Wes looked at Mellie as if some invisible cord united them in loss. Will put his arm around her. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.
“Is it going to be okay?” London asked, rounding on them. “As of late this morning your mother, Anne Benedict, was still alive. So you don’t actually know, do you?”
Baskia stepped forward. “Is that how you found me? Figures. But you’re right I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone like that. But there are people in this room who do. Believe me.” Baskia eyed Wes and Mellie. “Kate, she’s gone. She isn’t going to come back to save you. You’re the only one who can make you okay. The guys won’t do it. The drugs certainly won’t. Fame, you’re not going to find okay there.” Baskia shook her head.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gigi looked on, confused. “Why are you guys fighting? Can’t we just have fun?” she whined.
“I think we all know who in this room doesn’t like to have fun,” London said.
“You need help,” Baskia said. “I hope you find it and when you do, be prepared to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life.”
Recognition quickly flashed and dimmed across London’s face. “Well, I still have tonight.” She grabbed the bottle of tequila from the counter, took a swig, and turned the music back on. With that, activity in the room resumed as if someone had simply pressed play.
Baskia lost track of the others as Trace pulled her toward the front door, wrapping his jacket over her shoulders. Outside, he traced the letters XO in the snow on the railing. Their breath puffed like clouds. She thought he’d lit a cigarette, but his empty hands pulled her to his chest, gripping her firmly, like a promise never to let go.
“You were amazing in there,” he said. The intense look in his eyes told her it was for reasons he wasn’t yet ready to explain. Then, planting his lips on hers, they kissed, warming each other in the chill night air. Glancing at his watch, up to the sky, and then back down into Baskia’s eyes, his lip quivering, he uttered, “Happy New Year.”
Chapter Twenty
As Baskia tried to sleep away a splitting headache, scenes of the night before wedged in her mind. Trace lay beside her, tangled in the sheets. The cabin was quiet; they’d danced and drank into the early hours, but it was already afternoon on New Year’s Day. Baskia wondered if her brother and Mellie were still asleep downstairs. Had Wes made it home? What about the Manhattan crew?
She’d wondered if Mellie and Will were an item, but she’d seen Mellie shyly flirting with Wes. Regret at not making a greater effort to smooth things over with her seeped through the disjointed cracks connecting the events from the night before. Her friend had no reason to apologize. It was all Mellie could do to keep herself going after her mother passed away. Baskia had been selfish, drifting into oblivion on the party circuit when Mellie needed her most.
Baskia listened for sounds of sleep, scattered around the house. There was only Trace’s soft breathing. Immense gratitude washed over her for dodging a bullet, in the form of drug addiction and a bloated self-image a la London.
Watching Trace sleep, with the hint of a grin on his lips, made her feel lucky not only because he was gorgeous, had a perfect body, and was great in bed. Those things mattered, but not as much as whom he was, how he somehow reflected back to her the best and worst parts of herself. Above all else, he was helping her grow out of her old ways and into someone new.
She slinked to the kitchen, expecting to find Carlito and Gigi in the living room sprawled on the couch, but it was empty, the only evidence of their presence, the countless empty glasses, and bottles covering every surface.
On the counter, she spotted a note, written in Will’s block penmanship.
Thanks for the party. Whew, wasn’t expecting that. Gone skiing and then back to Boston. Happy New Year’s. Love, Will.
She paused, affectionately thinking of her brother and wondering about him and Mellie. If they were indeed a couple, he’d certainly show her how to loosen up.
She caught herself on the edge of the counter when the room spun. Taking a glass of water for herself and one for Trace, along with a box of granola and a carton of milk, she returned to the bedroom to lie down.
Trace rustled when she got back in bed.
“I’m not yet fit to be upright,” she said, as she poured a bowl of granola and then reclined on the pillows. “I brought one for you.” She pointed to the bowl on the nightstand.
“How about eggs or something greasy to sop up this mess,” he said, groaning and rubbing his abs.
Baskia thought about the diner in town, but it was even riskier on an already queasy stomach. “There are eggs in the fridge.”
“Don’t eat another bite. I’ll make us breakfast.” He stopped as his feet hit the cold floor. She reveled in the perfection of his sculpted chest, as if he were a statue etched during ancient times. What irritated her was that he knew it. She put the bowl aside and pounced on him.
They kissed recklessly, Baskia not caring where her lips landed only that she couldn’t get enough.
Trace paused. “The others?”
“I think they left or they’re asleep.”
He kicked the door shut and then dove back into bed. “You’re so sexy,” Trace said.
Baskia didn’t feel sexy. Sober and in the daylight, she wanted to close her eyes. She wasn’t shy, but in front of him, baring it all translated beyond skin and nudity. He kept his eyes open as if to take all of her in, so as not to miss the pulse of desire as it spread across her face, gauging how good he could make her feel. His lips were hot on her chest as he trailed down toward her belly, kissing the skin below and inside her thighs. He lingered there, and Baskia couldn’t help but relish every moment.
After he made her moan, he rolled her on top of him, taking her wrists in his hands as he rocked gently beneath her. She moaned more and closed her lids.
“I want to see you,” he whispered. His eyes shone like an invitation, like eye contact allowed her to see the real him: the most intimate and terrifying parts, the pieces of his past that made him self-deprecating, cynical, and always at a distance. His kisses changed when she waded into the depths of his eyes. It was as if he suddenly feared the moment wasn’t real, as if they were just ghosts and would pass into flickering memory.
“Are you sure?” She brought her hand to her lips, unsure why she’d asked. But her words seemed to break the desperation in his trance.
“What do you think?” he asked with a smirk. He flipped her over, looking deeply into her eyes, melting into her, skin to skin. They moved together, Baskia quivering and trembling with pleasure.
Trace delighted in his ability to give her what she wanted. She pushed on his shoulders, rolling on top again, and after a few moments he shuddered and shook, his eyes fluttering closed. A grin spread on his lips before he blinked open his eyes.
They lay together, afterward, holding hands, whispering to each other.
“Your eyes,” she said, looking into those pools of knowing: honest and penetrating.
“Your lips.”
“Your muscles.”
“Your tits.”
“Your smile,” she brushed her finger over his lips.
“Your voice.”
“Your confidence.”
“Your legs, your ass, your courage, and strength. Your—”
“Hey, no fair, it’s my turn.”
Trace laughed. “It’s going to be dark soon.” He looked out the window, quiet for a few minutes.
Baskia sensed that he hoped that if he looked hard enough he’d find what he was looking for.
“What are you thinking about?”
He shook his head. “Dinner?”
“What ever happened to breakfast or was that lunch? How about breakfast for dinner?”
“Breakfast in bed,” he asked.
“I never want to leave it,” Baskia said, rolling onto her belly and smiling at him.
After eating
a plate of eggs, toast, and home fries, Baskia started to clean up the mess from the night before. “So, you got to meet the old crew.”
“Yeah,” Trace said, obviously unamused by their antics.
“I wonder when they left?”
“No note?” Trace asked, glancing at the one from Will.
“Nope. And no silver either,” Baskia said, putting some of the glasses away in the china cabinet. “I just knew London took the decanter from our old apartment. And now she took some of my mom’s serving platters. Who does that? I’d expect money, electronics, jewels…”
“Can you get it back?”
“Probably not.”
“There are ways,” he muttered under the clinking of the empty bottles he stacked.
She wondered if he was some kind of hot reverse-criminal, if he could or would go so far to get the missing items back. She shivered. “I guess I’ll consider them a party favor.”
Trace raised an eyebrow. “Pricey.”
“But I guess I’m not doing her any favors by supplying items to sell to support her drug habit.”
“I’ve seen girls like her. Either she’ll stop or she won’t.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Baskia said glumly.
Trace’s eyes hardened along with the set of his jaw as if he knew all too well what he was talking about. After cleaning thoroughly and leaving no evidence of the revelry from the night before, the quiet that settled between them was too much to bear. Baskia stepped to the window, as if to confirm that the tire tracks in the driveway had indeed brought her brother, Mellie, and everyone from the City.
Trace took her hand and pulled her onto the couch. The fire burned away the tension caused by how closely the subject of drugs had affected him.
“So Baskia Benedict? Tell me, where did you get your name?”
“What about Tracey?” she said jokingly. “Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
“Ha ha. It can be, but it’s actually my great great…I could keep going for about a minute… grandfather’s family name. It means warlike.” He smiled like it was a badge of pride. “Interestingly, I was never picked on or bullied at school,” he said, planting a kiss on her neck and working his way up toward her ear.
“I’m not surprised.”
“And Baskia?”
“Will is, well, William Benedict the Third. Baskia was our mother’s maiden name. I guess to honor her lineage they named me Baskia. She has three sisters, but no one to carry on the illustrious Baskia legacy. Baskia French Benedict. That’s me. If she wanted me to blend in with her society friends, she should have given me a normal name.”
“So you think we grow into the names we’re given?” he asked. Curiosity bloomed across his features; as if he wanted to watch her lips move all night.
“If you’re asking me if I think you’re warlike? No, not entirely. There’s a peaceful side to you too.” She leaned in, returning his kisses as if demonstrating how docile he could be if approached tenderly, like a lion tamer cuddling up to a deadly beast.
As his mouth moved against hers, the intensity increased, and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her breath quickened.
“Baskia,” Trace whispered.
She moaned at the sound of her name on his tongue as he kissed behind her ear. She wondered if her mother gave her the name she bore before getting married, as her way of quietly holding onto, or passing on, independence, empowerment, and the ability to pursue her dreams; the very things she lacked after marrying William Benedict Junior. Trace groped under her shirt, drawing her back to the moment. “You feel so good,” he said. As he slipped off her shirt and pressed his bare chest against hers, all thought was lost. She couldn’t imagine anywhere she’d rather be.
^^^
Late that night, as they lay in bed, Baskia asked, “What do you want?” She felt his lips pull into a smirk.
He rolled onto his side, playing with a lock of her hair. “What does anyone want? Happiness. Health. Security. Peace.”
“I thought you were warlike?” she said with laughter in her voice.
“Only when I have to be.”
“Do you have to be often?” Baskia saw many things in him: exhaustion—like he carried more than his own burden—amusement, cynicism, and freedom. But always on the edge, never committing, ready to leap or bite before anyone got too close. She wondered if fear pushed him away.
“That’s a long story,” he answered.
“We have all night.”
“How about you tell me what you want. If you recall, I asked first.”
“I also appreciated the note on the laundry. I’m a pro now, you know.”
“I believe that anything that you put your mind to will be amazing.”
“I wish everyone had so much confidence in me.”
“Only you.”
“Only me what?”
“Only you need to believe in yourself. What was that about the girl moving mountains?”
“Sometimes I think the mountain is moving me,” Baskia said softly.
“So, this self-imposed exile, what’s it about? What do you want?”
“I want you,” she said, planting her lips on his, breathing deeply.
He slowly pulled away.
“I’m serious. What do you want?”
“I’m serious too.” She rolled onto her back. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. It’s like there’s a block; a frosty window that I can’t see through.”
“But on the other side lays your heart’s desire?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s keeping you from scraping the window clear or smashing it?” Trace asked, leaning on his elbow, looking at Baskia intently.
“I’m not violent. I don’t know.”
“Sometimes we have to fight for people, sometimes those people are ourselves.”
“But I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” he answered, wrapping his arm under her back and lifting her head toward his.
“Then tell me,” she whispered.
“You’re worth fighting for.”
Baskia flopped back on the bed. “I’m not warlike.”
“Not all fighting is war. Sometimes we wage an inner battle for or against ourselves. Sometimes we need to reframe our thinking, try a different approach, smash our way through—that’s my personal favorite. Other times, we just have to let go of things or people who have what they believe are our best interests in mind. Maybe they’re not aligned with what we need. And still other times we just need to sweat.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“I mean toil, prove to ourselves and no one else, that we’re capable, worthy.”
Wes’s do-it-yourself sensibility rang in her ears. “I think I know what you mean.”
“So maybe by coming up here you wanted to prove to yourself that you can be self-sufficient and independent. And you have.”
“I’ve had some help.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that. But maybe if you’re feeling that way, your work isn’t done. Not yet.”
“You still haven’t answered the question, what do you want?”
Trace was quiet. “There’s just one thing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s for someone else, actually,” he said with the same weariness that accompanied him when he’d arrived at the cabin. He crossed his arms under the back of his head and looked up at the wooden ceiling.
“What is it?” she nuzzled her head onto his chest.
“It almost isn’t New Year’s Day anymore. We step out of the glow of novelty and back into reality,” Trace said.
“Poetic. Does that mean you’re leaving?”
“In another day or two. But I intend to be right where I am until then.” Trace took a deep breath, perhaps not ready to think about it, or maybe eagerly awaiting his departure, it wasn’t clear. “Any New Year’s resolutions? It isn’t too late.”
“I’ll think about it and then get back to you.”
“You?” she asked.
“If you haven’t noticed, I quit smoking.”
Baskia wrinkled her nose. “Really? Good for you. How long?”
“I had my last one before I left the Brooklyn.”
“So you’re quitting. You know, I’ve heard those vapor cigarettes are all the rage.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Help?”
“If I put my mind to something, I can do it on my own,” he said with a slight edge in his voice.
“It wasn’t that. I wasn’t doubting your strength or conviction. I just know nicotine is a powerful addiction. Most addicts need a little help. It’s like training wheels. And what about the other things, what you won’t tell me, the things you’ve done wrong or whatever, maybe I can help you.”
“I’ve made some mistakes. I’ve done some bad things. But that’s different.”
“I can help you, whatever you need, I’m here,” she said in an outpouring, sensing he was slipping away and retreating into the dark shell she’d observed when they’d first met.
“You can’t fix me.”
“But you’re not broken. I’m just offering to help.”
“There are parts of me that are,” he muttered.
Baskia leaned over and stroked his chest, down toward his waist. “I don’t believe that.” She placed her lips softly on his, inching her way down to his taut stomach.
“Not now,” Trace said, pulling her back toward him. “It’s late. We should go to sleep.”
With that and not a word more, Trace shut down. Baskia not only felt rejected, but she couldn’t sleep as she struggled with all the good she saw in him and wondered what blocked his usual ultra-confident, cocky attitude. What ate away at him?
On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) Page 17