least, she should feel like a little sister.
I was always off skiing through the winter, or training, so my time around Poppy was more limited than my brothers’. We were never as close, but that’s not to say I’ve never noticed her, never given her any thought.
I know all her funny quirks, her oddball interests that make her uniquely her. They give her a peculiar kind of charm that I’ve always liked. She never tries to be anyone she’s not, and I’ve always admired it about her.
I’ve always liked Poppy a little more than I should.
“I hear it’s smart to be on good terms with any ghosts you may have.”
She nods in agreement. “Do you have any?”
I chuckle softly. “No, not that I know of. My house is fairly new, but who knows?”
A silence hangs between us, but Poppy smiles at me, before letting her gaze drop down to the ground in front of her.
“I’m sorry. About your aunt,” I say.
“Thanks,” she answers softly, her voicing making way for another silence. “You don’t need to share your condoms with me, you know.” She murmurs, glancing up at me, and I catch a hint of a smile on her face.
I let out a laugh, despite myself.
“No? I’d think you’d have plenty of matches on Crush,” I tease, and that endearing blush returns to her cheeks.
She rolls her eyes. “You’d be surprised.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re probably fighting men off with a stick.”
As I say it, a pang shoots through my chest. It’s true, I do think Poppy could have her pick of men, but the thought of that gives me a sticky, unsettled feeling.
With any of the women I’ve dated, if you can call it that, I’ve never cared who they hook up with on the side. It never bothers me to think that they might have other people on the go. But for some reason, jealousy licks up my neck at the thought of Poppy juggling suitors.
I’m protective of her.
“I’m not,” she argues. “And I really can’t afford to be picky, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me you’re ready to settle.”
Relationships aren’t my thing, so I really shouldn’t be one to give advice. I’m sure getting to spend the rest of your life with the love of your life is amazing.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever… All I saw growing up, after my mom passed, was how much losing her hurt everyone who loved her. Most of all, my dad.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t see the appeal in relationships for other people. Poppy is the kind of woman who deserves someone to love her for exactly who she is. Someone who will care for her, shoulder her burdens, take interest in everything she loves.
“I’ll settle for a man who’s willing to marry me in the next two months,” Poppy says with a wry laugh.
“Wow, two months. That’s…”
“Fast, I know.”
“I would have used ‘warp-speed’,” I joke. “What’s the rush?”
Poppy’s shoulders drop with a huff, her expression falling.
“I’m going to lose the café,” she admits.
I search her face for answers, to make sense of how her getting married has anything to do with the café.
“In order to transfer the deed, I have to be married. Some old, outdated law.”
“But your aunt wasn’t married…” I’m still trying to put the pieces together to figure out some way for Poppy to get around this.
“She was. Widowed young. Before I was even born. She didn’t talk about him much.”
Clearly, Poppy has looked at this from every angle, and the best solution she’s found is to get on Crush. Sift through the very limited dating pool in Heartwood.
“Let me see, then. I can help vet some of them for you.” I hold my hand out for her phone. For some reason, a deep urge propels me to see who she’s matching with, make sure they’re good for her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she protests.
“Give me your phone, Pops.”
She reluctantly reaches into a pocket on the side of her leggings and hands it over, flashing me a withering glare in the process. I open the Crush app and flip through some of the men that come up on the Home Screen.
Left, left, left. No, no, no.
God, these guys are losers. Assholes and losers left and right. Poppy’s gaze darts between my face and her phone screen.
“Well, you’re right.” I close the app and hand her phone back to her.
“About?”
“No good matches,” I answer. “None of these guys are good enough for you.”
“How can you tell that quickly?” She asks, snatching her phone back from me and scanning the bio I was reading.
“Oh, I can spot an asshole from a mile away.”
“But how? This guy looks perfectly fine to me.” Her big, brown doe eyes look back up at me. Her thick dark lashes are almost long enough that they brush her curtain bangs.
“Because I’m one of them,” I say plainly.
The stories circulating about me online may not be true, but I’ve clearly left enough of a mark on people that they believe it without a shadow of hesitation.
A pained expression flickers across her face.
“You mean like the old adage, takes one to know one?” She asks, but by her tone I can tell she doesn’t quite agree.
“Exactly. Birds of a feather, and all that.” I can’t quite explain why, but I have an intense urge to explain myself to Poppy.
To make sure she knows the truth. “You know, I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of, but what they’re saying about me and those women, it’s not the whole story. I never did anything…”
My voice trails off, and now it’s my turn to glance down at my feet.
“I believe you.” Her voice is soft and tentative and sure. She doesn’t ask for any more details. Like my word is just good enough. “For the record, I’ve never thought you were an asshole.”
I look back at her and shake my head.
“You might be the only one.”
The Heartwood Recreation Centre is roughly half the size of the gym I’m used to training in. Hell, it’s roughly half the size of the gym in my basement. But I couldn’t care less today, because all I need is a treadmill, and enough time to run until my legs give out.
Usually, I hit the slopes when I’m pent up and stressed, but Dan and Brooke were very clear about one thing. I can’t show my face around Banff. Not with all the media there for the some of the biggest events in skiing all year.
My heart is pounding, my lungs are heaving, and my legs are on fire. But I keep putting one foot in front of the other, letting my anger and tension dissipate through the soles of my running shoes.
I know Dan told me to specifically stay off all social media, but it’s easier said than done when you’re the hot button topic of the entire ski season. Some of the stories they’re spinning about me, my relationships—or lack thereof—are ridiculous, and borderline sinister. Damaging.
The rumours circulating online paint a picture of me out of twisted words and blatantly fabricated lies. That I not only allegedly fooled around with another skier’s girlfriend and all of her friends, but that I’m allegedly getting special treatment by being allowed to stay on with Nuclear.
My phone screen lights up with Dan’s name and I pound the emergency stop button on the treadmill, holding onto the side rails and hopping off the spinning belt. I answer his call without words, just audible, ragged breaths. I’m hoping he has a positive update for me.
“What the fuck are you doing breathing like that?” Dan asks by way of greeting. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”
“Running,” I wheeze.
“Thank god.”
“What’s up Dan?” I ask, my breathing evening out slightly.
“Good news and bad news,” he answers.
I close my eyes and roll my head from side to side. “It’s all bad news at this point.”
“The good news is that your lawyers have been able to follow up on some of the blatantly slanderous comments online and have sent strongly worded cease and desist letters,” Dan explains.
It’s not exactly a glowing update.
“And the bad news?”
“Some text messages were leaked to the press.”
“What the fuck?” I shout.
A couple of elderly women speed walking with ankle weights on the treadmills beside me give me sidelong glares.
“What, like I was hacked?”
“No, Jett. It’s twenty fuckin’ twenty-five. It’s not that easy to hack text messages,” Dan says. “Did they have the best beer in the world or something?”
“What?”
“The bar you went to, the night I told you to lay low. You better have had a good reason for going, because someone took a picture of your text thread with Grady over your shoulder.”
I think about all the stupid shit I’ve texted Grady over the last few days. The only thing that comes to mind is the video of the squirrel who learned how to ski and… the conversation we had when I asked him to come and stay with him. When I joked about bringing my harem.
Shit.
“They’re spinning it like you’re making light of the whole situation,” Dan adds.
Of course they didn’t show the rest of that conversation, people only see what they want to see.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m afraid Jesus will be of no help here,” Dan quips, but I fail to see any humour. “Be careful who’s around you when you’re sending sensitive texts from now on.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dan,” I mutter. “Hey, no word from Nuclear?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line and I wonder if Dan has already hung up.
“No,” he finally says. “Try not to get too bummed out. This progress with the lawyers is solid progress. There’s a lot of mess to clean up.”
“Yeah, right.” I answer, but I know my tone isn’t convincing.
I hang up and jump off the treadmill. No amount of running is going to undo the things Dan has told me.
When I get back to Grady’s, I head straight for the shower, turning the water on as hot as I can make it without burning my skin. I stand under it for longer than I need to, letting the heat and steam soften my tense muscles.
The run helped marginally. But what I really need is fresh powder, alpine air, and bluebird skies to clear my head.
After what feels like an eternity, I shut the water off and get out, using a towel to roughly dry my hair. I wrap it around my waist and look myself over in the mirror. I’ve aged overnight. Where my face used to be bright, it’s sallow and sunken, dark circles shadowing my eyes.
I glance down at my phone on the counter, as the screen lights up with a text message.
There’s a notification from Beck when I pick it up. Beck has been a good friend for a number of years now. His family owns a ranch outside of Heartwood.
BECK
How’s it going, man?
As well as anyone could having their whole life shredded to pieces by strangers on the internet.
You know what you need? To be dragged behind a horse on skis and launched off a jump.
His message makes me laugh, and I blow a soft puff of air through my nose.
He’s talking about the Heartwood Annual Charity Boxing Day Skijoring competition. The way he describes the sport sounds reckless because it is.
Beck will ride a horse at a full gallop, dragging me along on skis, and at the right moment, I’ll let go of the tow rope, letting the momentum carry me off a jump. All on Main Street in Heartwood.
It’s coming up in a few days, and I promised him I’d do this with him back in the summer.
It’s exhilarating, and I think he’s right. It might be what I need. I need to feel reckless again, that’s who I am at my core. I don’t cower and hide when things aren’t going my way.
Besides, this is Heartwood, I would hardly call this a public appearance. It’s not televised, and it’s for charity. It’ll be fine. Dan won’t even know. I need to feel uninhibited by this whole mess. I need the air beneath my feet, my stomach dropping as I arc through the sky.
Can’t fuckin’ wait.