Chapter 1 #2
I eye the large terrain map at the top of the lift.
The girls will want to take an intermediate blue run down, but those expert double black diamonds have my name on them.
The bra is gone, and my future is mine to control.
“Why don’t you ladies take Ruthie’s Run?
I’d rather take Schiller over to Corkscrew. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”
Raven pushes off on her poles until we’re almost chest to chest, her skis stopping beside mine. She snaps her goggles onto her helmet and looks into my eyes. “Is that the old Shay in there? Has she come out to play?”
A couple of men ski past us, practically colliding as they ogle Raven.
Even in her anti-sexy helmet, she draws a crowd.
As a teen, I’d catch myself staring at her olive skin, wishing I were sexy and striking with a sheaf of shiny black hair.
I grew to like my unruly mass of brown curls and wore them down to my waist, thick and untamed. Until I met the Dick, that is.
Richard had a preference for straight hair.
So began the era of the straightener and singeing my hair into submission.
“Yes, I’m back,” I say. “With a vengeance.”
I grab her goggles and snap them onto her face, eliciting a gratifying “Fuck” from her. She scowls and adjusts the frames.
I tighten my boot buckles then straighten up and grab my poles, eager to feel the wind blast my face. With each movement my breasts move freely, and I grin wider.
“I’ll meet you ladies at the condo.” I’m about to push off when I add, “And we’re not going to one of those lame pubs again to hang with a bunch of stoners. Tonight, we’re picking up hot ski guys.”
Lily tips her head back and groans. “What am I supposed to do while you two are seducing guys? I doubt Kevin would be too happy about me living it up in Aspen.”
“That’s easy,” Raven says. “Join us. Kevin’s a good guy and all, but that relationship of yours is beyond incestuous. Lines need to be drawn when you have naked bathtime pictures together.”
Lily tightens her lips until they match her alabaster skin. “We were neighbors, Raven. Neighbors. And so what if I’ve known him forever. He gets me.”
When Raven yawns in Lily’s face, I skate past them and call, “Don’t take forever. We’re shopping for bras before we head out.”
With that, I’m off, skis gliding, gusts of cool air snapping at my cheeks. There’s nothing as freeing as carving across the hill, edging into large, swooping turns as my skis dig deeper and my thighs burn. Nothing exists but the movement. The speed. The effortless up and down.
And I’m not wearing a bra.
The first section of moguls is tough. I land hard between the bumps, using my poles and the momentum to propel me into each sharp turn.
Smack. Crunch. Skid. My blood pumps. My muscles grind.
It’s my second day skiing, and the altitude and thin air are forcing my lungs to work double-time.
The rhythm is unrelenting, exhausting, and by the time I finish the second section, sharp pangs slice through my chest. And the boob sweat is undeniable.
I rest my upper body on my poles as a guy just ahead of me falls on his face.
I can’t help laughing, and he gives me the finger.
The snow has stopped falling, stillness in its place.
My heart pounds in my ears. I stare down the hill, regretting my decision to do a marathon’s worth of moguls on my last run.
My legs are noodles, my breasts hurt from bouncing, and God, the boob sweat.
I maneuver my black jacket and press my long underwear top just so, hoping to mop up the uncomfortable wetness. As I shift to the left, I notice a break in the trees.
I glance down the till-death-do-us-part run then back at the path. Better to bushwhack through the glades than have my braless and sweaty self rescued by the ski patrol.
Forcing my legs to move, I push forward and squeeze through the opening, dodging the trees as I pick my way toward the next run. There’s a steep dip past the last line of branches, the perfect ramp to shoot me onto the groomed trail.
A quick breath, a shift of my stance, and I catapult myself forward, gaining momentum.
I hit the edge of the run perfectly.
My legs relax, the blades on my feet glide, and I’m so relieved not to be pounding the moguls that I let my skis fly. For a moment. Like a second. The length of time it takes for some jerk to blindside me and send me on my ass.
I haven’t fallen while skiing since forever. I ski fast and hard but always in control. It’s a good thing. Hard-packed snow is about as soft as concrete. My left butt cheek smarts, a bruise no doubt forming, and I immediately regret laughing at that other guy’s face-plant earlier.
Distant grumbles carry through the frosty air as I gingerly pick myself up and stretch my legs. With all body parts intact, I glance at the idiot a few feet below who skied into me.
My jaw almost hits the snow.
If a hot ski guy is what I’m after, fate just intervened.
His helmet is off as he inspects what could be a crack in his goggles, and oh my God, that hair.
Dirty blond and shoulder-length, tousled in a careless, sexy way that has me picturing my hands dragging through it.
Add his stubbled jaw, those wide shoulders, and his tight booty that is unmistakable even in his ski pants, and I’m about to land on my ass again.
Richard looked nothing like this guy. His short black hair was always tidy, each strand gelled in place.
He was good-looking in a GQ way, with his cut cheekbones and Armani style, but this man is hitting all my buttons.
Maybe because he’s the polar opposite of the Dick, or maybe I don’t have a “type.”
When Hot Ski Guy stops checking over his gear, he swivels his upper body toward me, that shoulder-length hair doing some sort of model thing as he rakes a hand through the layered strands.
“Next time you merge onto a run, you should look uphill so you don’t run someone down.
And you owe me a pair of goggles. These are trashed. ”
Come again?
The throbbing pain on my butt returns, along with a rising anger that has me shaking. He may be partly right, but his tone and righteousness snap my spine straight. I’m tired of taking crap. Tired of pussyfooting around men because they think they run the world.
Normally, I’d be all I’m sorry and it won’t happen again, but I tossed that bra and that woman off a chairlift. “You can’t be serious. You totally blindsided me. Skied right into me. I’m not buying you squat.”
He stretches his neck, the shorter strands of hair by his chin falling across his golden-toned skin, then he slings his small pack off his shoulders, unzips it, and shoves the damaged goggles inside.
When he looks back at me, he flicks that hair.
“The skier coming down has right of way. It isn’t rocket science.
If I were a kid, that shit could’ve been a lot worse than some cracked goggles.
So pay attention next time you barrel onto a hill. ”
He shoots me a blistering look, like the guy owns the freaking mountain. Like I’ve never skied before.
Then he mutters, “Fucking clueless.”
Come to think of it, I do have a type. I’m pretty sure it’s Ass. Hole.
“Maybe you should get over yourself and own it when you’re in the wrong.” I jab my gloved middle finger in the air, grab my poles, and push off, skiing past his cute butt and model hair as the word “Bitch” follows behind me.
I don’t glance back. I ski hard, taking wide, sweeping turns, picking up as much speed as possible, leaving the Asshole and my anger behind, because wow, telling him off was liberating.
My skis are barely on the snow, the wind whipping something fierce, my breasts unrestrained. This must be what crack feels like. Or eating the largest bowl of Lucky Charms.
Marshmallow-only Lucky Charms.
Now I just want to let loose and swear a bunch and speak my mind. Maybe buy Lucky Charms. And definitely that red bra.