Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (12 page)

Taking a deep breath, I grab on to Ash’s chin, force his blank gaze to meet mine. “Ash, look, this whole thing has been a disaster from the very beginning. I’m sorry about that. I take full responsibility for everything that’s happened.”

He shakes his head, zones back in. “Tansy, no—”

“It’s my turn to talk,” I interrupt. “Please.”

He doesn’t look happy, but he nods, and doesn’t say anything else, so I keep barreling through an explanation that I haven’t had time to plan out and that I barely comprehend myself. “Look, I understand a lot more than you give me credit for. You don’t want Logan to get hurt. You’re afraid the trip is going to be too hard for him. You think he’s not going to be able to handle everything that it entails.

“I don’t know if that’s the case or not. If it is, then I’ll be the first one to say that we don’t go. The last thing I would ever want is to put your brother in any kind of jeopardy. But I think it’s fairly obvious that he wants to go. More, that he wants
you
to go. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done what he did. So I think you owe it to him—not yourself, not even Timmy—but him, to explore the options. To see what’s possible.

“Talk to his doctors, see what he needs to make the trip. See if he even
can
make the trip. If not, we’ll go up to Oregon like we originally planned. But know that whatever he needs, I’ll get it for him. I promise. If I need to go back to the donor and get more money, then I’ll do that, too. Whatever it takes to keep Logan safe and healthy, I’m on board for.

“But, please, please, don’t reject this without even thinking about it. I think it would be a mistake. For you, your brother and for Timmy. I—” My voice breaks a little and I clear my throat, force myself to talk through the embarrassment and the sadness that are filling me up.

“I already told Timmy this was a done deal. I don’t want to call him back and tell him it isn’t. That it was all a mistake. Please, Ash.” I reach out, lay a hand on his arm, and I swear I can feel the burn from the contact all the way to the bone. “He’s so excited. He wants to meet you so badly, wants to watch you snowboard so badly. So does Logan. Please, don’t make me ruin that for either of them.”

My voice breaks on the last few words and I turn my head, totally ashamed of my lack of professionalism. But, God, nothing else about this situation has been professional. Why should I worry about starting now?

“Why does it matter to you so much?” he demands after a second. “Why this kid? Why this trip?”

“Because Timmy’s been through hell. For months, years. Practically his whole life has been about fighting cancer. Blood transfusions, bone marrow transplants, chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries. He’s spent his entire life dealing with all that crap and now, now he and his parents have been told that it was all useless. That all his suffering was for nothing. That he’s going to die anyway.

“I just want him to have something good, something that’s awesome and amazing and all his, before that happens. I want him to have something to take out of this life with him.”

“Fuck.” The word is ripped from Ash again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He looks almost deranged as he shoves his hands through his hair. I reach out for him, because how can I not? Even after everything that’s happened here—everything he’s said to me—he’s so hurt. In so much pain. So shattered. How can I not want to help?

My hand skims down his back at the same moment he spots Logan, huddled in the doorway. “How long have you been there?” he demands hoarsely.

Logan sticks his chin in the air, keeping his gaze steady on his brother’s. “Long enough to know that we’re going to Chile.”

Ash studies him with eyes turned the color of a stormy winter sky. “Are you sure?”

Logan nods. “Dude, I’m paralyzed. Yeah, it sucks. But I’m still here and I’m going to still be here for a long time. That kid, who’s almost my age, who could be me if I wasn’t so much luckier … all he wants before he dies is to meet you. To see you board. So, yeah, I’m sure.”

Ash doesn’t react right away, but then, neither do I. How can I when this kid—this fourteen-year-old kid who has already been through so much in his life—just made everything crystal clear?

There’s some kind of secret, nonverbal communication going on between the brothers as well. Even if I didn’t see it, I would feel it crackling in the air all around me. Still, my knees almost go out from under me when Ash nods decisively. “Okay, then. We’re going to Chile.”

He slowly crosses to his brother, crouches down before him and pulls the younger boy into his arms. As the two of them start to talk, really talk, I head for the front door. Let myself out. There will be time enough for me to contact Ash tomorrow about the details. Tonight, he and Logan need some time for just the two of them.

As I climb into my car, I try to focus on all the great things that just happened. Focus on the relief and the happiness that come with knowing Timmy will get his Make-A-Wish, and maybe—maybe—so will Logan.

It’s easy to do. It is. After all, for the last five days I’ve been focused on this to the exclusion of almost everything else. And if there’s a little voice screaming inside of me, reminding me of the pathetic, ridiculous fool I just made of myself—well, then, I shove it down deep. Put on my proverbial earplugs. And pretend with everything I have inside of me that I don’t feel unattractive.

Unfeminine.

Completely unfuckable.

It might even work, too, if I hadn’t spent the last decade of my life making it a policy never to lie to myself, no matter how unpleasant my reality is.

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Those nine words are my mantra as I pack up my snowboarding gear. I’ve left it for last, behind helping Logan pack for the trip, triple- and quadruple-checking his medications and talking to Victor, the home health care aide that is going to accompany us on the trip because Sarah has family responsibilities and can’t just take off for an eight-day trip to South America at a moment’s notice. Or at least that’s what she told me when she turned the trip down. Unlike me, she actually gets away with that excuse. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Everything has gone like clockwork so far—the dates, the chartered plane, the medical equipment—which for Logan isn’t any more than what we’d need at home at this point—but that only makes me nervous. If I’ve learned nothing else from my parents’ deaths and everything that came after, it’s that shit always turns ugly when things are running the most smoothly.

We’re halfway to the airport when I dial Z. Of course, the coward doesn’t pick up, but then I didn’t actually expect him to. He’s been avoiding me for the week since I decided to do this, knowing, I’m sure, that I have every intention of chewing his ass about the donor thing.

I get his voicemail for about the twentieth time in eight days and this time I don’t beat around the bush. “You can’t dodge my calls forever, asshole. I’m going to kick your ass eventually, and we both know it, so you might as well pick up the phone … Look, I’m almost at the airport. I talked to Cam and Luc last night, but I didn’t want to take off for the fucking Andes without at least saying good-bye. So good-bye. You dick … And … thanks. For everything.”

Another thing my parents’ crash taught me. You never know ahead of time that it’s the last time you’re ever going to talk to someone. If you did, everything would be different. If I’d known … well, if I’d known, I would have had a lot more to say to my mom and dad than “Don’t forget to bring the video camera I forgot” or “Yeah, sure, I’d love some of your homemade snickerdoodles, Mom.”

I don’t know what I would have said—maybe “Don’t come” or “Be careful” or “I love you.” Who knows, but it would have been a lot more important than an offhand comment about a bunch of fucking cookies.

I finish the call, just as we pull onto the tarmac at the Salt Lake City airport. Like any big
airport, it’s got a smaller terminal and separate tarmac for charter flights—I know ’cuz I’ve gone this route with Z a few times before. A couple years ago, he got a wild hair up his ass about boarding Patagonia, so we flew down there by private charter. The boarding was sick as hell—we nearly died, but that’s pretty much to be expected when you’re riding lines that are close to fucking Antarctica.

We’ve ridden other places through the years, too—Italy, Japan, New Zealand, Switzerland. We’ve even been to Chile before, a couple of times. But not like this. Never like this.

I climb out of the car, look up at the small but fully loaded jet in front of us. And wonder how the hell I’m supposed to get my brother up there and maintain his pride. There’s no ramp, no lift, just a narrow set of stairs leading from the tarmac to the plane. The only way Logan is getting up there is if I carry him, and he’s going to hate that. Now that he’s starting to build up arm and shoulder strength, he really likes being in control of his chair. Really likes being able to get himself around from place to place.

Victor has climbed out behind me, is staring at the same staircase. “He’ll understand, man,” he says with a supportive clap on my shoulder. I make a face at him, but he just nods encouragingly. I decide to take his word for it—no other option at this point, anyway. After all, he’s been Logan’s relief aide for months now. He knows how my brother reacts in situations like these, probably better than I do.

“Logan, I’m going to get our gear loaded, and then I’ll come back for you,” I tell him. “Okay?”

I don’t mention the stairs, or the fact that I’m going to have to carry him up them. But then, I don’t have to. He’s staring out the window at them, a resigned look on his face. For a second, I try to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. So screw it. Let’s get this show on the road.

It takes a couple of trips, but eventually I get all our stuff over to the guy who’s in charge of loading the cargo area of the plane. I’ve got two boards and a suitcase for me, but Logan has a bunch of stuff—between his chair, his medications, his damn video games and his clothes—it’s amazing there’s room for anybody else’s shit.

I’m just walking back to pick up Logan when I see her climbing down the stairs. Tansy. We’ve talked on the phone and via email numerous times since that disastrous night in my kitchen, but I haven’t seen her face-to-face since she snuck out while I was talking to Logan.

She looks good. The spiky, blue hair is gone and so are the ripped jeans. She’s wearing a long purple skirt instead, along with a black T-shirt that reads, Lettuce Turnip The Beet and a vintage blazer. She’s got Chucks on her feet and enough hemp and leather jewelry on to stock her own flea market booth. Her now purple hair is slicked back from her face and she’s wearing
a flower headband. Ironically, I’m sure, since this is definitely her hipster look.

Who
is
this girl? I wonder, as I meet her eyes. She’s like a chameleon, changing color and camouflage every time I see her. From floral sundresses to bitch boots to hipster tees. Which one is the real Tansy? And why do I care so fucking much?

“Hey, thanks for coming,” she says as she walks over to me. She’s got a cool, practiced smile on her face but her eyes are looking through me instead of
at
me. “Timmy and his parents are already on the plane. He’s so excited to meet you that he can barely sit still.”

“Great.” I try to catch her eye, to make her look at me instead of over my shoulder, but she’s way better at ignoring me than I’ve been at ignoring her. “You look … good,” I tell her, because she does. The purple skirt hugs her tiny waist and hips before skimming along her legs. My fingers itch to inch the skirt up, to slide it over her slender legs and see if her skin is as soft everywhere as it is on her hands, her shoulders.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this. She’s the Make-A-Wish girl, for God’s sake. The one who’s in charge of making sure this whole trip runs smoothly. Not to mention the fact that there’s an air of innocence about her, one that’s taunted me every single night since I last saw her. I’ve wanted to wreck her ever since she came to see me at the resort. To absolutely ruin her and to hell with the consequences—for either of us. The fact that she offered to let me … well, that just makes the ache worse.

I can almost feel her dark pink lips lush and swollen beneath my own. Can almost see her pupils blown wide with lust, her cheeks flushed pink with arousal. The thought does something to me on a chemical level and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to reach for her right here. Especially when I can still hear her agreeing to sleep with me, her voice soft and husky and interested.

I’ve cursed myself for turning her down a couple of dozen times since then—mostly when I’m lying in bed late at night, with an image in my head of her in those damn bitch boots and a fucking hard-on that just won’t quit.

But I don’t want her because she feels like it’s the only option. Sure as hell don’t want to sleep with her because of a stupid trip to Chile. I’ve fucked a lot of girls these last six months—because it feels good, because it’s easy, because for those few minutes when I’m inside someone I don’t have to think—but Tansy isn’t like that. She’s no snowbunny out for a quick fuck that doesn’t mean anything even while it’s happening.

No, Tansy is so much more than that—despite her easy acceptance of those ridiculous terms I set. She’s a strange amalgamation of sweet and sexy, innocent and tough, and it gets to me despite my best intentions.

Which is just one of the reasons it annoys me that she’s doing such a great job of ignoring me even as she stands here smiling.

She doesn’t respond to my compliment, but then again, I didn’t really expect her to. Instead, she focuses on Logan, who is waiting impatiently for me to come get him. “He looks happy.”

“I think he is.” It makes me feel bad. We used to do all kinds of cool things together. I used to take him on some of my boarding trips if they were just for a weekend or if he was off school. Or sometimes we’d just take off for the day, drive around until we found something cool to do.

Since the accident, we haven’t done anything like that. I’ve been too busy trying to keep shit together to worry about having fun, and as I watch him all but jumping out of his skin with excitement, I can’t help feeling like I’ve fucked up in yet another big and important way.