Shattered, Page 3

  The thought of my job, of why I came here, is enough to pull me back from the brink. I step away from Ash and turn toward him, clearing my throat. Try not to swallow my own tongue as I struggle to find words—any words—to get this meeting back on the right path.

  “What—” My voice cracks straight down the middle, so I take a deep breath and start again. “What’s going on here?”

  Ash steps forward, rests his hands on my waist this time. “You said you wanted to talk.” He lowers his head, like he’s going to kiss me and I know—I know—if his lips come into contact with mine I’m going to forget my own name let alone everything I’m supposed to do.

  I slam my hands against his chest, push him firmly away. “Yes, talk. Talk. Not screw.”

  “Huh.” His face is close enough that I can make out the confused expression he’s wearing. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I mean did you really think I meant …” I let the ending dangle there, too embarrassed to say it again.

  He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I thought it was a euphemism. I mean, it usually is when a girl comes looking for me.”

  It usually—who is this guy? “Seriously? I mean, you really fuck girls you just met in the storage closet behind where you rent out life jackets to five-year-olds?”

  He reaches over, flips on a light. For long seconds, we stare at each other, blinking, as we try to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. Finally, he shrugs. Grins this little, shit-eating, self-deprecating curve of his lips that makes my stomach flutter all over again. “I mean, not always in the storage closet. There are a lot of other places to do it. There’s the coat room, the changing room, the bathroom—”

  “I get it!” I slam a palm over his mouth to shut him up, and shut out the images his words are evoking. Jesus. I thought dealing with the dying kids was going to be the hard part of this job. Who knew it was the oversexed athletes I was going to have to watch out for?

  He licks over the center of my palm and I jump, yank my hand away. “Eeew! Gross!” And it is—it really is. But it’s also kind of, maybe, sort of just a little bit … hot?

  Oh my God! It’s like I’ve been invaded by some oversexed alien or something. One with no social skills.

  Just the thought makes me cringe. I very deliberately wipe my hand on my jeans as I berate myself for being a total moron. I need to get my head out of my ass and into the game or I’m going to walk away from this meeting with nothing more than a hickey to show for it. And if it was only me involved, that might be fine. But it isn’t. This is Timmy’s thing. He’s counting on me and I’m not going to let the combination of my suddenly out-of-control hormones and a guy who will fuck anything—obviously—ruin this for him.

  “You’re really cute when you’re freaked out, you know that?” Ash bops me on the nose.

  I roll my eyes. “And you’re really cheesy when you want to get laid. Sue me.”

  “I’d rather fuck you.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression. Believe me, I’m not taking it personally.” He reaches for me and I take a big step back, determined not to let him get his hands on me again. I’d actually like my brain to function as more than a flotation device, thank you very much. “Can we talk now or are you going to try to shove your tongue down my throat?”

  I’m very proud of the flippant question—and the tone of voice I deliver it in. At least until I realize that my hands are still shaking, and that Ash is very much aware of that fact.

  I expect him to press his advantage after he spots the weakness, but instead he steps back. Puts his hands out in front of him—palms toward me—in an obvious I’m-backing-off-now gesture.

  “Sure. Talk away. But you’d better do it quickly. I’ve got to get back to the shop.”

  Right. Sure. He has all the time in the world to screw me, but if I want him to have an actual conversation with me, then we’re on the clock. God. Guys really are walking clichés.

  Still, I’ve got his attention now. I might as well use it to my advantage. Straightening my shoulders, I hold my hand out for what I hope will be a professional handshake.

  “My name is Tansy Hampton, Ash. I work for the Make-A-Wish foundation.” I wait a second for that to sink in, watch as his eyes widen and go even blanker—something I didn’t even know was possible. “My boss has been trying to get in touch with you via the email address on your website for a few weeks now, but she hasn’t gotten any response.”

  “I don’t—” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t check that email anymore.”

  I take my first easy breath since I got the call. At least now I know he wasn’t ignoring us. That makes this whole thing seem a lot more realistic. It also makes him seem a lot less like a douche, despite his recent performance.

  “We figured it was something like that,” I tell him smoothly, glossing over our moments of panic that we weren’t going to get this to happen. “But there’s a very sick boy who really, really wants to meet you.”

  “I don’t know why. I’m nothing special.”

  “Well, he thinks so. He’s a huge snowboarding fan and is convinced you are ‘the sickest snowboarder in the whole world.’ His words.”

  He clears his throat, shuffles his feet. “Used to be. I used to be a sick snowboarder. I’m retired these days.”

  “At twenty-one?” I look at him skeptically.

  “Yeah.” For the first time he looks aggressive. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No, of course not.” I mean, at nineteen my life is just starting. I can’t imagine—even with the accident that killed his parents—that at twenty-one, he’s so sure his is already over. “But retired or not, that doesn’t change the fact that Timmy worships you.”

  “Yeah. About that … how old is the kid?”

  “He’s thirteen.”

  If possible, Ash looks even more uncomfortable. Not to mention a little sick. “Where does he live?”

  “He’s from Boulder, Colorado.”

  Ash nods. “Yeah, okay. I could take a day, fly out there to see him. Maybe even bring Z Michaels and Luc Jennings along with me. You think he’d like to meet all three of us?”

  “I think he’d go a little nuts at just the prospect. But this wish is a little more complicated than just meeting you.”

  His wariness quotient goes up, and for a second, he looks like a wild animal scenting danger. So much so that there’s a part of me that expects him to stick his nose in the air and start sniffing for predators.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he wants to do more than meet you. He wants to watch you snowboard.”

  Ash shuts down immediately. “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not? I know you said you don’t compete professionally anymore, but he’s not looking for that. He just wants to spend a day on the slopes with his idol, watching you shred the pow.”

  He raises that damn eyebrow again. “ ‘Shred the pow’?”

  I can feel my cheeks turning red. “Isn’t that what you guys say?”

  “Uh, yeah, but it doesn’t normally sound like that when we do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He starts to answer, then shakes his head. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He shakes his head again. “I can’t just take off for a full day of snowboarding. I’ve got … responsibilities. Besides, it’s June. There won’t be snow for months.”

  “Timmy doesn’t have months.” The words feel awful in my mouth, and hurt even more as I say them. “We have to do this in the next few weeks.”

  Ash looks a little sick at that. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry. That’s not going to happen, then. I can’t shred on dirt.”

  “That’s why we want to take you all up to Oregon, to Mount Hood. There’s a summer ski and snowboarding camp that keeps snow on the mountain and we’ve already talked to them, set it all up.”

  “You se
t it up, without talking to me first?”

  “I mean, we made sure it was possible. Got some dates that might work. That’s all.”

  He nods, looks like he’s considering my words as he starts to pace a little in the narrow confines of the closet. Seconds—minutes—pass and I don’t interrupt. Don’t push. I don’t know what he’s thinking about so hard, but he’s definitely thinking about something and I don’t want to do anything to wreck the chance that he’ll say yes.

  Except, when he finally comes to a stop in front of me, I can see the answer in his eyes. And it isn’t yes.

  Sure enough, he says, “Look, Tansy, I want to help. I do. And if you want me to fly to Colorado and spend a few hours with this kid—”

  “Timmy. His name is Timmy.”

  He nods. “With Timmy. I’m more than happy to do that, as long as I can be back here by evening. But going up to Oregon, boarding Mount Hood, that’s a different thing altogether. It’ll take a few days and I just don’t have that. I can’t be gone from here that long. Not right now. Plus, I don’t snowboard anymore. At all. So it’s pretty much impractical, all the way around.

  “I mean, I can get you somebody else. I can get Z to go. If Timmy’s a snowboarding fan, he’s got to know who Z Michaels is, right? The guy took home two gold medals from Sochi last winter. So he’s probably a better fit than me, anyway. Or I can call somebody else. I know most of the big names in the sport. Who’s his favorite—”

  “You’re his favorite. He doesn’t want somebody else. He wants you.”

  “Fuck.” Ash lowers his head, rubs a hand over his neck. “I’m sorry, then. I can’t do it.”

  “You mean, you won’t do it.” I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but come on. Timmy is dying and his last wish is to watch—in person—Ash Lewis boarding down a mountain. Ash could do it in his sleep, so I don’t know what the problem is. Why can’t he just take three days to fly up to Oregon, hang with this kid and then come home? It’s easy, will cost him nothing but a little time. And it will make this kid’s dream come true.

  “I guess,” Ash says. “If that’s how you want to look at it. I won’t do it. I’m sorry.”

  I can’t believe this. This is the first real assignment my boss has given me, the first chance I’ve had to show everyone that I can do this. That I’ll be good at it. And Ash is taking that away from me. Taking it away from Timmy. It just sucks. He just sucks.

  “You’re seriously not going to do this?” I ask him incredulously. “The kid is dying.”

  Ash shuts down right in front of me—which is really strange to watch. Not to mention unexpected, as I’d thought he was already pretty closed up. But now, he’s like a blank wall. Eyes, mouth, face … everything is completely expressionless.

  “I told you what I could do,” he says, stepping around me and walking back into the main area of the rental shop. “Let me know if you want to take me up on it.”

  I start to argue with him—surely, there’s something that will convince him to do this for Timmy—but he’s already opening the door of the shop and letting in the handful of people who’ve been waiting in the hall. Already cracking jokes with the customers and renting out equipment, all without so much as glancing in my direction.

  Considering the fact that it’s barely been twenty minutes since he tried to fuck me, I can’t help being a little insulted. Okay, a lot insulted.

  Not sure of what else to do at this point, I leave my card on the counter—just in case he changes his mind—and walk away. Ash never even sees me go.

  Chapter 3

  Ash

  When I get home from work, my brother’s lying on the sofa, playing a Winter Olympics game with Z. His feet are resting in Cam’s lap while she rubs them gently and cheers him on.

  I look him over, checking for signs of damage from the fall earlier. He’s got a small bandage on his head that doesn’t look too bad and a couple of bruises on his cheek. I want to check them out, to make sure he really is okay despite Sarah’s and Cam’s reassurances, but he’s having such a good time that I don’t want to ruin it by drawing attention to his injuries.

  Z does something in the game—I can’t tell what ’cuz I’m not facing the TV—but Logan elbows him so hard in retaliation that he almost falls off the arm of the couch. Z responds by putting my brother in a headlock and giving him a noogie.

  Logan squirms away, or at least he tries to. But it’s not like he can go very far when he’s paralyzed from the waist down. Cam makes a show of grabbing his legs, pretending to keep him in place, but I know what she’s really doing. Making sure he doesn’t fall again. And while I’m grateful to her, grateful to all of my friends for the way they’ve come through for me and Logan these last six months, I hate that it’s come to this.

  Hate the fact Logan’s paralyzed.

  Hate that my parents are dead.

  Hate the guilt that’s wrapped around my throat like a noose, suffocating me a little more with each day—each minute—that passes.

  Hate even more that I’m such a loser at this whole thing that my friends constantly have to come to my rescue.

  But I can’t let them see that, can’t let Logan see just how fucked up I am about everything. I mean, what the hell right do I have to be fucked up? He’s paralyzed. Mom and Dad are dead. And I’m just … nothing. I’m nothing. Nothing to worry about, nothing to complain about, nothing to—

  Fuck the self-pity.

  “Who’s winning?” I ask, walking over to Logan and deliberately ruffling his hair as I call their attention to me for the first time.

  “Dude!” Logan yelps, nearly dropping his controller in his efforts to protect his quiff. “How many times do I have to tell you guys? Not the hair!”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I dig my hands into his too-long strands, make an even bigger disaster out of them. “Am I messing with your perfect style? I’m just checking for bumps and bruises. Can’t be too careful with head injuries.”

  “Aaaaaaash!” he whines, batting at me. “I don’t have a head injury!”

  “Are you sure?” I poke at the Band-Aid, hard enough to sting but not enough to really hurt him. “Because this looks to me like—”

  “Get away!” He hits me a little harder, this time, but he’s laughing like a hyena, so I figure it’s all good.

  But I still want to talk to Sarah. She called me after the Urgent Care visit, assured me everything was fine, but I want to hear what she has to say again. Preferably face-to-face, so I can read her facial expressions. Logan’s aide has a history of trying to smooth things over so as not to upset me, especially when I’m at work.

  “Where’s Sarah?” I ask, as Z pulls a couple sick tricks on his board, ratcheting up the points.

  “In the kitchen with Luc,” Cam says, and there’s something in my best friend’s voice that has me lifting an eyebrow. “She’s helping him make dinner.”

  “Luc’s cooking?”

  “Apparently. Says he’s tired of takeout,” Z says, right before he crows triumphantly. “Got you, sucker!”

  “Hey!” Logan squawks indignantly as he squints at the video game. “Seriously? How is that even possible?”

  “Watch and learn, young padawan. Watch and learn.”

  “Whatever.” Logan looks hurt. “I can’t believe you’d beat up on a cripple.”

  My heart turns to ice, lodges somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. But Z just laughs, low and evil-sounding. “Dude, you can only use that so many times before it gets old.”

  I start to jump down his throat—I can’t believe he just said that to Logan after everything he’s been through—but Cam catches my eye. Shakes her head just a little. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make me look, really look, at the scene before me.

  Z’s taunting Logan, who is giving it back just as good as he gets. Logan’s not hurt, he’s not upset. In fact, he looks happy. Normal. Like the kid he was before the accident.

  Jesus, when am I going to get this whole big brother/par
enting thing right with him? It feels like everyone else is better at it than I am.

  I nod at Cam, to let her know I understand, then go in search of Luc and Sarah. They’re in the kitchen, cooking all right, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with dinner. I clear my throat, loudly, and they jump apart, looking guilty and dazed and like they’ve been kissing for quite some time. Sarah’s cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen and Luc looks like he’s about one step away from taking her to the floor.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I say, crossing to the fridge and pulling out a can of Coke. I really want a beer, but I don’t drink when I’m around Logan anymore. What if something happens—like he falls out of his wheelchair playing basketball or something—and I need to get him to the hospital? Or if his catheter comes out? Or if any number of a million other things that can happen, happen? I have to be sober enough to help him if he needs it.

  Of course, there’s also the fear that if I start drinking I’ll never stop. I’ll drown in the stuff, drown in the horror and the sorrow and the pain that keep trying to pull me down. Pull me under.

  “Uh, no problem.” Luc clears his throat. “We were just …”

  “Figuring out what to make for dinner,” Sarah finishes for him.

  “So that’s what they’re calling it these days.” I take a sip of soda, studying them over the rim of the can. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting this. Partly because Sarah’s a few years older than Luc and I, and she seems so serious all the time. And partly because Luc has been in love with Cam since we were fifteen, though she’s too dense to figure it out and he’s too chickenshit to tell her. Sure, he’s dated other girls, but it’s never been serious and I have never seen him kiss one only a few feet from where Cam is sitting.

  “Shut up, Ash.” Luc reaches over, shoves me a little.

  “No, really. It’s just I’m hungry and I’m not sure there’s enough of whatever you were making to go around.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re such a dick! Stop embarrassing Sarah.”