Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (9 page)

“Don’t look at me.” He holds his hands up in front of him. “I have no idea what happened. I just wanted to get you to Oregon. Once Chile was brought up, I kind of freaked out a little.”

“So you just stopped answering her emails? That’s awesome, Logan. Really classy.”

“I was trying to think of a way to convince you to go.”

“Yeah, but that was never going to happen. So now you’ve caused all this trouble for
nothing.”

“Why isn’t it going to happen?” Logan demands. “You love boarding in Chile!”

“Excuse me,” Tansy interjects, but we both ignore her.

“I love a lot of things. That doesn’t mean I’m going to run off and do them right now.”

“See, there you go again. Freaking out because I’m in this stupid chair. It’s fine. Go. I’ve got this.”

Goddamnit. It’s like we’re not even speaking the same language. “You are fourteen years old. You don’t have this. You don’t have anything. You’re not supposed to yet.”

“Oh, and you do?” He looks me over with obvious disdain. “No offense, Ash, but you look like shit. You should probably spend a little time worrying about yourself instead of spending all your energy on me.”

“Umm, excuse me?” Tansy tries to interject again, but again Logan and I are too wrapped up in our personal battle to pay attention.

“So what do you suggest? That I just pack my shit up and head out to Chile for a week?”

“Actually, yes. You could use the break. And so could I. So go!”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do. You’re not in control here.”

“Yeah, well neither are you. You’re my brother. You’re not my dad. You’re just my brother and you don’t get to tell me what to do every second of every day!”

“All right,” Tansy interjects a third time. “Can we all just—”

“What?” I whirl on her, feeling as out of control as my brother just told me I was. “Can we all just what?”

“I was going to suggest that we all take a couple deep breaths and—”

“Ash doesn’t know how to do that,” Logan tells her snidely. “He’s too busy ordering everyone around to remember how to breathe. Isn’t that right, Ash?”

And there it is. The straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’ve been trying to hold everything together—Logan, me, our family, life—for the last six months and I can’t do it anymore. Not for one more minute. Not for one more second.

Fed up, frustrated, I lose the slippery grip I’ve been keeping on control these last few days. “Fuuuuuuck!” I yell as I lash out, my fist slamming into the wall less than a foot from Tansy’s head.

Oh. My. God.

As Ash pulls back his fist and hits the wall a second time, all I can think is that I’ve beaten a particularly nasty type of cancer not once, but twice, in the last ten years. I’ve survived dozens of secondary infections that ate up my compromised immune system and tried their best to end me. I’ve even handled the coddling and cuddling and crazily overprotective behavior of my parents for longer than I care to think about. And now, I’m going to end up dying here—in this nice, safe-looking, upper-middle-class house—at the hands of one of the world’s premiere snowboarders.

And one of the world’s most frustrated, if his actions are anything to go by. Which is what gets to me, because I understand that frustration—and the helplessness that causes it.

On the plus side, watching Ash lose it has finally shut up his kid brother. Who actually seems like a pretty good kid, and who sounds like he has a point about a lot of things, though now might not be the best time for him to try to make those points. I mean, with Ash breathing fire and all.

Tearing my eyes away from Ash’s angry and frustrated face, I glance at Logan. He’s gone white, his light summer tan turning a sickly yellow against his sudden pallor. That, more than anything, convinces me that an outburst like this isn’t normal for Ash. That this is him at his most frustrated. His wit’s end.

“Ash!” he calls, voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m sorry.”

Ash bows his head, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s okay,” he grates out. “I’m okay.”

Except it’s obvious that he’s not. His teeth are clenched, his eyes are closed and he’s shaking—whether from anger or an excess of adrenaline, I don’t know. The only thing I am sure about is that this guy is going to implode, and soon, if someone doesn’t do something about it.

“Logan, why don’t you go watch TV for a while? I’ve got your brother.”

He glances at me for a quick second, his eyes saying very clearly that I’m crazy. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

It’s a better idea than him sitting here staring at his brother like he’s one step from a
straitjacket.

I smile encouragingly at him, or at least as encouragingly as I can when my heart is beating about ten times too fast. Just because I understand what Ash is going through doesn’t mean that it doesn’t freak me out a little.

For long seconds, I don’t think Logan’s going to listen—and why should he when he doesn’t actually know me, despite our emails. He hesitates long enough that I decide to take matters into my own hands. Pulling a move I’m pretty sure is going to piss him off—even though I think it’s totally necessary—I take the handles of his wheelchair and steer him into the other room myself.

“Hey!” he snarls, twisting in his seat as much as he can. “Take me back! You can’t just—”

“Sorry, bud, but I can.” I don’t know the layout of the house, but it’s not hard to follow the sounds of the TV still on in one of the back rooms.

“You better stop right now or I’ll—”

Before he can finish whatever threat he’s going to make, I stop the wheelchair and come around to face him. Then I squat down so that I’m looking him straight in the eye even as I grab the wheels of his chair to keep him from backing away from me and darting back to his brother.

“I’d apologize for manhandling your wheels, but after the stunt you pulled with that phone call, I figure this makes us about even.”

He glares at me with all the shade a fourteen-year-old kid can throw, but I can see that he knows I’m right. After a minute, he exhales and I realize suddenly that he looks very young. Very tired. And very unsure of himself.

“Look,” I say. “You messed up. Huge. I get that you were trying to do the right thing for everyone, but you made a mistake. One that didn’t just screw things up for you, but for all of us. Which means you don’t get to deal with this all alone, either. You need help. Ash needs help.”

Logan gives me this kicked-puppy look and I’m pretty sure that it’s genuine, not just something he’s pulling out to manipulate me.

“Just give us a few minutes alone,” I tell him. “Give me a chance to calm him down and get this sorted out.”

Logan’s jaw juts out stubbornly. “You really think you can talk him into this when I can’t?”

No. I don’t think that. But I’m sure as hell going to try, because the last thing I want is to call Timmy and tell him the whole thing is off. My Make-A-Wish trip to Paris is still one of the best memories my family and I have. The idea of Timmy dying without that … it makes me sadder than I can ever express.

But I can’t tell Logan that without spilling my whole pathetic history—not to mention
making him feel worse—so instead, I bluff.

“Yes,” I say with a nod. “I do think I can talk him into it.”

“Oh, yeah?” the little shit asks, calling me on it. “How? Because you pretty much screwed it up the first time.”

“Hey, I can get creative when I need to.”

“How creative are we talking here? Because Ash is pretty mad.”

Don’t I know it. I blow out a breath, try to pretend I’m not shaking inside. “I’ll be as creative as I need to be.”

“Really?” Logan’s eyes go wide with interest. “Like,
creative
creative?”

The wink, wink, nudge, nudge is implied.

“Yeah, right,” I say with a laugh. What is it with these Lewis boys that they keep imagining I have way more game than I actually do? “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to use my feminine wiles to convince him to hop on a plane to Chile with me.”

Logan doesn’t seem to find the thought nearly as funny as I do, though. Instead, he just nods and picks up the TV remote like my seducing Ash into agreeing is a foregone conclusion.

It boggles my brain a little, and I shake my head to clear it. Then start back to the kitchen before Ash decides to take out another wall—this time with a body part he might actually need for boarding.

I’m almost out the door when Logan says softly, “Just, you know, be careful with him.”

I snort. “Yeah, I think your brother can take of himself.”

“Usually. But he’s not used to girls like you.”

“Girls like me?”

“You know. The nice ones.”

Of course. Nice. I’m the nice one. The sweet one. The butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth one. For a second,
I
want to take a turn punching the wall. I mean, how pathetic am I that even a pissed-off kid can see the truth, despite the fact that I’m dressed like a punk-rock hooker?

Just once I’d like to be described as something other than nice. Sexy, maybe. Mysterious, definitely. Hot, absolutely. I have blue hair, for God’s sake, and jeans so tight that I’m pretty sure they’re cutting off circulation to just about everywhere. Surely that’s got to count for something.

Except, obviously, it doesn’t.

Stupid kid.

Stupid look.

Stupid me, trying to be something I’m not.

Except that’s not fair either, because it’s not that I’m
trying
to be someone else. I’m trying to be
me
. The only problem is I don’t know who that is. I’ve been cancer girl for so long that trying to find another identity is … challenging, especially when everyone around me still
sees the sick girl with the port in her chest.

I roll my eyes at myself as I head back to Ash. Existential crises are
so
unattractive in a girl, after all. Not that I want to be attractive for Ash or anything, but still … no need to actually repulse the guy, either.

I find him standing right where I left him, head bowed and uninjured hand braced against the wall. In those seconds, he looks like Atlas, with the weight of the world balanced on his broad, capable shoulders. It’s a heavy load, though. No wonder he’s flinching.

At least now I understand why Ash wasn’t willing to be gone for more than a day. Meeting Logan, seeing what Ash is responsible for, puts things in perspective, just as his obvious struggle to do the right thing does. It also makes me like him a lot more, despite his fist coming so close to my face.

It’s been a few minutes since he lashed out, and though he’s obviously trying to get himself under control, Ash is still shaking, still breathing heavily. It makes me feel even worse, especially since I know I need to do something to diffuse the tension or he’s going to lose it all over again.

But what?

I think back to all those times I lost it—or nearly did—in the hospital, and know that sympathy isn’t the way to bring him back. Not now. Not from this. It’ll only make things worse. As will too much kindness. Which leaves—

“So, is your little trip to crazy town finished or are you planning on doing more redecorating?” I nod toward the hole he’s just put in the wall. “Because, I’ve got to tell you, a nice flower arrangement might be the way to go. Or, in this case, a new painting. They’re pretty good at hiding a multitude of sins.”

He stares at me incredulously. “Is that seriously all you have to say?”

“No, but it’ll do for now.” I reach down, take hold of his wrist so I can study the bruised and bloody knuckles of his injured hand. “Come on. We should probably get some ice for that mess you made.”

I lead him through the dining room and butler’s pantry to what I hope is the kitchen.

“Who are you?” he demands, as I reach into the freezer and grab a bag of frozen vegetables. “Miss Polly Sunshine? I nearly hit you and you’re getting ice for my hand?”

“Technically, I’m getting you peas for your hand. Because they’re smaller, they work better than ice.” I gesture for him to sit on one of the barstools at the end of the island, then drape the bag of peas over his knuckles. “And no, I’m not Miss Polly Sunshine. I just happen to be the only sane one in the room right now so I’m taking advantage of that fact. Besides, your fist wasn’t
that
close to my face.”

“It was close enough.” He looks away, and I can see his jaw working. “I’m sorry about
that, by the way. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know. Besides, you’re not that scary.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifts a brow at me, his eyes going to my still trembling hands.

I tuck them into my jeans pockets. I’m not about to tell him that the near miss with his fist isn’t the real reason I’m shaking.

“Yeah.” I walk to the stove, pick up the cheerful red kettle that’s sitting there and carry it to the sink to fill it with water.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching as I put it back on the stove.

“Making tea.”

“What if I don’t like tea?”

I look at him and shrug. “Then get your own drink.
I
like tea.”

He gives a surprised laugh, then watches silently as I rummage through the kitchen. I find the mugs in the cabinet over the dishwasher, the tea in a canister next to the stove. It strikes me for the first time that this isn’t a typical bachelor’s kitchen and I realize that this is probably the house Ash grew up in. His parents’ place. He must have inherited it after the accident.

The thought makes me both happy and sad. Happy that he has this piece of his childhood, sad because … well, he’s been through hell these last six months, more so even than the media reported on.

I have to admit, I find it odd that there was so little about his brother after the accident. It was big news here in Park City and in Salt Lake when his parents died, but the papers didn’t spend much time talking about his brother—just that he’d been injured in the crash. If I’d known, I would have approached this whole thing differently. Would have had a solution in place for his brother when I came to him with the original proposal.

I don’t say anything as I make the tea, and neither does Ash. At least not until I put the cups on the table along with the canister of sugar—his mom’s influence obviously didn’t extend to keeping a sugar bowl around.