Slashed

by Tracy Wolff

  Not that I’ve exactly given her a chance to talk to me, I fucked her into exhaustion last night, and then left before she woke up this morning. But still, I let her move into my condo. I bought her bagels. I’m her best friend. Surely, if she was going to go out on a date with a guy while she’s fucking me, she should have found a way to bring it up. Maybe before climbing naked into the pool and winding herself all over me.

  “Maybe he just asked her,” Ash says, like he’s reading my fucking mind or something. “I mean, we’ve been gone all day. He could have texted her this morning and asked.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Z agrees, pulling his phone out of my hands and shoving it back in his pocket where I kind of wish it had stayed all along. “Or, you know Josh. He probably just figures she’ll agree when he finally gets around to asking.”

  “That actually sounds a lot like him,” Ash says. “He’s an arrogant fuck.”

  “Yeah, but that’s the way Cam likes her guys, isn’t it?” The words are out before I even know I’m going to say them. And if I thought things were awkward before, I just took it to a whole new level.

  “Dude, that was a long time ago,” Z says after the most uncomfortable pause ever.

  “It was nine months ago. And it lasted for years.”

  “Yeah, but she was never really serious about—”

  “That’s a bunch of bullshit and we all know it. She was as serious about you as I am about her. And Josh is just fucking like you. Just—fuck.” I push back from the table, pull my wallet out of my back pocket and drop some money on the table. “Look, I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to—”

  “Wait,” Ash says, scrambling to his feet. “We’ll go with you. Just let me get the check.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m cool.” I give him the closest thing to a smile I can muster, but judging from the look on his face, it isn’t very fucking close. That’s too bad, because it’s all I’ve got in me, right now.

  I head for the door, giving them a little wave as I go. I’m almost to my car when Z catches up to me, grabs my arm. Fuck. I try to shake him off. He’s my best friend, and I love him like a brother, but I can’t fucking take this. Not now. And not from him.

  “You’ve got it wrong,” he tells me, expression all pained and intense. “It was never like that between Cam and me—”

  “Because you’d never let it be. That doesn’t mean she isn’t in love with you.”

  “She had a crush on me—”

  “She was in love with you. She’s still in love with you. And Josh Greene—he isn’t you, not by a long shot. But he’s the closest fucking thing around, isn’t he?”

  “She’s got you. She doesn’t need me—and she sure as shit doesn’t need Josh fucking Greene.”

  “Yeah, well, too bad she doesn’t see it like that.” I open the door to my Range Rover, climb in.

  “You don’t know how she sees it. You’ve never asked her. And you’ve never told her how you feel. How is she supposed to know if you never talk to the girl?”

  “Oh, I’ve told her,” I tell him grimly.

  “Oh, yeah?” For the first time he looks surprised. “What’d she say?”

  “She snuck out of my house in the middle of the night and then didn’t talk to me for weeks. I’m not sure how much clearer she could have been.”

  “I don’t believe it. Cam is crazy about you—”

  “Yeah, you keep on believing that. But I’m done.” I slam the car door in his face, turn the key. I back out of the spot, and drive around first Z, who hasn’t moved, and then Ash, who has just darted out of the restaurant.

  Fuck.

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

  Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

  Bad enough I had to put up with her being in love with Z. Now it’s Josh Greene? Josh fucking Greene? Just the idea of it makes me lose my fucking mind.

  I’m not surprised, though, not the way Z and Ash are. I saw them together last night. I saw the way he was holding her, the way she was looking at him when she thought no one was paying attention.

  And I fucked her anyway—which totally makes me the pathetic loser in this situation, especially when I got up early, after almost no sleep, just to run out and buy her bagels.

  The light I’m stopped at turns green and I’m so lost in thought that the guy behind me has to lean on his horn before I realize I’m supposed to go. Too bad I don’t have a clue where I’m supposed to go. Normally, I’d go home, but that’s out of the question right now. And since I don’t want to see Z or Ash either, I’m pretty much screwed.

  Except I’m at the main intersection for my parent’s house, only a few miles away from where I grew up. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve been by to check on it. I could do that now, and kill two birds with one stone.

  When you’re not cruising between the resorts, Park City is a small place, so it’s only about five minutes before I’m pulling into the driveway. The place looks good—but then it always does. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way, even when she’s thousands of miles away in New York City.

  It’s why I have to stop by regularly, even though she has a gardener and a pool service and even a housekeeping service to come in once a week and clean; even though nobody lives here anymore—and nobody has since I was a junior in high school.

  This is another thing that drives my mom crazy—and gives her ammunition to harangue me with during every phone conversation.

  Why did you need to buy a condo less than two miles away when you have a perfectly good house right here that you could live in?

  It doesn’t make sense, Luc. You know your snowboarding career isn’t going to last much longer. You’re lucky to have that endorsement money. You should save it instead of spending it on things you don’t need.

  I know you’ve always been reckless, but you need to start thinking about your future. Even if you don’t get hurt, your name isn’t the biggest or the brightest in winter sports. You need to save for a rainy day.

  And she wonders why I don’t want to live in this house? Maybe because every time I so much as set foot on the property, her voice is in my head, telling me that I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough. She thinks I’m just lucky to have friends like Z and Ash who will let me ride their coattails and who make sure I get a piece of the endorsement pie.

  I pull the spare house key out of my glove box, then climb slowly out of the car and head up the walkway to the front door.

  It’s not that she’s wrong, because she isn’t. I know exactly how lucky I am, just like I know exactly how talented I am—and how talented I’m not. But hearing it all the time only makes my inadequacies harder to take.

  I let myself into the house, and pick up the scattered mail that’s been shoved through the mail slot in the days since the housekeeper was last here. It’s all junk, so I take it into the kitchen and throw it away.

  While I’m there, I turn the faucet on and off, make sure the water’s still running—an item on my mother’s checklist, not mine, but I do it because it’s easier than lying when she asks me if I did. And God forbid there’s ever a problem and I don’t find out about it because my house check is random and shoddy.

  I walk through the house quickly, checking out all the rooms. I make sure all the doors are locked, all the window are intact, and everything is exactly how she left it. It is—big surprise.

  The last room downstairs is the music room, and I almost skip it. But there are French doors in there leading out to a small patio and, again, checking it is easier than lying later.

  Besides, it’s one of my favorite rooms in the house. I can’t tell you the number of times I’d come in here just to listen to my sister play something amazing on the grand piano that sits center stage. Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Mozart. Prokofiev, Wagner, Ravel. Cage, Taverner, Penderecki. So many composers. So many compositions. Such towering talent.

  Of course the piano wasn’t her instrument, not really. Oh, she could play it with the bes
t of them, but the instrument my sister was known for, the one she could play like a maestro, was the violin. And when I say that about her, that’s not just family pride talking. It’s the combined consensus of the greatest musicians, conductors, and critics the world over.

  By the time she was ten, people were calling Lauren a prodigy. By the time she was thirteen, they were calling her a genius. And when she was fifteen, my mother decided the world shouldn’t have to wait any longer to hear my sister’s genius in person. She’d moved them to New York so Lauren could be a soloist for the Philharmonic—which lasted all of a year before she took her on her first worldwide tour.

  I hadn’t been invited. This was fine with me. The last thing I’d wanted to do was tour the world without my snowboard, and with Lauren’s white-hot career, there’d have been no time for me to board if I’d left Park City.

  So I didn’t. Instead, I stayed here alone, in this house, for my junior year of high school. I only saw my mom and my twin sister on holidays—and then only when I flew out to see them. Lauren always apologized, but it never bothered me. Because I understand what it is to love something so much that it consumes every part of you. I may not be the same kind of genius at it that Lauren is at the violin, but that doesn’t make it any less important to me.

  Besides, I have friends who are that good. Z has been called a lot of things for a lot of years—everything from a genius to a master to the best snowboarder who ever lived. And Ash is almost as good. So is Cam.

  And we’re all obsessed with snowboarding. To blame Lauren for feeling the same way about something? I could never do that, though I do miss her, a lot.

  Cam’s on my mind as I walk into the room, as I hover over the piano. Cam and fucking Josh Greene. I swear to God, if that bastard touches her, I’ll rip his fucking heart out and shove it down his fucking throat.

  I reach out, trail my fingers over a few of the keys. Press them down in a quick little version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Lauren’s not the only one who can play the piano, after all. Even if I never made it past third grade lessons.

  The piano’s a little out of tune—too many months and years of disuse and loneliness. I make a mental note to call a piano tuner in Salt Lake to come up, then make my way to the second floor to ensure everything is how it should be.

  It is. Of course it is. In my mother’s house, even the inanimate objects know better than to cause a problem. Nothing wants to be the victim of her iron grip or her control-freak issues.

  And neither do I—which is why I do this stupid walk-through a few times a month, just so I can tell her I did it. And just to I can shut her up about it when she brings it up for the three millionth time.

  The walk-through doesn’t take nearly as long as I want it to, and for a second I think about kicking back on the sofa and watching TV for a little while. But the truth is, the emptiness of this place—the lives that hang just out of reach—kind of creeps me out.

  And so I finish as quickly as I can, being as thorough as possible. And then I hightail it back out to my SUV, back to my condo, where I know I’ll have to confront Cam. But after a trip down memory lane at my old house, even that doesn’t seem quite so bad. She may not be in love with me, but at least she isn’t openly disdainful either. That has to count for something.

  When I get to the apartment, Cam’s curled up on the sofa with her laptop. She smiles at me, and despite everything going on inside me, I smile back. I can’t help it. She looks so warm and comfortable and inviting that all I really want to do is join her on the couch and make her come about a half a dozen times.

  At least until I realize she has Ed Sheeran’s album x playing on the stereo. And then all I can think about is Josh fucking Greene and the way he spun her around the dance floor last night to the very song that’s on right now. I can’t help wondering if she’s playing the song on purpose, like maybe she put it on because it makes her think of him.

  Just the idea makes me sick.

  She looks up as I close the door, smiling a little sleepily as she holds out her hand to me. “How was your day with the guys?”

  “It was okay. Nothing special.”

  The words come out more stilted than I want them to, but I can’t seem to help that right now. I can’t seem to help anything right now. All I can hear is Z asking about what’s up with Cam and Josh. All I can see is that text message saying he’s taking Cam out. And all I can feel is the fear that’s been with me from the moment I took Cam to bed two nights ago—the fear that I’ll lose her before I even have a chance with her. Or worse, the fear that I’ll never even have a chance. Being this afraid slashes me open, makes me feel like a total pussy. But I can’t help it. Not when she’s everything I’ve ever wanted—and everything that I know I can never have.

  “What’d you do today?” I ask, then hold my breath as I wonder if she’s going to tell me about Josh. It’s not that I’m trying to trap her, I just want to know what she’s thinking. About him. About me. About us.

  She grabs my hand as I get close, pulls me down onto the couch next to her with a roll of her eyes. “I got trapped into breakfast with my mother.” She mock shudders. “It was awful.”

  “Your mother? How did that happen?”

  “I went over to get some of my stuff when everyone was supposed to be at—”

  “The Bradley Family Breakfast,” I finish for her, having been to more than a few myself through the years.

  “Exactly. But it turns out my parents decided they were going to cook breakfast this week. Like what the fuck, right?”

  “Right. So how’d it go?”

  “Pretty much as well as you’d expect.” She leans over and presses a line of hot kisses up my neck. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

  I groan, let my head fall back a little as she works her way across my jaw to my mouth. And then she’s kissing me, her lips warm and soft and just a little wet against my own. I kiss her back—of course, I kiss her back—but in the sharp corners of my brain I can’t help wondering why she’s doing this. Why she’s here, on my couch, kissing me when she could be somewhere kissing Josh Greene? And how long will it last? How long will she be here, with me, now that he’s set his sights on her?

  She moans a little, deepens the kiss so that her tongue is stroking over the roof of my mouth. It feels so good, she feels so good, but it’s not enough. Not when there’s Z and there’s Josh and they’re both so much better than I am, so much more than I am. And so much more her type than I will ever be.

  Her hands work their way down my chest and stomach to the waistband of my jeans.

  “Wait,” I tell her as I grab onto her hands, try to keep her still. If she goes any further, my resistance will melt like so much snow on a bright spring day.

  Cam doesn’t wait though. She just laughs against my mouth, and starts tugging at my belt buckle, pulling the leather through the loop.

  “Wait!” I tell her again, and there must be something in my voice because this time she does wait. She freezes, her hands on my zipper. Big, bottle-green eyes looking up at me.

  I reach for her, grab her elbows. I pull her to her feet.

  “I don’t want this right now,” I say and it’s the biggest lie, but also the most blatant truth, I’ve ever told her.

  “Don’t want what?” she asks, her voice so low I have to strain to hear it. “Don’t want sex? Or don’t want me?”

  Not want her? Is that what she thinks? That I don’t want her? I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. More than a first-place finish at a tournament and the respect that comes along with it. More than an Olympic medal and the approval from my mother it might finally bring. More than anything.

  I want her more than anything.

  But making love to her isn’t having her, not really. Not when she still looks at Z the way she does. Not when she’s exchanging text messages with Josh fucking Greene. And not when she thinks—not when she knows—that I’m not good enough to
keep up with her.

  I stare at her for long seconds, wondering which of my truths to tell.

  Of course I want you or I’ve always wanted you—will always want you—or I don’t want to want you. Not like this. Not until you’re all that I see, all that I feel, all that I breathe.

  In their own way, each is an honest response. Each is the truth. But none of them are the whole truth and short of baring my soul to her right here—which so isn’t going to happen—I don’t know what to say. Or how to say it.

  So in the end, I fucking lie. I tell her I’m tired, that I’ve got a headache—that I feel a little drunk even though I’ve never been more sober.

  And in the end, she knows I’m lying. Of course she does. We’ve been best friends for seventeen fucking years. She knows me better than I know myself.

  The same way I know that when she pulls away from me, it’s for the best—even if it does hurt like hell.

  Chapter 13

  Cam

  I don’t know what to do. What to say. Where to go. In the moments after Luc rejects me, after he turns away from me like I’m nothing—like I’m less than nothing—I just stand in the middle of his living room and watch as he walks away. I watch as he walks down the hall to his bedroom where, even now, my suitcases are taking up room in the corner against his wall.

  I didn’t unpack when I first got back here because I didn’t know where he wanted me to put my stuff. In his closet and a couple of the empty drawers at the bottom of his dresser? Or the guest room that has an empty closet because it doubles as a weight room/office for him? I figured I’d wait until he got home and ask him, but now that seems out of the question.

  Everything does, except getting my stuff and getting the hell out of here. Getting the hell away from him.

  He doesn’t want me. The words beat in my head like a particularly virulent mantra as I slide my laptop into my backpack. I gather up its charger and my phone charger and slide them gingerly, carefully, into its front pocket. I take more care with them than I need to—they’re just cords after all—but I do it because I feel like I’m the one who’s been slashed to pieces, the one who will fall apart the moment I make one wrong move.