“Do you drink responsibly?”
Baskia nodded, nearly finished with the bottle. “All the time.”
“Then your secret is safe with me.” He winked, melting her insides despite the chill of the beer.
Before going back outside, Trace handed her another. “Enjoy,” he said and then retreated to the deck and reclined in the hammock.
Baskia watched him through the window. He lit a cigarette. The cold liquid sent a million carbonated thoughts racing into her mind. Was the car done being repaired? She ought to call her brother and check her messages—there were at least a dozen from her mother, but she couldn’t connect to voicemail. She hoped Will put out any fires her departure caused. Anne didn’t appear at the cabin, so that was hopeful. She’d been able to send a few texts, but mostly they bounced back. She was on top of a mountain; she couldn’t imagine what blocked the connection.
Earlier that day, in lieu of a call or email, she’d hand-written a letter to the advisor noted in her packet for Columbia, outlining her reason to defer until the winter semester. The time alone, relatively, made her realize that for all her life experience she hadn’t been prepared to be truly on her own. Therefore, she felt it irresponsible to begin college until she knew, for sure, she could rely on herself in times of difficulty, that she could be her own best friend; that she could figure out how to make a damn pot of coffee. Then there was the issue of discovering her heart’s desire and figuring out her hopes and dreams.
Out on the deck, she added the empty bottles to the row on the railing. “Speaking of responsibility you really shouldn’t smoke,” Baskia said to Trace. In the glare of the penetrating sun, her thoughts slowed down, relaxing, drifting, and settling like silt.
One thought, a single word, rose to the top, above all the other thoughts and ideas competing for her attention…Trace.
“It’s only one of my bad habits,” he said, taking a long drag.
“You’re not going to acknowledge that it’s bad for your health?”
“It’s only one of the things I do that’s bad for my health.”
“But—” she grabbed the beer from his hand and took a big sip. “You don’t care about your—”
“I care, just not enough.” He let her finish his beer. Like the water in the lake, his eyes were clear, despite the heat and row of empty beer bottles. They were the exact color of an exotic spice she couldn’t recall the name of, but had to throw toward the camera during a shoot in Morocco. His hair, his motorcycle, his voice was as all-American as they come, but there was also something about him that was just out of reach, mysterious and off-limits. She wanted it.
The hammock swayed slowly as the sun dropped behind the mountain. Baskia leaned her head against the back of the Adirondack chair that she’d pulled over. Trace glided toward her in the hammock, his face just inches from hers. She gazed at his lips. The bottom one was slightly fuller than the top. The hammock swayed, carrying him away. Then he returned. The impish grin stubbornly remained fixed on his lips, as if he could read her thoughts, answer her desire, but refused to. The heat or beer or his presence made her sizzle inside. She leaned in, just close enough to touch her lips to his, but the hammock glided away.
Chapter Eight
“I thought you were hungry,” Trace said.
“I am,” she answered, her pulse quickening. They were a breath apart. She closed her eyes, imagining their lips meeting. When she opened them, he was on his feet; the sunset glowed behind his lean and toned body.
He slid his jeans on.
“Where are you going?” she asked lazily, eyeing the empty bottles on the rail. They cast long shadows across the wooden deck as the remaining sunlight slipped lower and lower.
“I’m going to make us dinner. Your brother wouldn’t forgive me if I let you starve.”
Baskia only half-heard him as she rested into the glow of relaxation. Her mind decided to shut off and there was just the faint hum of her breath and the crickets and frogs chirping down by the lake. Otherwise, all was quiet. Baskia closed her eyes and drifted on a wave of beer that brought her nowhere except exactly where she sat.
The smell of onions and peppers wafted through the window screen from the kitchen. Baskia stayed put, never wanting to leave that peaceful place where no one, least of all herself, expected anything from her.
Trace brought out two plates and set them on the table on the deck.
“Looks good.”
“My specialty,” he said.
Baskia grabbed silverware and napkins. Trace lit a candle.
“Thanks for cooking.”
“Neither one of us has had a proper meal.”
She looked down at the scrambled eggs, cheese, peppers, and onions on the plate. Butter coated two thick slices of toast. “Breakfast for dinner,” she said, enjoying the peaceful stillness of the evening.
When Baskia pushed her plate away, full, Trace said he was going inside to get dessert. Baskia wondered if all he needed was a relaxing afternoon, a few beers, a swim, and a decent meal to transform into the aforementioned “chivalrous” gentleman.
He returned with a bottle of tequila. “I couldn’t find anything sweet enough. Do you think Mr. and Mrs. Benedict will mind if we enjoy a shot or two?”
Baskia went inside to get some salt. “Where’d you find that anyway?” she called.
“Should I tell you? I didn’t know you were a lush,” Trace said.
“I’m trying not to drink.”
“You’re not doing a very good job. Did mommy and daddy throw you in rehab and this is your convalescence?”
“No. Things just got too complicated, so I opted to remove the common denominator. Beer, champagne, tequila. Recovery? Pshaw. Who needs that?” she said, her mood hardening.
“Well, congratulations. I mean that. It can be damn difficult to get out of a tough situation.” He brushed his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “It’s in the cabinet above the bookshelf. There’s practically a fully stocked bar in there. Plus, the wine downstairs. We could have ourselves a good time.”
“Yeah?” Baskia said with a smirk that could easily match his or London’s. She’d tried to go without alcohol, but returning to the slightly numb state, that kept her vein of emotions sealed, made her question her entire plan. And then there was Trace, undeniably hot, right within reach.
Trace passed her a shot glass, linked his arm through hers, and tossed the tequila back.
“What am I doing?” she said aloud, the words gurgling as if pouring through something viscous.
“Tempting me.”
“What?” Baskia said, her thoughts syrupy thick, not following the thread of conversation. He’d already poured the second round. Three days without alcohol suddenly seemed like a long time.
“There’s a saying, something like, ‘Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains.’ Which is it?” He gazed at her with his sterling eyes for a long time, perhaps measuring her intentions.
Baskia surveyed the sweeping mountains and the brushstrokes of pines reaching toward the night sky, dyed purple, inviting a ripe moon into the basket of stars. She imagined secrets breezing into the trees on a gust of wind, forgotten and lost.
“Both.”
He snorted.
The alcohol, summer heat, and nowhere-ness of the mountain hideaway made her feel like she was losing herself, slipping away, and it felt…good. “What about you?”
“I’m—” he paused, lifting his shot glass and swigging the tequila back.
“I’m going to chase you down to the lake.” With that, he was on his feet grabbing her by the hand. Giggles erupted from her as he pulled her toward the water. As before, he stripped off his clothes. The rising moon reflected brightly off the water. She admired his lean and muscled body, the shaft of dark hair beneath his belly button, and his smile, luminous in the fading light. He disappeared in a splash. Ripples formed circles spreading out from where he’d dove in. She held her breath, waiting for him to
surface.
“Come on in,” he called, treading water.
“I thought you were going to chase me.” Nevertheless, she peeled off her tank top and let her shorts slip down to her ankles.
Trace whistled.
She padded to the end of the dock. Lifting her arms overhead, she dove in. The water was colder than she expected, yet she swam over to him, buoyant with laughter.
Trace took her into his arms, tattoos flexing, pressing his chest to hers.
“I thought we were skinny dipping,” he said, tugging on the strap of her bra.
“Since you didn’t chase me in, it stays on,” she teased.
“How about now,” he tickled her waist and up the length of her torso.
She giggled and swam away. They were both laughing and splashing until he gripped her, once again, pulling her close.
“And now?” he asked, finding the hook to her bra. He tossed it onto the dock. He tugged off her panties. In seconds, their lips met. Despite the meal he’d made, she’d never hungered for someone so much. He kissed her with equal intensity. His arms were strong around her body and the sand on the bottom of the lake cushioned her feet. She hardly gave a thought to the weeds and critters lurking beneath. He was hard against her as she pawed and squeezed his back, raking her nails along his skin, eager for him.
Trace took her by the hand, leading her back to the cabin. He hardly took his eyes from her, but he didn’t say a word.
Once in the bedroom, her breath quickened, as they kissed.
“I want you so bad,” he said.
She found herself giving into her longing; it didn’t matter that they’d had a prickly introduction or that their banter, early on, had been antagonizing. He’d been rough and weighted when he’d arrived, but the mountain exposed another side of him. Baskia promised that she’d focus on unraveling the mystery of her emotions later, but even as she realized she’d just made the knots more complicated, she let herself moan, filled with desire after he joined her on the bed.
^^^
Morning sun melted through the windows like liquid, bathing the wood floor in golden puddles of light. Baskia’s head ached and her skin tinged with the dank scent of water and weeds particular to the lake. Trace lay there, still naked, another reminder of the night before. She went back to sleep.
Later, a distant crack of thunder sent a shudder through the cabin. She rolled over, but the bed was empty. She gazed up at the ceiling. Rain pattered on the metal roof. Over the wind, she heard another dull rumble. Looking out the window, the sun hid behind bruised clouds. A figure, on a motorcycle, pulled out of the driveway, his leather jacket already soaked with the rain.
As he disappeared, she spotted the BMW sitting in the driveway. The digital clock next to the bed read afternoon. She must have slept through Wes returning the car. Did he find them in bed? Even though she was alone, an unusual burst of modesty made her gather the strewn sheet around her chest.
When she got to her feet, the room spun. She needed water, but didn’t trust herself to move yet. Glancing on the table beside the bed, she spotted a full glass and a couple aspirin. An hour passed before the blurry edges of her headache dissolved.
Trace wasn’t back yet. She got in the shower. Even though he’d been at the cabin, she found no evidence of him anywhere. No hairs in the sink. No toothbrush left behind, he must have been using hers. In any other circumstance, that would have grossed her out, but it was somehow endearing, especially after the night they’d shared. A rush of nausea, while in the steamy shower, reminded her they’d been drunk. But still. She felt the imprint of his hands on her, his lips and hips pushing her pleasure beyond what she’d previously known possible.
While she brushed her hair, she padded to the kitchen, but the fridge was nearly empty, Trace used the rest of the groceries she bought that first day to make dinner. The dishes were clean. The empty bottles, from their indulgence the night before, he’d stacked neatly by the trashcan. She sighed. He must have gone to the market.
Baskia adjourned to the deck. The rain had stopped, ushering in a rich, earthy breeze. The return of the warm sun and lingering hangover made her sleepy. She reclined in the hammock, letting it cradle her. When she woke up, the sun had set, but no rumbling motorcycle told her that Trace had returned.
Her stomach growled. There were just a few bottles of beer left in the fridge, milk, and condiments. She pulled out the tub of saltines and spread them with jam. She felt as if she was right back where she’d started.
Unsatisfied, she went to the bedroom. At the sight of the unmade bed, a flame of passion ignited inside, filling her in a way food and drink didn’t. Despite her plan to get him back in the bed when he returned, the sheets reeked like the lake. She pulled them off and went down to the basement.
On the front of the washing machine, Trace had taped a note. In ink, it said:
Lift the lever to the right of the washer before you turn it on. Sort the colors into lights, mixed, and darks. If you toss your pink bra in with the lights, you’ll learn that the hard way. Then fill the first container with soap (blue bottle) and the second one with fabric softener (white bottle.) Adjust the dial to the corresponding load (cottons, whites, etc.) Then press start. XO
She waited to read more, but that was it. She knew, despite the amazing experience the night before, that he wouldn’t be returning. He must have, in his words, gotten his shit together.
Baskia sniffed, but didn’t cry. As unwelcome as he’d been at first, the house felt empty without him there. It was her turn to get herself together, and drinking the way she had only filled her with uncertainty and nausea. She straightened up the bedroom, but like before, found she didn’t have anything else to do. She played an app on her phone, sent a few texts, only half of which went out, and then listened for the dryer to beep. She listened to the rain falling on the roof. She listened to the muffled night noises. She listened to her breath.
The softness of that in-out whistle scared her more than a stranger barging into the cabin in the middle of the night. It was more frightening than what the sex had or hadn’t meant. It was worse than her mother forcing her to live a crappy reproduction of her miserable life and disappointing her father. Her breath meant she had a future and had to make a move toward it.
The next morning, Baskia found the keys in the ignition of the BMW. It started right up. There was no bill so she checked the mailbox. Old sales circulars stuffed the hollow, but nothing from Wes or the mechanic.
She took the long winding drive into town and stocked up at the market, still looking out of place with her designer clothes, shades, and long, lean physique. When she loaded the bags into the trunk, she spotted a familiar pickup. She leaned against the BMW, checking her email, sending texts, and waiting for Wes to turn up.
A half hour passed. She called her brother.
“Mom is pissed,” he answered. “I told her you were fine. You just needed some time. But—” she thinks you left the country with London.
“Well, I am in the country,” Baskia replied as a tractor inched by, belching out dark smoke. “And hello to you too.”
“I learned your houseguest left.”
Baskia stuttered, unsure what to say. She had called Will to inquire about Trace. She didn’t know much about him except he knew how to make coffee and kiss, how his hands felt as they glided over her bare chest, how he tasted like metal and mint, and he could tread water and hold onto her. “So, uh, what’s his story?”
“He didn’t spill?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then I guess I’ll just have to leave it to him. Another story for another time.”
She wanted to ask if there would be another time. He didn’t have a cell phone. How would she see him again? Would she?
“So how’s progress on the ever-looming future?”
Wes emerged from the greasy dinner carrying a paper bag. “Hey, I’ve got to go.”
“Call Mom,” Will said before she was able to hang
up.
Wes fumbled with his keys. Baskia rushed over to him.
“Thanks for returning my car. What do I owe you?”
He shook his head, looking down at the bag he held. “Nothing.”
“It had to have cost something. I want to pay you back.”
“Really, don’t worry about it. They owed me a favor. It runs great. I’m only sorry it took so long. Curtis had to special order the part.”
“Thank you.”
He looked past her toward the houses abutting the mountain. “I better get going.”
“Lunch?” she asked. Despite knowing the food from the diner was disgusting, the smell of fried potatoes reminded her of the night before.
“Yeah. See you around,” he said.
“Wait, I…I’m going to be here, in town, a while. Is there anything…to do?” she asked the question delicately, not wanting to insult the small town hero, who saved the day and fixed her car. But it was incredibly dull.
Wes laughed. For the first time she saw the glimpse of a smile, not on the edge of rebellion like Trace’s, but a warm, meaningful smile. “Around here, we make our own fun.”
“And how’s that go?” she asked.
“Stick around long enough and you’ll find out.” He shut the door to the truck and with a wave, drove away.
Chapter Nine
Logic told Baskia to head directly back to the cabin lest she run out of gas or have another problem with the car, but the flicker of Trace remained locked between the walls, on the sheets, and in the hammock. She wasn’t ready to accept that it was just a typical fling, like all the others. She rambled past town following a knotty sign for a state park. She passed a farm stand and a ramshackle barn that looked like one strong gust of wind would tip it over.
Throughout her life, she’d dwelled in populated areas, whether traveling for work, or of course, New York City. As the landscape seeped into her skin, taking root where there had once been cement and skyscrapers, she had the odd notion that she was experiencing nature shock as opposed to culture shock. There was so much green: long rolling pastures, hills stretching up toward the mountains, and only a thin line of asphalt indicating any sign of civilization. In over ten minutes, she didn’t pass a single car.
On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) Page 7