Bailing Out_Snow-Crossed Lovers

by Carrie Quest

  Bailing Out

  Carrie Quest

  For E, S, and R

  Contents

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  1. Belle

  2. Gabe

  3. Belle

  4. Gabe

  5. Belle

  6. Gabe

  7. Belle

  8. Gabe

  9. Belle

  Thank You!

  Dropping In

  Prologue

  Natalie

  Ben

  Wiping Out

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Carrie Quest

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  1

  Belle

  The lights are so hot I can feel the thick makeup on my face melting. My sister, Zoe, really caked it on this morning, adding layer upon layer as I slowly disappeared. I barely recognized myself when she held up the mirror to show me the finished product.

  Beige face. Dark red lipstick. Auburn hair scraped up in a bun so tight that my skin is stretched into a surprised expression. Like someone just pinched my ass.

  I catch a glimpse of myself on one of the monitors and if the person in charge of onscreen titles doesn’t have a freeze frame of my face with you’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation underneath then that person should be fired immediately.

  I shoot Zoe a desperate look, hoping she’ll rush over with a tissue to blot this dripping foundation, but she’s completely focused on her phone. Her face is set in a frown as she stabs the screen. At fifteen years older than me, Zoe has been my manager for my entire skating career, but it doesn’t seem to be bringing her much joy lately. I thought maybe after the accident we would both be able to slow down, but it’s been a year and a half and if anything, Zoe is even more driven. More focused on the next deal. More determined to wring every opportunity possible out of the fact that I used to be the best, once upon a time.

  Even getting your leg (and your Olympic dreams) crushed by a drunk driver doesn’t earn you a vacation in my family.

  Being here in Sochi is a case in point. I’d much rather be home in Boston, but Zoe decided the exposure would be good for my career, so here I am. Beige. Sitting on a velvet loveseat in front of a fake roaring fire while a reporter named Kimmy asks me awkward and way-too-personal questions about the end of my life as a competitive skater.

  “It must be very difficult for you to be here, Isabelle.” Kimmy tries to furrow her brow but Botox is a bitch that way, so she has to settle for a slight frown and a look of pity.

  You think, Kimmy? I gave up years of my life to training, lost the only man I’ve ever loved, and now have to watch other people live my dream. So yeah, it’s a wee bit difficult.

  I bite back what I want to say and nod thoughtfully. “I wish I were here competing, but it’s nice to be able to soak up the Olympic atmosphere anyway.”

  Kimmy smiles, but I hear a snort come from somewhere to my left. I let my eyes wander over and my stomach sinks when I spot Catie Cross. She’s in her skating costume, of course, a military inspired design that still manages to be feminine and ethereal. Bright red bodice with sparkling gold braiding across the front and an intricate pattern of thousands of red and gold beads that pop on camera. Her floaty red skirt barely covers her ass, which is fine on the ice but looks a little odd at the moment since we’re in a hotel lobby.

  She’s been wearing it everywhere, I guess as photographer bait, and it appears to be working. I avoid gossip sites like the plague, but shots of “The Lady in Red” pop up in my newsfeed every day. Catie eating lunch in the Village, surrounded by the Russian hockey team. Catie walking to practice, peeking over her shoulder at the pack of paparazzi trailing after her… It’s like the entire Games are one long photo shoot and she’s the star.

  Well, if she wants to be the star of this interview, I’m happy to let her. Maybe Kimmy will let me leave early.

  I’m tempted to wave Catie over, but Zoe is finally paying attention to me and she gives me a firm head shake that in the language of sisters means do it and I’m returning your favorite sweater with a tomato sauce stain on the boob.

  So I fix the fake smile on my face and turn back to Kimmy, who is still giving that pity brow furrow her best shot.

  The Olympic spirit, folks. It’s not just for athletes.

  “Can you update us on your career, Isabelle? You’ve been hosting little skating shows, right?”

  I nod like a bobble-head while I try to come up with a positive spin for this answer. Zoe glares and waves her hand in the air, telling me to get on with it.

  “I’ve been lucky enough to be involved in the biggest skating showcase in North America,” I finally say. “We tour the U.S. and Canada six months a year, traveling to different rinks and bringing world class live figure skating to new audiences. Our skaters are mostly ex-Olympians actually, people who have retired from competitive skating but who still want to be involved in the sport.”

  “Like you,” Kimmy prompts.

  I grit my teeth. “Exactly.”

  Except not at all.

  Kimmy bites her lip. Something in my tone must have been off, but honestly, woman. There’s a world of difference between retiring by choice and being forced out because you can’t perform anymore. Sure, I can pull on my old costumes and glide from one side of the rink to the other with a microphone in my hand, but I can’t do any of the things I used to do.

  No jumps. No spins. No disappearing into the dream of the routine and the music and the movement until I lose myself in the performance.

  There’s no joy to be found on the ice anymore. Not for me.

  “Doesn’t it break your heart to go out there and watch everyone else live your dream? It must be devastating, especially when you’ve still got that little limp. Do the doctors think it will ever completely go away?”

  I hear Zoe suck in a breath. Kimmy tilts her head and smiles at me, letting her teeth show. Maybe she gets a bonus if she makes me cry.

  My mind is spinning and I go completely blank. Other people have hinted at this, of course, but no reporter has been as blunt as Miss Kimmy. I close my eyes and see her, a lipsticked lioness on the grassy plains, getting ready to pounce on a beige gazelle with a surprised look on her face.

  Me.

  I fucking hate being the gazelle.

  “I love skating,” I finally say. “It’s been my life for as long as I can remember. The showcases allow me to stay involved in the skating world and I’m very grateful.”

  I reach for the mic pinned to my shirt, because I’m beyond ready to go. My deal with Zoe was that I’d come to Sochi and make some appearances walking around the Village. I’ve done a couple quick interviews like this one and I’ve gone to a few hockey games. I have not set foot in the Iceberg Skating Palace, where the figure skating events are being held, and I skipped the short program yesterday.

  Even walking by the building, a glittering monstrosity of steel and glass, makes my heart speed up. It’s ridiculous, I know it is, but I can’t help it. I’ve been in hundreds of rinks since the accident. I attended the World Championships in Canada last year, where I watched Catie skate her way to gold using the same routine she had when I beat her right before my accident.

  I’m around skating all the damn time, so I should be over this hollow feeling I get every time I catch a glimpse of that particular rink as I hurry back to my hotel. I should be past this deep ache in my heart that comes when I realize I will never skate at the Olympics.

  I will never represent my
country again.

  I will never stand on that podium and lower my head so they can place a medal around my neck.

  I should be over it, but apparently I’m not, because I requested a new room when I realized my window overlooked the rink. I couldn’t stand the sight of the curved front jutting proudly out, like a twinkling blue iceberg floating up to sink the damn hotel and leave us all floundering in the freezing dark water.

  I mean, other people seem to think it’s a lovely building, but I’m not into sparkly shit. Not anymore.

  So tomorrow night when the skating final takes place, I will not be in attendance. I will be tucked up in my bed with a bottle of vodka, lamenting my bad life choices and listening to sad music. Probably country. There will be drunken tears and possibly drunken dialing. There will be greasy food and vomiting. Maybe clumsy dancing and an even clumsier attempt at masturbation if I start to feel frisky.

  It’ll be epic.

  I start to stand but someone puts a firm hand on my shoulder, guiding me back into my seat. I glance down and see sparkles.

  Shit sticks.

  “Catie!” Kimmy claps her hands in delight. “Lovely to see you. Can you join us?”

  “Thank you,” Catie says as she takes a seat, hip checking me so I scoot over.

  “Your short program was incredible!” Kimmy gushes. “We can’t wait to see what you do for the free skate, isn’t that right, Isabelle?”

  “Catie is always exciting to watch,” I agree. “And she’s the favorite.”

  Kimmy’s eyes narrow. “That would be different if you were still in the game, though, wouldn’t it?”

  Catie goes stiff on the sofa next to me. We’re pressed so close together that I can feel her leg muscles tense up. Her elbow twitches, like she wants to dig it into my side.

  Maybe Kimmy gets a double bonus if we both start weeping.

  Triple for hair pulling.

  I open my mouth to pile praise on Catie because she is an incredible skater and she beat me plenty of times back in the day. Competing against her is one of the things I miss, actually. We pushed each other to be better. We’ve never been friends, but I’m not going to toss her to the lions.

  We gazelles have to look out for each other.

  “You’ll be there watching, right, Belle?” Catie smirks at me, a gazelle no longer, and tosses her hair. A few of the dark strands stick to my melting makeup and I reach up to untangle them. Also to cover my mouth in case I start screaming uncontrollably.

  “Sadly, I can’t— “

  “You’ll sit with me!” Kimmy does a little shimmy in her seat. “You can help me with the commentary.”

  How the hell did this get so out of control? I shake my head, but Catie jumps in before I can formulate a response.

  “What an opportunity, Belle!”

  “It’s Isabelle,” I grit out. Only one person ever called me Belle, and thinking about him right now is not going to improve my situation.

  Like you haven’t been thinking about Gabe Power constantly since you landed in Russia. Like you weren’t late to this interview so you could watch him win his medal and climb onto the podium. Like that little smile he gave before his last run didn’t make your panties damp.

  Like his eyes aren’t still the last thing you see when you fall asleep at night.

  I shake my head again, hoping it will reset my brain. Kind of like a magic eight ball.

  Try again later.

  “I can’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t jump at this chance,” Catie says sweetly. Damn. That dig of Kimmy’s must have really got under her skin. “Unless it’s too painful for you to watch. I noticed you weren’t at the short program, and I’d think it would be an important part of your job to be in the audience. After all, we’re the performers you’re going to be introducing at the showcase in the next couple years. Right? We’re your future stars.”

  “Interesting point,” says Kimmy. “Are you thinking of joining the showcase, Catie? Are you retiring?”

  Catie shakes her head and more hair sticks to my face. “No big announcement yet,” she says coyly. “But it’s definitely something I’m interested in. Isabelle is very fortunate to have her role. I believe the announcer position used to be filled by one of the skaters.”

  Ah. She wants my job.

  Catie giggles, like she didn’t just tell the world that I’m a loser who should be unemployed, and throws her arm around me.

  “Who knows, maybe when I finally retire, Isabelle and I can share the announcer roll. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  “More fun than a bucket of rabid kittens,” I say.

  “So I’ll see you tomorrow at the rink, Isabelle?” Kimmy asks. “I’ll send a press pass to your room.”

  I want to tell her that I won’t be able to make it as I’ll be drunk or fleeing the country, but Zoe is spinning her arms in the air like she’s signaling a ship or something and I know she wants me to say yes. This is a golden opportunity, after all. Moving into announcing is on her grand list of plans for me and I’ll never hear the end of it if I flat-out refuse.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say weakly. And then I wriggle off the sofa and make my escape, practically sprinting to the elevator with Zoe chasing behind me.

  “Wait up,” she puffs out as I stab at the button. “We still need to talk about that contract.”

  Ah yes. The contract. The big, fat contract waiting for me in my room. The one that locks me in to three more years of hosting the showcase.

  The one I’ve been ignoring for over a week.

  “They need you to sign,” Zoe says. She follows me into the elevator and presses the button for our floor. “I’ve marked all the places you need to initial. I know you don’t want to do this forever, but three more years is perfect. It’ll give you a chance to get into more announcing work, which will put you in a prime position for the next Olympics.”

  “The next Olympics?” I stare at her blankly. Is that how she sees my future?

  “Yes. In Korea.”

  “I know where the next Olympics is taking place, Zoe. I’m just not convinced I will want to be there.”

  She sighs. It’s long and deep and full of frustration. Total big sister sigh. “You need to get over this Olympic block, Isabelle. I know it’s hard for you, but dwelling on the loss isn’t going to help. I’m trying to take care of you here, but you’re making it difficult.”

  I bite my tongue so hard that I taste blood. I’m sure Zoe believes what she’s saying, but she’s not taking care of me. She’s taking care of my career, and there is a difference.

  “I’ve told you before that I’m not sure about the whole announcer thing,” I say. “You know how I feel about cameras and publicity.”

  Now she’s looking at me with pity, and since her forehead is totally natural it’s wrinkled up like a goddamned Shar Pei.

  “Those pictures are buried, Isabelle,” she says quietly. “You’ve kept up your end of the bargain. You need to move forward.”

  The door opens on a jaunty ding and I stalk out, moving forward. Straight for my room.

  “Sign the contract, Isabelle,” Zoe calls after me. “I’m going back down to confirm everything about tomorrow with Kimmy.”

  I hear the doors slide shut but I don’t look back. There is no way in hell I will be able to swan into the Iceberg Skating Palace tomorrow night for the first time ever and sit on camera calmly discussing scores and routines with Kimmy. My chest gets tight just thinking about it.

  But if I don’t, Kimmy and Catie will trash talk me on national television. Everyone will find out what a coward I am, and my bosses will not be impressed.

  Damned if I do and screwed if I don’t.

  I should have marched straight up to the Iceberg frickin’ Palace my first day in Sochi instead of building it up in my mind as the most terrifying place on earth. It’s too late for that now, but maybe if I head over there tonight, alone, without the cameras and Kimmy’s gimlet eyes on me, I can get co
mfortable enough to make it through the broadcast tomorrow without having a panic attack.

  It’s worth a shot.

  2

  Gabe

  “Wake up, Gabriel. There’s a blonde on her way to your room and a car waiting downstairs. Get your ass dressed and make a fucking effort this time, you’re going to a nice club and you looked like a slob at dinner. The photographers are waiting. Five minutes.”

  My father hangs up before I can tell him to fuck off, which is typical. Reginald Power runs his son the same way he runs his empire: He gives orders and expects them to be carried out instantly and without protest. No dissent is permitted. The first hint of rebellion and he comes down hard. Employees lose their jobs. Business rivals lose their companies.

  Sons lose their mothers. And anyone else they care about who doesn’t slot neatly into his grand plan.

  Five minutes.

  I look at the time and groan. Ten o’clock. When I crawled into bed after dinner the room was spinning and my stomach still hasn’t got the message that the ride is over. I’m never drinking vodka again, and I’m sure as fuck not getting dressed up to go sit around in a loud club with some random chick to get my picture taken. Not happening.

  I roll out of bed and pull on the worn pair of jeans I left crumpled on the floor when I stumbled in after my last photo op. That one was early dinner and drinks with a redhead, also sent by my father. She was probably a model, but who the fuck knows where he finds them? I never ask. I never speak much at all, actually. I smile for the cameras and let them gaze into my eyes and I drink.