Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (3 page)

And then there’s his jaw and cheekbones, both of which look like they could cut glass.

And his biceps, which look even bigger in real life.

And those jeans, with the strategically placed tears at the top of his right thigh and over his left knee.

And—

I cut myself off before I end up drowning in my own praises—or is that my drool?—for Ash Lewis. He’s hot enough that I totally could, but that’s not why I’m here. I have much more important business to deal with than trying to find the perfect color to describe his blond hair.

With that thought in mind, I clear my throat, try to remember the spiel I worked up on the train. But I’m so nervous that nothing’s coming. This is my first big assignment, the first time anyone’s trusted me to do this on my own. And while I know it has more to do with my proximity to Park City than it does faith in my abilities, I’m determined not to blow it. This is too important for me to make a mistake.

“Hey,” Ash says, laying a hand over mine where it rests, trembling, on the counter. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I squeak out. “Everything’s fine.” Except for the fact that Ash freaking Lewis is rubbing his thumb softly over the back of my hand. That is definitely something, but I don’t think fine is the right word.

“Good.” He reaches up and tugs on a lock of my messily cut hair. “You look good in pink.”

“Umm … thanks?”

He laughs. “You’re welcome.”

He stares at me expectantly, and there’s a part of my brain that is shouting at me to speak. To tell him why I came. But the rest of my brain is barely functioning. It’s too dazed by the fact that he touched me. That he complimented me. That he’s looking at me, even now, one brow raised inquisitively while those eyes of his—those crazy, beautiful eyes—rake over me from top to toe.

“So,” Ash says after a minute where I continue to gaze blankly at him. “Is there something I can help you with?”

About a million inappropriate answers float through my head, but—thank God—so does the right one. Just the thought of why I’m here, of Timmy, snaps me to attention and finally, finally, gets the blood flowing to my brain again.

“Actually, I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

That eyebrow of his goes even higher. “You want to … 
talk
?”

“Umm, yeah. If this isn’t a good time, I can come back later …”

“No, this is fine. This afternoon seems to be pretty slow around here.”

“Great.” I smile a little in relief. This is turning out to be easier than I thought it would be. I mean, as long as I remember to breathe. And not to look him in the eye for longer than a second or two. And don’t swallow my own tongue. If I do all that, then it should be easy-peasy. Or at least, that’s the story I’m sticking to.

But before I can get anything else out, the bell on the door rattles and a young couple comes in with their two small children.

Ash straightens up from the counter, and after directing a smile and a wink—a wink!—my way, he asks the parents, “What can I do for you?”

“We were hoping to rent a boat,” the father says. “But we’ll need life jackets for the little ones and anything else you think necessary.”

“Life jackets should do it,” Ash says with a lazy smile. This one actually reaches his eyes and I feel my knees tremble a little at the power of it. “You’ll also get your oars here, then when you get to the dock, they’ll give you a motor and point you to a boat. Sound good?”

It must have, because money and oars change hands, as well as two of the most garish life vests I’ve ever seen. Bright orange and neon pink at the base, they’re decorated with wild patterns in a variety of fluorescent colors. They’re a little blinding, if I’m honest, but then I figure that’s pretty much the point. No one’s going to miss the kids if they’re wearing those.

By the time Ash is done with the family, two other groups have lined up for service. Ash glances at me as he waits on them, almost like he’s checking on me, making sure I’m still there. The thought warms me for completely unprofessional reasons, and I spend the extra time reworking my spiel into one that even an idiot could remember. I’m determined not to fall victim a second time to Ash’s intense indigo stare.

It takes about fifteen minutes before the shop is empty again, and then Ash is back, lounging indolently against the counter as he rubs a strand of my hair between his fingers. My hair is short—really short, thanks to the last round of chemo—so his hand is only a few inches from my scalp. The knowledge that he could easily brush his knuckles over my forehead or down my cheek makes the proximity even more exciting.

“You stayed,” he says.

“Yes.”

“That surprises me.”

I narrow my eyes at him, confused. “Why?”

“You don’t seem the type to wait around for something like that.”

I’m really confused now, but I’m determined not to let him see it. I’ve already made a big enough idiot of myself in front of him. It’s past time for me to act like a rational person. “I told you I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah.” He lifts his arms palms up, gesturing to the empty room as if to say, talk away.

“I—” I pause, duck my head. “I was actually hoping we could talk somewhere a little more private.” The shop isn’t packed, but it’s definitely busy. Already I can see someone waiting next to the door, as if he’s thinking about coming in.

Ash’s brows hit his hairline this time. “Somewhere private?”

“Is that okay? Like I said, I can come back later if that’s better.”

“It’s fine, but—” He breaks off when his cell phone buzzes. He doesn’t look at me as he pulls it out of his pocket and reads a text. For a second, just a second, his face seems to crumple. Just as quickly, a blank mask settles over him and he’s typing something back, rapid-fire.

I want to ask if everything’s okay—if he’s okay—but it seems inappropriate. So for long seconds I don’t say anything and neither does he. Silence stretches taut between us.

“You still up for
talking
?” he asks, a strange emphasis on the last word as he ducks out from under the counter and walks toward the door.

“Yes!” God, Tansy, eager much? “I mean, of course.”

He nods, flipping the small sign on the door so that the side that reads “Will return in ten minutes” and has a picture of a clock on it, is facing outward. Then he’s grabbing my hand and all but dragging me behind the counter and into a room in the back.

“Wow,” I say after a second, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dimness. “It’s really dark in here.”

Ash doesn’t answer. I start to turn around to see what’s going on—I’m beginning to feel like I’m the only one not in on the punch line—but then he’s there, right behind me. His chest resting against my back, his palm flat against my stomach.

“What—” I squeak and I know I sound about three years old, but
holy shit
! Forget jokes, I feel like I’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole. “What are you doing?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Ash answers, his voice low and amused. His hand is rubbing soothing circles against my abdomen and part of me wants nothing more than to melt into him. To let him touch me however—wherever—he wants to.

“It’s … not,” I gasp after a second, using every last ounce of sanity I have. It’s harder than it should be, but I’m blaming that on his proximity.

On the heat he’s radiating.

On the fact that his lips are—right now—skimming over the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.

I shudder before I can stop myself.

“Huh.” His lips form a smile against my skin, his breath hot against the nape of my neck. “Maybe I should try something else, then.”

And he does. Oh God, he does. One, two, three open-mouthed kisses going in a vertical line up my neck, from my collar to my hairline.

His tongue licks out a little on the third one and my brain fogs over. I mean, literally fogs over. I’ve always wondered what that expression means and now I know. Everything around me is hazy, muddled, and my body is melting into his.

This is crazy, right? I have to be imagining it because this doesn’t happen. Not in real life. Not to girls like me.

I mean, no guy has ever come close to touching me like this before—and I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do here. It’s embarrassing, really, how inexperienced I am for my age.

I’m nineteen, but I’ve spent most of the last ten years in and out of the hospital as I
battled cancer. Rhabdomyosarcoma, to be exact. Which means, except for a couple very awkward kisses that came after very awkward dates—set up by my family because they felt
sorry
for me—I have zero experience with guys. And I certainly have no experience with guys like Ash.

Part of me wants to go for it. It’s the same part that promised myself after this last round of chemo, after the doctor told me I was finally—finally—in remission, that I was going to live my life to the fullest. To experience everything I’ve missed in the last ten years. And it’s not like I don’t want to know what sex feels like. I do. I really, really do.

But when I decided to make up for lost time, it had never occurred to me that one of the experiences I’d missed was a nice-to-meet-you fuck in what looks like some kind of storage room. With a really hot professional snowboarder who obviously doesn’t suffer from the same confidence problems I do. And who I am supposed to be asking for help.

The thought of my job, of why I came here, is enough to pull me back from the brink. I step away from Ash and turn toward him, clearing my throat. Try not to swallow my own tongue as I struggle to find words—any words—to get this meeting back on the right path.

“What—” My voice cracks straight down the middle, so I take a deep breath and start again. “What’s going on here?”

Ash steps forward, rests his hands on my waist this time. “You said you wanted to talk.” He lowers his head, like he’s going to kiss me and I know—I know—if his lips come into contact with mine I’m going to forget my own name let alone everything I’m supposed to do.

I slam my hands against his chest, push him firmly away. “Yes, talk.
Talk
. Not screw.”

“Huh.” His face is close enough that I can make out the confused expression he’s wearing. “Really?”

“Yes, really. I mean did you really think I meant …” I let the ending dangle there, too embarrassed to say it again.

He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I thought it was a euphemism. I mean, it usually is when a girl comes looking for me.”

It usually—who is this guy? “Seriously? I mean, you really fuck girls you just met in the storage closet behind where you rent out life jackets to
five-year-olds
?”

He reaches over, flips on a light. For long seconds, we stare at each other, blinking, as we try to adjust to the sudden change in brightness. Finally, he shrugs. Grins this little, shit-eating, self-deprecating curve of his lips that makes my stomach flutter all over again. “I mean, not always in the storage closet. There are a lot of other places to do it. There’s the coat room, the changing room, the bathroom—”

“I get it!” I slam a palm over his mouth to shut him up, and shut out the images his words are evoking. Jesus. I thought dealing with the dying kids was going to be the hard part of this job.
Who knew it was the oversexed athletes I was going to have to watch out for?

He licks over the center of my palm and I jump, yank my hand away. “
Eeew
! Gross!” And it is—it really is. But it’s also kind of, maybe, sort of just a little bit … hot?

Oh my God! It’s like I’ve been invaded by some oversexed alien or something. One with no social skills.

Just the thought makes me cringe. I very deliberately wipe my hand on my jeans as I berate myself for being a total moron. I need to get my head out of my ass and into the game or I’m going to walk away from this meeting with nothing more than a hickey to show for it. And if it was only me involved, that might be fine. But it isn’t. This is Timmy’s thing. He’s counting on me and I’m not going to let the combination of my suddenly out-of-control hormones and a guy who will fuck anything—obviously—ruin this for him.

“You’re really cute when you’re freaked out, you know that?” Ash bops me on the nose.

I roll my eyes. “And you’re really cheesy when you want to get laid. Sue me.”

“I’d rather fuck you.”

“Yeah, I got that impression. Believe me, I’m not taking it personally.” He reaches for me and I take a big step back, determined not to let him get his hands on me again. I’d actually like my brain to function as more than a flotation device, thank you very much. “Can we talk now or are you going to try to shove your tongue down my throat?”

I’m very proud of the flippant question—and the tone of voice I deliver it in. At least until I realize that my hands are still shaking, and that Ash is very much aware of that fact.

I expect him to press his advantage after he spots the weakness, but instead he steps back. Puts his hands out in front of him—palms toward me—in an obvious I’m-backing-off-now gesture.

“Sure. Talk away. But you’d better do it quickly. I’ve got to get back to the shop.”

Right. Sure. He has all the time in the world to screw me, but if I want him to have an actual conversation with me, then we’re on the clock. God. Guys really are walking clichés.

Still, I’ve got his attention now. I might as well use it to my advantage. Straightening my shoulders, I hold my hand out for what I hope will be a professional handshake.

“My name is Tansy Hampton, Ash. I work for the Make-A-Wish foundation.” I wait a second for that to sink in, watch as his eyes widen and go even blanker—something I didn’t even know was possible. “My boss has been trying to get in touch with you via the email address on your website for a few weeks now, but she hasn’t gotten any response.”

“I don’t—” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t check that email anymore.”

I take my first easy breath since I got the call. At least now I know he wasn’t ignoring us. That makes this whole thing seem a lot more realistic. It also makes him seem a lot less like a
douche, despite his recent performance.

“We figured it was something like that,” I tell him smoothly, glossing over our moments of panic that we weren’t going to get this to happen. “But there’s a very sick boy who really, really wants to meet you.”