Текст книги "Shredded"
Автор книги: Tracy Wolff
Соавторы: Tracy Wolff
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Chapter 9
Z
“You planning on getting up sometime soon?” The question is delivered with a kick to my bed hard enough to move the thing half a foot across the floor.
I ignore both, choosing to operate under the assumption that if I play dead long enough, Luc will just go away. It worked with both Cam and Ash yesterday, so I see no reason to change things up now.
Except Luc’s the stubborn one—he always has been. It’s why he’s a ranked snowboarder when his riding has always been more about not giving up than it’s ever been about natural talent. It’s also why I’m not surprised when he reaches a hand out and shakes me roughly. Once, twice, then a third time, so hard that my teeth actually rattle together.
Pain explodes behind my eyes, and I want to tell him to get the fuck away from me. But interaction of any kind will just encourage him—we’ve been down this road enough for me to know the rules—so I grit my teeth and imagine what I’ll do to him if I ever manage to drag myself out of this bed. Which I’m not planning on doing anytime soon, but still. It passes the time.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear footsteps walking away from the bed, and I finally let myself relax, just a little. Three down, zero to go. It should be at least a day before any of them comes back and tries to drag me out of bed again. Which means I have all day to drink myself into an alcohol-induced coma.
Figuring I should probably get started, I crack my eyes open—just in time to see Luc throw the drapes open on the wall across from my bed. Light floods the huge room, blinding me and kicking the pain in my head up about a million degrees.
“Luc, you fucking asshole. Close the damn curtains!” I grab a pillow and fire it across the room at him, then immediately regret it because now I’ve got nothing to hide my head under.
“So you are alive. We were beginning to wonder.”
Desperate now, I burrow deeper into the covers so that I can pull the comforter over my head. But not before I flip him off.
“Nice,” he says, right before he starts beating on the glass door like it’s a fucking drum set.
I throw the covers back, start to climb out of bed. The pain’s worth it if I actually get to strangle the motherfucker—
“Stop, stop. Please!”
Luc and I both freeze at the unexpected sound of a female voice coming from my bed. Before I can do more than sink back into bed, a head covered in long red curls peeks out from under the covers.
“You son of a bitch!” Luc launches himself at me, and I’m so horrified I don’t even bother to try to defend myself.
Don’t let me have slept with Cam last night.
Don’t let me have slept with Cam last night.
Please, please, please, by all that is holy, please don’t let me have slept with Cam last night.
“God, you guys are loud. Isn’t anyone allowed to sleep in around here?” As her whole face finally manages to make its way out from under the covers—making her voice a lot less muffled than it had been—I nearly collapse in relief.
Not Cam. Some girl whose name I don’t know and whom I don’t remember at all. But not Cam. At the moment I’m inclined to be thankful for small blessings.
Luc must figure it out at the same time I do, because he comes to a screeching halt a couple of feet from my bed.
“Who’s this?” he asks as he looks down at the redhead, who I have to admit would be pretty cute if she didn’t have enough mascara smeared under her eyes to make her resemble a raccoon.
“I have no idea.”
“Nice,” he says again, rolling. “How much fucking weed did you smoke last night, anyway?”
“A lot,” says the girl next to me, shoving her hair out of her eyes as she sits up. What she doesn’t do is keep the sheet tucked around herself, and since she’s naked, Luc and I get treated to a view of a pretty spectacular peacock tattoo—not to mention a fairly nice pair of breasts. “I’m Stacy. Z and I met at Brewer’s last night. He taught me how to do body shots.”
“I bet he did.”
I close my eyes and fight the urge to bury my head in my hands. I have no idea who this girl is or how she got into my bed, though it sounds like a shitload of tequila shots might be responsible for both.
Goddamnit.
“Hey,” she says, squinting up at Luc. “Aren’t you Lucas Bradford?”
“I am.” He eyes her warily.
“Awesome! I get to meet Z Michaels and Lucas Bradford all in the same twenty-four hours. How cool is that?”
“Pretty cool,” Luc mutters.
“I know, right?”
Okay, so this girl is either still drunk or incredibly stupid, because she’s not catching any of the shade Luc is throwing her way. Which is kind of amusing considering he’s not exactly being subtle. It’d probably be completely hilarious if my head didn’t feel like it was being slowly, torturously ripped off my body.
“Do you think we can close the damn drapes?” I ask for the second time.
“That depends,” Luc answers.
“Do you want to climb in?” Stacy asks, pushing the covers aside and scooting closer to me so that Luc could climb in next to her. “I’ve always wanted to have a threesome.”
“All right, then.” I roll out of bed on the other side. “Sorry, Stacy, but I think it’s probably time for you to get going.”
“Already?” She pouts in what I’m sure she thinks is an attractive manner.
“Yeah, already.” I grab my jeans and search through the pockets for my wallet. When I find it, I pull out forty bucks and hand it to her. “Call a cab to come get you.”
“But we haven’t even done it yet! After we got back here last night you just weren’t into it, so you promised we could do it this morning.”
Oh, thank God. I close my eyes against the sun and the relief that swamps me. I don’t know why it seems like a big deal when I’ve done it hundreds of times before, but I am suddenly, intensely grateful that I didn’t spend last night fucking this girl who I actually can not stand in the light of day.
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell her after a second. “You should take the money.” At first it doesn’t look like she’s going to, but after Luc turns down her offer of a quickie, she grabs the cash and reaches for her phone.
I start toward the bathroom with a vague plan of being violently, disgustingly ill.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Luc demands, getting in my way. “This is your mess.”
“I’m going to puke. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”
He snarls his disgust, but he lets me pass as he heads over to the bed to help Stacy find a cab company.
It’s just one more reason he’s been my best friend since kindergarten.
* * *
After a shower that makes me feel at least partially human, I drag myself out of the bathroom to find that all traces of Stacy’s existence have been wiped out of my bedroom. Her clothes are gone, and so are her shoes, her purse, everything—including her.
I breathe a cautious sigh of relief. Though I don’t know she’s gone for sure, with any luck she’ll have left the premises sometime during my twenty-minute puke fest or half-hour shower.
On the nightstand next to the bed is a cup of black coffee and two painkillers. I take them both, so desperate for the relief that I don’t even care that I’ve probably scalded my throat for life.
I drag my jeans on and think about walking downstairs, maybe getting some breakfast. But just the idea takes more effort than I’m capable of, so I lie back down in bed and stare at the ceiling. Except now that I’m awake and mostly sober, I can smell her in my sheets, a combination of tequila, pot, jasmine, and something else that turns my stomach all over again.
Suddenly I can’t take it for one second longer. I bound to my feet and rip the black sheets off my bed. I take the pillowcases off, the comforter, everything, and kick them into a ball near the door. Then I sink back down on the edge of the bed and just sit there, my head in my hands.
That’s how Luc finds me a few minutes later. “Rough morning?” he asks in a voice that isn’t exactly sympathetic.
“You have no idea.”
“Oh, you might be surprised. Come on. I made breakfast.” He turns and walks back out the door, and for long seconds I think about not following him. About staying right where I am. But what the fuck good will that do? The drapes are open, the covers are gone, and I’m wide awake and sober—which, if I’m being honest, totally sucks.
When I get downstairs, there are two huge bowls of cereal on the table along with a gallon of milk. Breakfast. Right.
“Is Stacy gone?” I ask, walking to the coffeepot and pouring another cup. It’s shaping up to be a five-cup morning.
“Yeah. No thanks to you. That chick was like a fucking octopus.” He shoves a bite of Cheerios into his mouth. “Every time I thought I had her under control, she’d grow another arm and grope me somewhere else. I’m pretty sure by the time I got her out of here she’d violated me in ways that are illegal in twenty-seven different countries.”
“Sorry about that,” I say with a wince. Now that I think about it, I’m feeling pretty damn violated myself. What the fuck was I thinking, getting so drunk that I brought home some woman I don’t even recognize? Sleeping with a stranger is one thing. Doing it when I’m too wasted to even know what I’m doing is totally another. And bringing her back to my house—letting her spend the night in bed with me when I don’t actually sleep with anyone, ever—is totally fucking nuts.
Just thinking about her in bed with me makes me a little crazy, which only makes the pressure inside me worse. Like it’s been fucking building and building since the moment I walked out of Ophelia’s apartment and—
Shit. I cut the thought off before it can even form. I knew the girl barely twenty-four hours. She’s just another girl, just another resort bunny who’s here for a season and then gone. There’s no reason to let her get in my head and fuck with me like this. No need to pay any attention to her. No need to take anything she said seriously.
Except she was being serious when she said all that shit to me. When she told me she was willing to fuck me for the express purpose of driving me away. She wasn’t being cruel, wasn’t throwing shit out there to hurt me. She was telling me the truth. She’d actually been willing to have sex with me just to get me to go away.
That’s dedication, man. I mean, shit. I’ve known for years how fucking repulsive I am, but still, this is a new level. Even for me.
Suddenly I want another shot of tequila so badly that my hands are fucking shaking with it. Normally I’d ignore the urge, but it’s been a hell of a week already and it’s only Sunday. A few more shots won’t hurt anyone.
Except as I wander toward the bar for the Herradura, Luc stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Dude. What are you doing?”
“Getting a drink.” I hold up the bottle. “Want one?”
“It’s ten o’clock in the fucking morning.”
“Then I’m getting a late start. I should probably have two.”
“Really?” he asks, ripping the bottle of tequila out of my hand. “This is really how you want this to play out?”
“No, how I want it to play out is with that bottle of tequila in my hand, not yours. Give it back.”
“Fuck, no.” He walks to the bar sink, empties the entire bottle of Selección Suprema.
“That’s three hundred dollars’ worth of tequila you just poured down the drain, you know.”
“Yeah, well, you’re in the middle of throwing away about five million dollars in talent and endorsements, so what the fuck. Three hundred bucks doesn’t really mean shit to you, does it?”
“Not really, no.” I reach under the bar and grab one of the spare bottles I stock up on this time of year, in case of just such an intervention.
Luc watches in disgust as I crack the shit open and take a long swallow right from the bottle. It burns all the way down, but that’s okay. It’s just proof that I can still feel something.
“You’re acting like a total loser, you know that, right?”
“That’s not acting. It’s just truth in advertising, my friend.” I toast him with the bottle before taking another swig.
“Goddamnit.” He wrenches the Herradura out of my hand and throws it against the wall. Except it doesn’t make it. Instead, it takes down a sculpture halfway across the room, and I watch with something like awe as they both crash to the floor and shatter.
For long seconds neither of us says anything. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Except—
“My dad liked that sculpture.”
“Your dad hasn’t been here in three years,” he tells me as the pungent scent of tequila fills the air. “He won’t even have a clue that it’s gone.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about that.”
I stare at the destruction blankly, not sure what we’re supposed to do now. This whole intervention thing has happened a bunch of times—Luc, Ash, and Cam have been staging one around this time for years. But this whole bottle-throwing, sculpture-shattering move is new, and I’m not sure how to respond to it. We’ve been doing the same old song and dance for so long that anything new messes everything up.
Except Luc doesn’t seem to be playing. Not this time. As he stalks toward me, there’s no remorse in his face. No let’s-feel-sorry-for-Z-because-he’s-gotten-a-raw-deal look. In fact, the only thing I can identify in his face is pure, unadulterated fury. It’s kind of interesting, really, and there’s a part of me that wants to see what’s going to happen next. The rest of me just wants to walk back upstairs and sleep until this whole week, this whole month, is done with.
“What is wrong with you?” he yells, his face suddenly inches from mine. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Hey, dude, you’re the one in the middle of the temper tantrum.” I hold my hands up in the universal don’t-blame-me gesture. “Maybe you should ask yourself that question.”
“You’re pathetic, you know that?”
“Obviously.” I lift a brow at him. “If you’re trying to piss me off, you’re going to have to work harder than that.”
“What the hell, Z?” He backs off, runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “We’ve been playing this scene out for years, and I’m tired of it. Tired of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Tired of coming in here and trying to pick up the pieces after you fucking shred yourself into nothing—”
“Hey, I never asked you to put the pieces back together. I never asked you for anything.”
“Because you’re a total fucking coward. Everyone thinks you’re so fucking brave with all those stunts you pull. So fucking noble to face the ‘tragedy’ of your past and still live your life on your terms.” He opens his arms wide. “But look around, asshole. There’s nothing noble about you. Nothing noble about drowning yourself in tequila. Nothing noble about fucking girls whose names you can’t remember when they’re still in your damn bed. And there’s nothing fucking noble about throwing your life away because your sister lost hers.”
“Don’t you talk about her.” I’ve been keeping my cool so far, mainly because Luc hasn’t said anything I don’t already know. But the second he talks about April, it’s like a shot of fucking adrenaline to the heart. “Don’t you fucking talk about her.”
“Why not? Because it will upset you? Because it’ll make poor little Z cry?”
“Fuck you, man!” My hands started shaking the second he brought her up, and I shove them in my pockets, hoping he won’t notice.
“Wow, great comeback,” Luc mocks. “Did it take you all day to think of that?”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“You know exactly what my problem is. You’re just not man enough to face it.”
“You know what? I don’t have to stand here and take this. You’re in my house, not the other way around. So why don’t you show yourself out before shit gets said that can’t be taken back?”
“It’s too late for that, don’t you think? And we’re not in your house. We’re in your daddy’s house. Your daddy’s mansion. Poor little rich boy—”
I launch myself at him before I even know I’m going to move, plow my fist into his jaw. “What the fuck do you know about it anyway? What the fuck do you know about anything?”
“I know more than you.” He shoves me hard, nearly sends me sprawling on my ass. “Look around, Z. You have everything, everything, and you’re just pissing it away.”
“What have I got? Huh, Luc?” It’s my turn to throw my arms wide, to turn around in the middle of this fucking mausoleum that I hate but still can’t find the energy to move out of. “I’ve got a big fucking house that no one else wants. Big fucking deal.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got everything right in front of you. You’re just too scared to fucking take it.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because it’s true.” He gestures to me. “Look at yourself. It’s three weeks before the fucking Olympic trials, man, and what are you doing? Trashing your body? Trashing your life?”
“I don’t give a shit about the Olympic trials.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. You’ve made damn sure we all know it, haven’t you? You fucking prick.”
“Get out.” I turn, head for the staircase. “I don’t need to listen to this.”
Luc moves fast, gets in my way. Refuses to let me pass. “This is exactly what you need to hear.”
“Get out of my way, man.”
“Not until I say what I came to.”
“I think I’ve heard more than enough.”
“You haven’t heard shit. You never do. You’re too locked in your own head, too busy being self-absorbed and tortured and fucked up to hear what you need to.”
My hands clench into fists. “Get the hell out of my way.”
“What are you going to do? Hit me again?”
“Yes, goddamnit, that’s exactly what I’m going to do if you don’t get the fuck away from me.”
“Have at it.” He spreads his arms wide. “You’re mad at the fucking world. Mad at yourself. Mad at your mother. Mad at your sister. You might as well be mad at me, too.”
I swing my fist into his stomach, follow it with an uppercut to the jaw that lays him out on the floor. “Is this what you want?” I shout at him. “Is this what you fucking want?”
He climbs gingerly to his feet, his fingers probing at the bruise I can already see forming on his jaw. “What I want is for you to man up. Stop being such a pussy and get your fucking act together. You’re rich—”
“Is that it? Is all this about the fucking money?”
“It’s never been about the fucking money and you know it.” He walks to the bar fridge, pulls out a few ice cubes, and wraps them in a towel. “You’re the most talented snowboarder I know—”
“Ash is—”
“No. Not Ash. You. We’ve been boarding together for over a decade. Been on the pro circuit together for four years. You do shit that no one else can even come close to, and you do it without even trying.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really? What about that inverted 1440 you pulled out of your ass the other day? Has anyone else done that, like ever?”
“Probably.”
“Bullshit. If they had, we would have heard about it.” He sighs, presses the ice to his injured jaw, and I feel like an even bigger prick than usual. “Everyone knows you’re the most talented fucking boarder in the world right now. You could take the top spot at the trials. At the X Games. Hell, you’ve got a shot—a good shot—at taking home the gold medal at Sochi, but instead of working on your fucking boarding, you’re drinking yourself into a coma.”
That last hits a little close to home considering what I was thinking only about an hour and a half ago. Not that I’m about to let him see that. “There’s more to life than snowboarding, man.”
“Really?” He looks around. “What?”
“Excuse me?”
“What else have you got in your life but snowboarding?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s pretty self-explanatory. What the hell else do you have going on besides boarding?”
I don’t say anything, but then he doesn’t expect me to. No one knows how fucked up my life is, how fucked up I am, better than Luc. We grew up together. He was there when April died. When my mom fucking killed herself. When my dad told me what I already knew—that it was my fault. That it was all, every fucking thing, my fucking fault.
“Oh, right. You don’t have anything else.”
“That’s not true.”
“Really?” He starts ticking things off on his fingers. “Your father’s a douche who won’t have anything to do with you.”
“Because he blames me for—”
“No. Not because of that. Because he’s a total fucking douche and he doesn’t deserve you.”
“Wow, man. That’s deep. Should we hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ now?”
He flips me off but doesn’t stop with the listing. “You’ve got Cam, a really beautiful girl who’s in love with you, but you’re too busy fucking anything that moves to appreciate her.”
“Dude, I would never fuck around with Cam.”
“You better not or I’ll rip your dick off. Still, if she loves you, then there’s a chance that someday some other girl will. But you’ll never find her if you spend your life wasted and picking up a different snow bunny every night of the week. And I wouldn’t even say anything about that, except I don’t think you even like doing it. You sure as hell didn’t seem to want anything to do with Stacy this morning.”
For some reason Ophelia’s face flashes through my head, but I shut that shit down fast. She made her feelings abundantly clear on Friday night. And it’s not like it matters anyway. Not like I actually give a shit about her or something.
“What else?” Luc asks. “Oh, yeah. Thanks to your parents and a couple of trust funds—not to mention some really sweet sponsorship deals—you’ve got more money than you know what to do with, but you don’t give a shit about that, either. At least not as long as you have enough in your pocket to buy a dozen or so bottles of expensive-ass tequila.
“And you’ve got us. Ash, Cam, and me. Except you’ve spent so much time pushing us away lately, trying to keep us at arm’s length, that I’m beginning to think you don’t give a shit about us, either.
“So tell me, Z. What the hell do you have in your life that’s more important than getting your ass out there on that half-pipe and getting ready for the fucking Olympic trials? Because, whatever it is, I’m just not seeing it.”
