On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go to Columbia,” Baskia blurted.

  “Well, that wasn’t my first choice, but good. I will let them know. I’ll send a courier over with a few documents after they’ve been sent to me.”

  “Email is fine, Mom.”

  “Their prospectus is lovely, and you’ll need—”

  “Didn’t Will show you how to press send?” Baskia asked, knowing her mother’s ineptitude or perhaps unwillingness to move forward, with technology.

  “Well, yes, but how about you come over for dinner next Sunday. I should have everything in order by then. I expect your brother will also be home one last time before the semester begins. You’ll also have to discuss this with your agent. College is different from high school with the tutors. I can’t get you excused if you miss classes or exams.”

  “I know that. What do you think I am, stupid?” Baskia couldn’t help reverting to the argument they’d been having since she was thirteen.

  “No dear, but it isn’t like you’re as independent and,” she paused, “adept as Mellie.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Baskia snapped.

  “After she lost her mother, she had to handle everything, applying to schools, her interviews…”

  “I’m pretty sure you helped her.”

  “Well, not having a mother to look after her interests—”

  “Come on, Mom,” Baskia said, feeling her cheeks flushing hot with indignation.

  “Dear, it’s just that Mellie has a clear vision for her future, she has goals, and is taking the steps necessary to succeed.”

  “If you prefer Mellie to me, just say so. That way I can be the ditzy-orphan child and you can adopt a new daughter. The two of you can attend stuffy dinner parties, rub elbows with high society, and then when you’re old and dull, you can ask yourselves what it was all for,” Baskia shouted, knowing she’d gone slightly too far, but couldn’t stop herself. All the pressure of her upbringing and the expectations for her future pressed against the inside of her chest begging for a way out, and unfortunately, it was through a yelling match with her mother that continued for fifteen minutes.

  “Fine,” Baskia said. “I’ll go to Columbia, get a degree, then I’ll get married, leave my career, have a couple brats, and when I’m your age I’ll be so miserable I’ll either try to hold onto my youth by trying to control my adult children’s lives—” but her mother had already hung up. Baskia leaned back on her bed, practically out of breath, knowing she’d just crushed her future in a rocky avalanche of acquiescence and anger.

  Chapter Two

  Without a knock, London appeared in the doorway looking as sexy as ever, despite bedhead and smudged eye makeup. Baskia wondered how she was always effortlessly perfect. Even though Baskia would be able to stay in the city, her pledge to go to Columbia made her feel as alien in her skin as ever. She rubbed her eyes wishing she could see a way clear of the situation.

  “What was the tantrum about this time? Daddy not paying your—those shoes!—where did you get them?” London asked, interrupting herself and slipping one of the pumps on.

  Baskia sighed. “Retail therapy.”

  London teetered in the Louboutins as she made her way to the full-length mirror, trying to avoid the disaster on the floor: tangles of clothing, shopping bags, scarves, and bras. She admired the long lines of her legs, made more slender by the studded, white heels. “Girlfriend, if I had the opportunity to go to an Ivy League school—not that I’d even get in—I’d jump at it. Unless your mother is Kate Moss and not that bitch you call Mom, eventually your looks will fade. Modeling, it’s for the young. And right now, we are young.”

  “It’s not even that,” Baskia said, rolling over and dismissing London’s sharp tongue.

  “What, you don’t want to be a model anymore?”

  “No, I do,” Baskia said not entirely convinced she believed her own words.

  “Because, just like the waitlist at college, there’s a long line of girls who would do anything for your position. You’re living the dream.”

  She wasn’t used to London getting self-righteous; or rather, she was, it just wasn’t usually directed at her. She was Baskia’s go-to for fashion advice, her party partner, and an all-around fun-time.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to go to college, and it’s not that I don’t still want to model. I do. I know that I’m lucky too. I suddenly feel like I’m stuck in neutral. I don’t know where to go or what to do. No one thing seems like it will please everyone.”

  “That’s stupid,” London said with a yawn.

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to please people.”

  “Well, I’m including myself in the umbrella term people.” What do I want? She heard a small voice inside ask.

  “Whatever. Your family and your money, there are so many rules and such bullshit involved. Blah, blah, blah. Lucky for me I don’t have that problem.”

  “Exactly. You just do what you want to do when you want to do it. The problem is I don’t know what I want to do.”

  A mischievous smile crept across London’s lips. “I know what you need.”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “I know what’ll wake you up.”

  “I—”

  “You have no excuses. Unless of course you want me to wear those heels out to the Dome tonight?” London said, referring to the invitation to promote a hot new label at a club.

  Hours later, Baskia climbed into the cab, behind London. The mid-August, daytime heat still hung in the air and immediately clung to her skin. Despite their usual pre-club routine of primping to loud music and downing a glass, or a bottle, of champagne, Baskia couldn’t pull off a party mood.

  “I really hope my hair doesn’t frizz,” London said, smoothing her tresses. “Since Mommy and Mellie aren’t here to chaperone, I suggest you get your groove on. This might be the last time. When do classes start, in a couple weeks?”

  At the mention of the two people in her life she was most annoyed with, no, angry with, she nodded. That little nudge was all she needed to party harder than usual; if only to push against the heaviness that had settled over her since she agreed to go to Columbia.

  “You’re right. Now that I’ve resigned myself to college and the dull, scripted life my family has planned for me, I might as well let loose while I can.”

  “There’s the Baskia I know and love.” London laughed, squeezing her arm. “So, if I see Nels, dibs. ‘Kay.”

  “Do you really like him?”

  “Who, Nels? Sure. He’s hot and hooked up, what’s not to like?”

  Baskia worried about her friend and her lack of self-control. Although they were no strangers to the partying, she’d managed to pull back when she needed to, sort of. She couldn’t think about it further as London ushered her out of the cab and past the velvet ropes of the club.

  The cavernous room was a contrast of shadow and neon, flashing light. The volume of the music penetrated Baskia’s skin, giving her an instant headache. But she was there to shrug off the fight with her mother, the realization that her friend had come to her under Anne’s direction, and the commencement of school. London uncorked a bottle of bubbly and thrust a flute in Baskia’s hand. They clinked glasses, and London disappeared into the throbbing crowd, everyone eager to party with her.

  After another glass of champagne, Baskia found herself on the dance floor, forgetting time and place, parents and old friends, losing concerns and dreams to the rhythm of the pop music. A guy with short cropped, brown hair grinded behind her, running his hands up and down the sides of her chest and her waist. She didn’t care; she was gone. Baskia had taken flight and hardly acknowledged the gravity that held her to the earth.

  Their hips moved together, winding up and down, twisting, and turning to the changes in the music. She felt his breath, whisper soft. He almost, but not quite, kissed her neck. The room was a mass of gyration, a single organism fueled by alcohol, pills, and lust.

 
; He took Baskia’s hand in his, leading her off the dance floor to a vacant leather banquet along the perimeter of the room.

  Baskia was no stranger to hot parties, where people unabashedly pursued their deepest pleasures. The club-goers made out or swallowed what made them feel good in the moment. The fallout, or hangover, wasn’t always pleasant, but she hadn’t gone out that night to think about the immediate or distant future. Instead, she let the guys in the room look her up and down. She gave herself permission to do whatever she wanted. At that, the guy who’d danced with her spun her bare knees in his direction.

  “I’m Pierce. I’ve seen you around. You’re friends with London, right?” he said in a French accent. He dispensed champagne. “We’ve never met, but the first time is always the best, oui?”

  Baskia was used to being the one in the know, but London had been hitting the party circuit hard the last month. “Yeah, London lives with me.”

  “Let’s take the party back to your place then,” he said.

  She didn’t say no.

  After another glass downed, they pressed through the crowd, losing minutes to dance, tossing back more drinks, and gathering other people to take back to her apartment for an after-party. Finally, she found London straddling Nels in a smoky corner.

  “Where have you been? Having fun, I hope.” London wiped her nose.

  “Not as much as you,” Baskia answered, eyeing Nels. “We’re going back to the apartment, the party continues,” she slurred over the blare of the music.

  London launched to her feet. “You’re not serious?” She drew everyone’s attention with her hiked up skirt and the impish grin that promised a good time.

  “I am.”

  “Whoa, wait, after all this time and all my begging and pleading, you’re finally opening the door to a party, at our place?”

  Technically, it was Baskia’s parents who owned the penthouse apartment and let her stay there on the condition she not have parties or guests unless they were trusted by the family, like Mellie. Even letting London stay there was a stretch, but Baskia had sold London’s story about not having anywhere else to go, which wasn’t really a lie. Up until that day—when Baskia watched any notion of her fun and carefree life wiped away and replaced by studying what, she didn’t know—she’d said an emphatic no to gatherings there.

  “We’re gonna have a party,” London shouted, busting a sultry move to the beat-heavy music. “You hear that everyone, party at my place!” She whooped.

  Baskia ignored this, lost in Pierce’s lips after he pulled her to his chest, their mouths meeting in one swift motion. The next thing she realized she was back at the penthouse, fumbling to get the key in the lock as a loud group pressed behind her.

  After making out with Pierce on the couch, she pulled a few bottles of liquor out of a cabinet. Somehow, open bottles and cans already littered the countertop. The room blurred as she grabbed an aged bottle of white wine. Pierce refilled Baskia’s glass, running his hand along her arm. Pierce pulled her away from the living room. “Where’s your bedroom?” he asked.

  Baskia had been to loads of parties identical to this one, but never at one of her parents’ houses—it was a line she didn’t cross. Sure, she’d invited people back to hotel rooms and temporary rentals while she was abroad, but as she pointed to the door, self-consciousness flooded her like the enormous sip of wine she’d tossed back. Nonetheless, Pierce with his accent, hard chest, and who knew what else, made her eager to forget the worries and lose herself in a night of meaningless sex. Never mind that the numbers on the digital clock on the night table told her it was nearly morning. They grey light seeping in through the drapes covering the floor to ceiling windows of the bedroom distracted her.

  “Hey, I’ll be right back,” she said, stumbling over the mess on the floor. A sudden thought surfaced in her drunken mind that told her to make sure everything was okay, that nothing was broken or worse, taken.

  When she entered the living room, London looked up from the coffee table. Neat white lines spread in a fan next to a plastic bag.

  “Best idea ever,” London said, getting to her feet. “Want some?”

  “Uh, no. We should probably wrap things—”

  “Don’t be silly. This is the most fun we’ve had in like—” London paused when Pierce appeared, wrapping his arm around Baskia’s waist. Her eyes narrowed seductively as if to lure him away, despite Nels seated on the couch and Baskia right in front of her.

  At that, Baskia seized the moment, forgetting her concerns and the dawning light. She turned to Pierce, ran her tongue from his jawline up the side of his cheek, and uttered, “I licked him, he’s mine.”

  Laughter fizzed in the room.

  London sneered, not willing to be defeated, and then hissed, “Today Baskia made the decision to go to Columbia University.” A few people hooted and clapped. “Yes, congratulations are in order. But it is also the day that my roomie finally made the decision to shrug off the lame rules her ritchy-bitchy mom made up, let loose, and have a part-ay.” She laughed and the room cheered. Nels pulled her back to his lap, and the pair were wrapped in wet, sloppy rapture.

  Baskia knew London was being the bitch, but it didn’t matter because in two weeks everything was going to change. She turned to the table, grabbed a half-finished bottle of bubbly, and retreated to her room.

  Pierce followed. “Ritchy-bitchy? I like girls like you,” he said, flipping her hair behind her shoulders.

  It crossed her mind that he might define the word a-hole. As a model, she found herself surrounded by shallow people, but equally so wonderful friends she hoped to have forever. It wasn’t much different from the people surrounding her parents; there was greed and dishonesty, power plays, and insults. Her people just wore their heels better. At least Pierce was being honest with what he wanted. Baskia urged her mind to shut off. She chugged the champagne and fell into his arms.

  For the following week, Baskia repeated the late nights at clubs, early morning after-parties at her place, and the ensuing hang over. With each passing day, she slipped farther and farther from the blow of the argument with her mother and the sting of Mellie’s betrayal. Best of all, she hadn’t thought about going to school at all, at least not while she wasn’t sober. She’d downed more than her weight in alcohol and other curious substances, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t come up with anything meaningful to hold onto, to use to levy herself from the tarry sludge of the future she envisioned her mother had planned.

  She’d hooked up with a couple different guys during the nightly blowouts, but that morning, as the risen sun eventually forced her eyes open, she glimpsed the slope of Pierce’s shoulders as he slept beside her. She couldn’t shake a sinking feeling that didn’t have anything to do with him; he was great in bed. It wasn’t London and the apparent permission having a party gave her to do whatever she wanted day and night, including increasingly more and more drugs. No, the dull prickling, that turned into panic, was the realization that a courier had not yet sent over the documents for school. In that rare moment of sobriety, she suddenly worried that her mother would decide to pop in and deliver the items herself.

  She scrambled out of the bed, to Pierce’s sleepy protests, and into the living room, wearing nothing but panties and a camisole. Just as she feared, her mother stood in the doorway, her lips puckered scornfully.

  Chapter Three

  “I can explain.”

  “First put on a decent shirt. Or a corset. If your father saw you—” Disdain and disappointment dripped from her mother’s painted lips.

  Baskia fled to her room and grabbed a robe from the back of the closet door. Thankfully, there weren’t any strays from the club in the living room, but London could have anyone in her room, and there was Pierce. She pressed her finger to his lips.

  “Please, don’t say a word,” she whispered.

  “What, are the police here?”

  “Worse, my mom.”

  “Is she CIA? FBI? Immigration
?”

  “No, she’s a mother, and right now I’m in—”

  “How old are you?” Pierce asked, his French accent waking up with the startled look on his face.

  “Shh. I’m eighteen. Don’t worry about that. I’m not supposed to have parties.” She felt thirteen-years old. “Can you just stay put until I come back?”

  Pierce looked annoyed, but leaned back in bed and rolled over. Unfortunately, London’s room was on the other side of the apartment so Baskia couldn’t warn her. In a flash of genius, she hastily typed a text telling her not to come out.

  She found her mother in the kitchen, holding a pink thong at the end of a greasy chopstick. Bottles and cups covered every surface.

  “Explain yourself. Fast.”

  “It was, uh. It was a going away party. Things got a little out of hand. I’m sorry.” Baskia allowed the sticky lie to peel off her tongue and knew, at least according to her brother, that honesty and a quick apology usually worked.

  “I’m disappointed in you young lady. I’ll be sending a cleaning service over this afternoon. You are going to be living in a dorm with supervision. Tell your little friend she has to move out.” Anne Benedict turned on her heel. “And I’ll see you at dinner this evening.”

  “Shit,” Baskia said as her mother exited. She had the urge to bang on London’s door and blame it all on her or call Mellie and just scream. But Baskia knew the latter would meet her with a reasonable response and apology and the former would just scream back. Instead, she climbed back in bed and let Pierce swallow her in his arms.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked afterward.

  “It’s not you.”

  “What is it then?” he asked.

  “Are we really going to talk?” she said, knowing that despite a few nights spent together, there wasn’t much substance between them, and that was intentional.