His elbow sticks out of a small hole in his shirt. The puckered skin of rug burns and road rash reminds me of the jagged scar on his muscled chest. His hard muscled chest. “How’s it going?” he asks out of the side of his mouth, while he sips his drink.
“Good.” I poke my finger into the hole. He stiffens, then pulls his elbow away. “Sorry,” I shrug. “I don’t know what just possessed me to do that.”
Hell yeah, I do.
Randy wraps his arms around our shoulders and bumps us together. “Anyone up for a ski shot?”
Ski. Did someone say ski? Whatever a ski shot is I must have one. I must.
“I do,” Kendall shouts, reappearing out of nowhere.
Devon reaches above the bar and pulls down an old school ski. You know, one of those long narrow skis that starts at the top of the mountain and ends half way down. As he flips it on the bar, dust billows into the air.
No one seems bothered by the layer of dust not only on the ski, but the shot glasses as well. Gabe brushes against me as he stands up. I enjoy all this touching business. Kendall and Randy flank either side of us.
Randy says, “Ya gotta stand up, Lexi.”
Devon raises his eyebrows up and down, as he shoves a dishcloth in each glass. Without rinsing it off, he swipes the top of the ski, leaving a soapy dusty film trail. Alcohol should eliminate the e-coli or whatever other infectious bacteria might be growing. To think my Chem prof told me I wasn’t capable of understanding the gravity of compounds and atmospheric elements.
Kendall knocks into me. I use this opportunity to wrap my arms around Gabe’s waist. “Sssorrry, this is my first time,” I giggle. Alcohol paired with long neglected hormones is a battle no one wants to fight.
He removes himself from my grasp. Well, except for Gabe. “Keep both hands on the ski for leverage.”
Sure. Sure. I’ll keep both hands on the ski, but I can’t promise where they might wander later.
Some Crown Royal Apple spills on my hand. I release the ski to suck it off.
“Two hands,” he warns.
“Okay, okay Lumberjack Yeti-man.” Uh oh, the Abominable’s out of the snowbank now.
“Lumberjack Yeti-man?”
But his question is lost to the one, two, three chant. The ski lifts up in the air. Half my shot spills across my face as I stand on tiptoe and suck down the rest.
Whoever thought to attach shot glasses to a ski is freaking brilliant.
Absolutely freaking brilliant.
“Again!” I shout, dragging my sleeve across my alcohol stained cheek. Ski shots require balance and precision, just like skiing. The application of the varying sciences must be evaluated and considered. For instance, if your fellow ski shooters tower over you. One must ask them to lower the ski to your level to create a level, groomed ski surface. Otherwise, 1.) you might get tossed in waist deep powder and in the spring the resort sets up a garage sale sign on all your lost equipment or 2.) you catch an edge and create your own version of the Flying Dutchman.
And 3.) practice always makes perfect.
But remember, it doesn’t matter how many runs you take, always be ready for unpredictable conditions.
By my fourth run, I’m well on my way to mastering the double diamond ski shot peak. Such expert demonstration in fact that Gabe and I shoot tandem. His arms encircle my arms, his legs straddle my legs, his…, well, his groin presses into me. His face brushes past mine on his way toward the shot. The hint of chainsaw and wood fills the air between us. Primal instincts take over. Well that, and the fact I haven’t had sex in a very long time.
I decide to forget the fact he didn’t like me touching him earlier. Besides, we’ve come much too far to remember such trivial body parts as elbows. At the completion of our triumphant run, I slip my fingers through his belt loops and yank him toward me. He wraps me into a tight embrace. Our bodies sway back and forth in a drunken dance.
Yells of “shot, shot, shot,” spiral into the air around us, but we’re only aware of each other. Only aware of this moment. Only aware of our need. This incredible overwhelming need. I reach hungrily for his lips. His mash against mine, and we devour each other. Our hands are everywhere. Pulling, tugging, grabbing, holding, rubbing. We stumble down the hall entangled in one another. There’s a door, then a counter. There might be a few ‘assholes’ and ‘Jesus Christ, get a room,’ but intense desire rules above all else.
He pulls my shirt and bra over my head. I reach for his shirt, but he swipes my hands away, redirecting them to other areas in need of satisfaction. His belt buckle first. Then his zipper. His pants drop to his ankles. Mine follow. He clutches my ass and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around him and draw him in. We press against one another in a maddening search for self-satisfaction. He pushes us against the cold tile wall. His frantic intensity drives me to climax. He comes long and hard.
We collapse against the wall, him still pressing into me. His face nestles into my neck. Our chests rise and fall, as we try to catch our breath.
Soon, his rapid breathing slows to steady drawn out beats.
“Gabe? Gabe?”
First sex I’ve had in months. Best sex I’ve had period. And he’s passed out. Not exactly a confidence booster.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I knew the next time I saw Gabe it would be awkward. But there was a reason we hooked up. It wasn’t just about proximity or that we were horny or that we were drunk. Alright sure, it was some of those reasons, but something more was also going on.
I realize we haven’t had lengthy conversations. I realize he’s not exactly nice to me the majority of the time either, but mind-blowing sex doesn’t just happen. That comes from the universe physically aligning into a climatic heralding of sensual perfection. Or at least that’s what I tell myself anyway, so when I see Gabe in Kendall’s lunch line the next day, I step over to her register, so he realizes I’m working and maybe he might want to check out with me instead. This tactic does not work. As he gets closer to her counter, I knock into the tray slide by accident, on purpose. The noise tactic does not work. I wave. I gesture frantically. I don’t yell though. If I toss a verbal greeting into the air and he doesn’t volley back, it would be worse than him ignoring me.
As he types his number into the system, I double wave to Kendall. When she finally realizes I’m not trying to swat a fly, she mouths, “What?” I point to Gabe and then point to me. My intention should be self-explanatory.
For Kendall, it’s not. She shrugs her shoulders. I pantomime I want her to say something to Gabe about me.
“Are you practicing to become an air traffic controller?”
Kendall gets Gabe, and I get Harrison Williams the forth. Lucky me.
“No, I heard that the playhouse wants to hire a puppeteer. I was just practicing.”
He raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. I wonder if he mesmerizes himself when he gets ready for work in the morning. I certainly feel all sparkly and warm inside. Well, when I don’t want to punch him in the face for being a total asshole.
“Okay…,” he says. He babbles something else but I lose track of Harrison the forth and his pretty voice and shiny words. Gabe’s slouchy red beanie bobs back and forth on his way to the maintenance worker table.
He didn’t say, “Hi.” He didn’t acknowledge my presence. He didn’t admit I even exist. After what happened last night, I can’t believe he didn’t even say, “Hi.”
Harrison the fourth’s eyes follow mine. Gabe climbs over the bench. His eyes meet mine for one brief one, one fleeting brief moment. “So, the rumor’s true?”
“What rumor?”
“That you and Gabe got sexed up at Ripstop last night.”
I don’t have much of a poker face. I need to work on it. I am however an excellent diverting. “We didn’t get sexed up. Is that even a word?”
“It is now.” He rests his hand on mine. “You trying out Saturday?”
“I plan on it.”
“Did you get skis yet?”
He squeezes my hand. “Maybe I’ll see you there and maybe we can go out later.”
If he thinks he’s going to get a piece of me just because of a rumor, he’s crazy.
He smiles at me.
Maybe not that crazy.
I watch him walk away. He pulls up a chair and sets it at the head of the instructors’ table. He says something to the bunch of them. They high five over their french fries and ketchup. I glance over at Gabe’s table. His eyes meet mine. His mouths, “No,” and shakes his head back and forth, so slowly, you could miss it unless you were paying attention.
No, nothing happened between us.
No, I don’t want anything to happen again between us.
No, you need to stay away from Harrison Williams the fourth.
Maybe I should have said, “No,” last night. Maybe if I said, “No,” he would say, “Yes,” instead.
***
Ski Shack takes me back to when I was a little girl and Dad would drop off our skis for a tune-up at the start of every season. The chairlift bench swing still hangs out front. I rub the bar. Smooth and slippery, just like I remember. They add a fresh coat of varnish at the beginning of every season. Sort of a kick off for the winter yet to come.
I climb the dented wooden steps into the building. I almost duck under the low hanging bobsled which is comical, because if a five-foot-three girl knocks her head into it, no one can possibly walk under it. The big name boots and skis line the sides of the shop: Rossignol, K2, Salomon, Marker. Maxed out racks brimming with the latest jackets and snow pants from Spyder, North Face, Obermeyer, Marmot, Mammut, Burton explode through the middle of the store. Hangers loaded with gloves, hats, and mittens bloom from the ceiling—reverse flowers growing toward the snow.
“Can I help you?” Chloe says, walking up to me, “Oh, hey Lex.”
“Hey, Randy told me there’s a Wolf Creek employee discount even on the used equipment.”
“Yep, Wolf Creek actually owns Ski Shack—I’ll hook you up with a sweet discount,” she says. “Any friend of Kendall and Devon is a friend of mine. Follow the stairs. You can’t miss the Bargain Basement section. I’ll send someone to help you.”
“Cool.”
A giant orange Bargain Basement sign stretches from one side of the room to the other. I head over to the packed racks of skis, boots, and poles. Long, thin skis, short shaped beginner skis, heavy aluminum poles, shaped fiberglass poles, racing boots, heated boots—the possibilities are daunting, especially with price tag on the ‘used’ equipment. I riffle through the bins and pull out a few possibilities. There may not be snow in Tucson, but we can still subscribe to Ski magazine. I’ve spent the last ten years studying the buyers’ guide. I consider myself something of an expert. Now, my Calc prof would speculate that if I put that much effort into Math, I would have passed, but algebraic calculations were not on my priority list.
The ski choices could be better. None of them are really my size—most are too short. I’ll look like a Little Cub from ski school escaped from the pack. I’d be able to glide through the powder no problem on the long ones, but there might not be enough flex for the bumps. I push down on the top of one of the skis. The core wood cracks. Bad choice. I’ll snap those babies in half on Cougar Pass.
I manipulate another pair of skis. Crack again. I try another. These don’t crack but they’re about one foot long. I will not ski on blades.
“Arizona, should I get a sledge hammer? It might work faster.”
Gabe. Here in Ski Shack. And he’s talking. Talking to me.
“I just want to make sure the ski won’t break when I’m running glades or shooting narrows or hitting bumps. I don’t want to get lost in the powder either.”
Gabe studies me. He can’t make sense of who I am. I came from Arizona, I fall in snow banks, I have sex with him, and I know about skis.
“Sounds like I might have found my next ski instructor,” Harrison the fourth says as he walks around the discounted helmet rack.
Gabe’s jaw hardens. He steps toward me. My heart flutters. He mouths, “No,” and disappears.
Harrison the fourth picks through the ski rack. “These are what you want.”
A long pair of Big Mountain skis built for speed and stiffness. I drag my nail across the edge. Well, what is supposed to be the edge. The fiberglass base hasn’t seen wax since the Wooly Mammoth roamed these peaks.
I flex the skis. “I don’t know…”
“Trust me, I’m the head of ski instructors and manage the shop. I know skis.”
A few snowboards crash to the floor. We both turn in time to watch Gabe stomp up the stairs.
“Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just a sore loser.”
I’m not sure what Harrison the fourth won. Am I the prize?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ripstop’s quiet on Monday night, but that doesn’t keep me from talking Kendall into going with me. I keep checking Gabe’s bar stool, but no hot groomer guy occupies it.
“Need a refill, Lex or maybe a ski shot? No wait, your ‘partner,’” he says, adding air quotes, “isn’t around. Should I check the bathroom?”
“Fuck you, Devon. I think you get enough action on your own. No need to worry about mine.”
He laughs and fills my pint. I spin the glass. “So um,” I say, “does ah, how do you know his favorite drink?”
“Honey, it’s my job to know my customers’ favorite drink. And I always give my customers what they want. Ain’t that right, baby?” He leans over to kiss Kendall. She drapes her arms around him.
I am the sole witness to this public display of sucking out each other’s tonsils. “Really? Don’t I hear enough exchange of bodily fluids at home?”
“Sorry sweetie, I really dig this guy,” Kendall says and they rub noses together. “Did you get a chance to talk to him today?”
“No, he ignored me again at work. I saw him at Ski Shack, but then Harrison the fourth came.”
“He’s sooo dreamy,” Kendall sighs. Devon clears his throat. “Not as dreamy as you though,” she winks. “Baby, what’s the deal with Gabe? Lex’s got it bad for him.”
“Ken-dall,” I hiss.
“Don’t even deny it.”
“At the start of the season, Gabe comes in, gets shit ass drunk, and then he won’t surface again for a few weeks. In a month or two, he’ll stop in after work for a couple drinks, but that’s it.”
“Does he have a girlfriend or anything?”
“What she really wants to know is if he disappears into the men’s bathroom with random women.”
I punch Kendall in the arm. “Shut up. Don’t share all my secrets.”
Chloe leans in. “If we’re sharing secrets, I heard that his old girlfriend left him for Ha…”
Someone puts their hand on the hypersensitive spot on my back, near the armpit where the back stops and the boob begins. “What are you fine ladies talking about?”
Harrison the fourth smiles at me. My nipples stand at attention.
“You slumming tonight H4?” Kendall says. “I thought ski instructors don’t hang out with other employees.”
He smiles at me again, before acknowledging Chloe, Devon, and Kendall. “Well, I felt like a change of scenery. Bartender, I’d like a round of Jaeger for my friends and refills of whatever they’re drinking.”
Devon’s mouth quirks to the side as if he’s about to say something offensive. He swallows instead. Wolf Creek’s prince must tip pretty well. Devon reaches for a green bottle on the top shelf. He pours four shots of Jaegermeister.
“To adventurous beginnings,” H4 says. We knock ours against his. When the tab’s covered…
Several free shots and drinks later, Kendall and Chloe are talking to a few guys at a table, and Devon’s been cleaning the same pint glass about fifteen times as he watches Kendall flirt with a boarder with blue hair. I’d be over flirting with the guys too if it wasn’t for H4’s complete preocc
upation with me.
H4 drags Gabe’s barstool over and spins my stool so his legs straddle mine. “That’s better.” He rubs his hands up and down my lower thighs, each pass he edges toward my hips. “So Alexis, tell me, where are you from?”
I’m not going to lie. I wouldn’t mind seeing Harrison the fourth naked, and if Harrison the fourth pulled me out of the snowbank, I might have very well slept with him that first night of my return, but I’m not an idiot. The only reason he’s interested in me is because of the rumor he heard about me and Gabe. And while I wouldn’t mind tearing it up with him between the sheets, I want to earn my spot as a ski instructor. I do have some self-respect.
I edge away from him. He shifts toward me. I push his hands off as I talk about Tucson and the sun. He returns to my thighs. I excuse myself to use the bathroom. He follows me. I slip into the women’s room before he catches up and lock the door. He knocks. I tell him I’ll be a minute.
I wonder if I can keep this up through tryouts.
***
The desire to see Gabe outside of work keeps bringing me back to Ripstop until the early morning hours every day. H4’s desire to have sex with me brings him to the bar. Most nights I manage to keep him at a distance. We shoot pool. We shoot darts. We do not shoot ski shots.
By Friday night, I’ve grown used to having H4 around. He brings me flowers at work. He buys me drinks at Ripstop. He hangs out while I clean up after my shift. He bribes the DJ to play a song I mention. He listens to what I have to say, and I have to admit his persistence pays off. By the late hours of Friday night, really the wee hours of Saturday morning, H4 and I dance together. Well, I’m not sure if you can call it dancing exactly. His hands trace every contour of my body while we move, and I let him.
”Okay,” Kendall says, pushing him to the side. “H4 unhand my roommate.”
He shifts back toward me. “I’ll take her home.”
Kendall grabs my hand. “I don’t think so. You’re liable to corrupt her. Besides, don’t you have a girlfriend—a cover model or Olympic Gold medalist or Jackie Chan or someone.
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