Ride Page 5

  Sometimes I think I catch him glancing at me, but I’m never sure.

  I’m here for work. What does it matter if he’s basically ignoring me? JJ and Hanne are plenty interested in my photos from earlier. They pass my MacBook between themselves, jostling for control of the keyboard, grinning at the shots.

  “These are awesome,” JJ remarks with an enthusiastic nod as he hunches over the screen. “How long did you say you’ve been doing this for?”

  “Forever,” Alex answers for me.

  “It’s been a while,” I admit. “I started in high school and I’ve been full-time freelancing since college.” I don’t mention that most of the “full-time freelancing” involved unpaid internships.

  “She was meant to work with Wild this winter,” Alex confides to Hanne, “but they had to make budget cuts. Look how great she is, though.”

  The reference to Wild still stings, but it’s not as painful as it would have been before. I’m out in a snow bar in the evening sun, the alcohol beginning to soften the edges of everything, and my laptop is full of great photos. What could be better?

  This is my dream. I’m so close to making it.

  And then Chase’s leg presses against mine under the table.

  His eyes don’t meet mine as I whirl my head about. He’s still intent on the MacBook’s screen, twirling his glass slowly between his fingers. The neutrality of his expression is broken by the faint concentration lines grooved over his forehead.

  It must be an accident. Sure, he made the move at the club—but since I shot that down he’s basically ignored me. Anyway, it’s hardly a touch. Maybe I’m imagining it. I only have to shift my leg a fraction for the pressure to end.

  “I need these in my life.” JJ’s forehead puckers as he squints close at the screen. “Can I have this one for my Instagram?” He indicates a shot of himself in midair, the sponsor’s logo on his helmet perfectly contrasting with the blue sky and white rim of the pipe. “They might get off my ass then.”

  My photo. On JJ Schneider’s Instagram.

  Holy shit.

  “Yeah,” I manage over the thud of my heart. “Sure.”

  Alex gives me the world’s least subtle thumbs-up over the edge of the table. “Open one of the other folders,” she says conspiratorially to Hanne and JJ. “The one marked ‘Whistler’ from last year—that’s my favorite.”

  Hanne crinkles her nose as she leans in toward the screen, her fingers stabbing at the keys. “This one?”

  Yes, I’m going to say, but this time Chase’s thigh definitely presses against mine.

  I can’t breathe. My heart has leaped toward my throat, and in the free-fall open of my chest my lungs are frozen. The tingle over my skin doesn’t come only from the late-afternoon chill.

  This time I’m more subtle as I tilt my jaw, pretending it’s idle curiosity that turns my face. Chase is still staring straight ahead, chuckling at the conversation as if under the table the roll of his ankle isn’t slowly rubbing his leg against mine.

  Against my thigh I can feel the submerged surge of muscle in Chase’s own. All that strength, so tightly controlled.

  As he dips his head to look for his beer, Chase’s eyes turn to mine. Just one touch, and I’m frozen.

  Work. I’m here for work. I need to keep my eyes on the goal. I force myself to think of the French girl whose boobs he signed, and that woman’s name tattooed at his wrist.

  It doesn’t have an immediate effect on the thud-thud-thud of my heart.

  “These are awesome.” Hanne’s voice makes my gaze snap back across the table. “You should totally come out with us.”

  Holy shit. That works where thinking of the tattoo didn’t. Just like that, the rub of Chase’s leg becomes unimportant. Not that it lasts: he shifts away almost instantly after Hanne’s spoken. I hardly notice. I’m too busy trying not to choke on my drink.

  This is it. I’ve made it.

  “I’d love to shoot with you guys.” I think I manage to keep my voice steady despite that being the understatement of the year. I’d give up a kidney to shoot with them.

  “How long are you here for?” JJ turns his head between Alex and I. “We’re filming the season edit once Hunter’s arrived.”

  I would clarify who Hunter is for Alex—halfpipe superstar, world-class playboy—but my heart has risen up into my throat too far for speech to be possible.

  “An edit? Like, that compilation thing?” Alex asks. She’s never minded showing when she doesn’t understand something.

  Hanne nods. “We make one every year. Get together, relax with friends, film some fun shit, get it up on the internet.” She says that good-naturedly enough, but her expression sours as she rolls her eyes. “Covered in logos, of course. You know. The brand. Have to tend to it.”

  “As if the brand doesn’t pay your check.” JJ snorts. “It’s not like any of us enjoy that shit. But it’d be good to have another photographer there.”

  My mind is working at a thousand miles an hour. An edit. With all four members of the most famous snowboarding crew on the planet. I devour the False Kings edits. And I could do the stills for one—with world-class pros who wanted to have their shots taken—and if that wouldn’t win me the Illuminations competition, what would?

  I might actually die from excitement.

  I’m so out of it that it takes me a second to work out where the click comes from. Chase’s glass is back down on the table, his body shifting beside mine as he leans further back in the chair. His jaw has set to a hard line, the thin of his lips not even attempting a smile.

  “We don’t need another photographer.”

  He has got to be fucking kidding me.

  Hanne crinkles her nose. “Why? It’s not like Aaron’s going to be able to film and get stills on his own.”

  Surely Chase can feel the way I’m staring at him. I’m not being subtle. But he only shrugs, careless of the way it makes his broad shoulders rub over mine. “This is Aaron’s thing.”

  “Come on, man.” JJ sounds exasperated. “Why can’t we have both?”

  Chase isn’t ruffled at all. With perfect composure he takes another mouthful of beer before running his thumb over his lower lip to catch the wetness. “This is Aaron’s job. He’s one of the crew. Period.”

  I’m so angry I might squeeze entirely through my glass.

  It’s not much help when Chase finally looks at me. His gaze is steady and blank. “Nothing personal.”

  It feels personal. Right after he was feeling me up and all.

  Hanne sighs. “Fine. Whatever. All for one …” Is that the Three Musketeers slogan? But she’s downing the remainder of her beer as she stands, tilting the empty glass toward me. “C’mon. You want another? And we can work out you meeting me for some shots.”

  The world’s number one female snowboarder. That’s nothing shabby.

  So why am I still feeling so terrible?

  When we get back to the table JJ has slipped into my space, and until we leave the bar I keep my legs away from the wandering of Chase’s own.

  6

  The next morning Alex is looking terrible.

  “You should go,” she mumbles from her nest of sheets. “I’ll be fine, promise.”

  “Of course not,” I begin to protest, though it sounds a bit feeble. “We’ll have a day in. Watch some Netflix.”

  Alex gives my leg the world’s lightest slap. “Don’t be an ass. I just ate something bad. Did you see how yucky that bar was? I shouldn’t have trusted the chicken wings.” She gives me the brightest smile she can manage. “Go hit the slopes.”

  I want to argue. I’m here to see her, after all. A girly trip away. But I’ve already peeked out my window, and last night’s dump of fresh powder is calling to me. It’s all I can think about—all that untouched snow over the peaks.

  It’s exactly what I need to wash the bad taste of last night from my mouth.

  I worry my lower lip with my teeth. “If you’re sure …”

 
; Alex squeezes at my leg. “I’m sure. Go clear your head.”

  She knows me too well. From the first touch of winter’s chill to my face I’m feeling better, yesterday’s fog of confusion clearing from my head. What does it matter if the guys don’t need a photographer? Chase was an ass anyway. Hanne’s a world-class pro in her own right. I’m so lucky to have the chance to shoot with her. And lucky to be here too, watching dawn stroke the mountain to a golden glow beneath the eggshell blue of the sky.

  Even luckier now that I’m one of the first on the slopes—all that fresh snow to myself.

  Or not. My stomach twists as I see someone get off the final chairlift ahead of me. I try to tell myself it’s not a big deal. One set of tracks ahead of my own won’t ruin the run. Maybe I can overtake them, anyway.

  By the time I catch up with the other rider they’re on their ass at the top of Laax’s highest trail, getting their second boot into its bindings after the lift. My stomach lurches when I recognize all of those sponsor icons blazoned over their helmet.

  I could swear Chase pauses as he looks up to me. Maybe he doesn’t. His face drops again, his expression hidden by the metallic sheen of his goggles.

  “Morning,” he says.

  I drop my board to the ground, hesitating for a second before I flop down onto the snow. Of all the people to be up here. Him.

  “Morning.” My voice tastes stale.

  Chase doesn’t seem to be in any rush for conversation. Even without words he fills the air: his ankle sliders creak as he tests them, the snow squeaking under his mass as he shifts. There’s a slow deliberation to each of his actions. I might feel awkward, but he clearly doesn’t.

  His voice is so abrupt that it makes me start.

  “Wanted the first run?”

  I swallow. “Yeah.”

  “Me too.” There are a few more clicks from his gear before he adds, “Clears my head. You know. Being out here alone on the mountain.”

  Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. It’s hard to imagine that Chase—self-contained, emotionless Chase—feels the same thing that flutters precious and delicate in my chest.

  Chase grunts. I peek over to see the tasting test of his tongue at the corner of his mouth. “Could go together, if you want.”

  I should probably control my bitterness. I don’t.

  “I thought you didn’t want to board with me.”

  Chase huffs an anemic laugh, reaching one hand to tug at the zip of his jacket. “I didn’t say that.” He pushes to his feet, all that strength surging fluid. “You coming?”

  His hand hovers in front of my face. I look at his glove for a long time.

  He wants to get into my pants. He doesn’t want to work with me. But here he is, inviting me out on a ride.

  I don’t want to go with him. I’m so frustrated all I want to do is push him back onto his ass in the snow. But that’s what he wants, isn’t it? For me to not be good enough.

  Fuck it. I grip his hand to pull myself up, dropping it immediately after. “Okay.”

  I don’t know what I’m expecting. I certainly don’t know what Chase is expecting. But like hell am I waiting for him to lead the way. So what if he’s the world’s best snowboarder? I’m not bad myself. And I’m getting the first run over all of this delicious powder.

  Defiance, annoyance—who knows what it is? Maybe I’m just running from confusion. Either way I hop my board around and angle onto the run, fast.

  Chase drops in behind me, unexpectedly polite. On my turns I tilt my head to see him easing down the slope. He makes it look absolutely effortless, the bow of his body a lazy curve as he tilts this way and that. I know it’s deceptive. I know all those lean muscles are exerting brute force down into the snow, the cutting line of his board slicing through it.

  I can tell how good he is even by the sound, the near-silent swish. He glides like a bird of prey, the mountain his element.

  I want to be annoyed with him. I am annoyed with him. But as I speed up and he effortlessly follows me, I find myself soothed by the snow. How can I stay angry when this feels so right? The burn of cold air in my lungs. The smooth of the snow beneath my board. Before us the mountains spreading endless, the dawning sun licking down over their slopes and leaving the powder glistening.

  Chase is an asshole … but I’d be an idiot to turn down riding with the best boarder in the world.

  It’s pure pleasure to see him. Watching any prodigy in their element is beautiful. It’s why I love photography—catching that moment of flow. I almost wish I had my camera. But no, this is better. Being a part of it … As Chase begins to race faster, weaving before me and after me, shivers trickle down my spine. He is so absolutely in control. And so absolutely focused—not only on the snow, but on me.

  Me, the point he keeps coming back to. He could easily outpace me. I’m confident, but I’m not deluded. Chase is in a class of his own.

  Instead he keeps circling back to me, a magnet pulled to polar north.

  I don’t really make a conscious decision to go off piste. But why not? I checked the avalanche forecast earlier, even when I was promising Alex I wouldn’t do anything stupid on my own. But now I have a partner, and it feels so right to cut sideways into the tree line.

  When did it stop being a question whether Chase would follow me? Weaving in and out of the trees, he’s a black shadow slinking between dappled patches of light. Sharp turns spread fans of glistening snow out before him, as if conjured by magic. He cuts in ahead, and as I turn to avoid him he tilts his head toward me and I see beneath the line of his goggles a grin.

  “You’re not bad,” he teases.

  Not bad?

  It’s on.

  Now we hit it hard. Faster and faster we move between the trees. Syncing up with Chase is effortless. I know I ride well with Alex or my other friends, but this surprises me—that Chase and I have the sort of effortless teamwork that usually takes years to build. I know where he is, always, whether I’m watching him or not. His presence is a tingling surety in the base of my spine.

  Up close Chase takes my breath away. It was one thing to see him on the halfpipe yesterday. But this is what he loves—freeriding. In the park he was trapped like an animal, and here he’s liberated. All that muscle dances graceful, and as he launches a jump before me I see all the beauty of flight.

  I think it will end when we reach the bottom of the lift. But Chase simply turns his head to me, raising one long arm to wave lazily down. All the way down, to where Laax nestles in the curve of the mountain far below.

  “Still hungry?”

  How could I not be, when we ride together like this? When for every time I push harder Chase ramps it up a level. When we goad each other without words into bigger jumps, tighter slalom between the trees, a closer twist of our bodies together. It’s better than any boarding I’ve ever had. Nothing else seems that important when there’s this.

  Just us, alone on the mountain, dancing together over the snow.

  I don’t want it to end.

  It has to. Breathless and exhilarated, we pull to a stop in front of the Faceplant. I come in first, Chase scraping to a neat stop beside me and beginning work on his gloves and goggles.

  “That was incredible.” I’m gushing. I don’t care. My heart is beating hard in my chest, all of my troubles gone. I can’t get my gear off fast enough, tugging up my goggles and stripping off my gloves so that my adrenaline-clumsy fingers can struggle with my zipper. “That snow …”

  The gesture is so natural that I don’t think to stop Chase’s hand. It seems right, that with unthinking intimacy he’d reach for my jacket. I only realize what he’s doing when those long fingers curl gently about my own, tugging my zipper free.

  When his gaze rises to mine, the world disappears.

  Chase looks at me as if he’s never seen me before. It’s not lust that blows his pupils to hungry darkness. There’s something else in the way his eyes tick between mine. As if he’s r
eaching for me without moving at all.

  Between us gravity blossoms, tearing at the solid ground beneath my feet.

  “There you go.” Chase’s voice is soft. Not just quiet. Gentle. About my hand his own flexes, sending his fingertips to brush the line of my revealed collarbone.

  My heartbeat stutters. I can’t find my voice. It’s lost somewhere in my throat, the only thing left the hold of his eyes and the static his touch sparks over my skin.

  Chase’s look is a question that only I can answer, and I don’t have the words.

  The change is abrupt. The strangely soft, open look over Chase’s face freezes to a hard mask. His hands drop to his sides as he steps back.

  “Thanks for the ride.” That emotionless smile I saw at the airport twists at his lips. “Too bad we don’t need a photographer.”

  I’d forgotten about it. Forgotten about everything. And now he has to bring it all back, curdling the excitement in my stomach. Spoiling it.

  “See you around,” he drawls, before grabbing his board and heading for the lift.

  Well, I guess I can thank him for reminding me he’s an asshole. Better you know what they’re like.

  I am such an idiot.

  Hanne might have been a live wire last night, but on the slopes it’s all business. Not that she isn’t having fun. But she’s a machine when it comes to the grind of photography—the need to repeat the same jump over and over again, to listen to and absorb my feedback, to hustle until we’ve got the perfect shot. Sometimes I want to pinch myself. Me, Brooke Larson, giving one of the world’s best female riders advice? But Hanne watches me with her earnest expression, gnawing on her lip with concentration, before she nods and hits the ramp or the pipe with tireless dedication.

  My camera full of action shots, Hanne suggests we hit the snow bar at the top of the park. “Work and play, right?” she says with a grin. “We can get some ‘lifestyle’ shots for my Instagram.” She provides the air quotes.