On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (8 page)

“I hardly think my brother will
care. My parents give me wine with dinner—my mother’s parents were
Vintners—they had a vineyard in Minnesota. Thank goodness, she moved away. Ugh.
That would have sucked, except for the abundance of wine. They don’t care as
long as I drink responsibly.”

“Do you drink responsibly?”

Baskia nodded, nearly finished
with the bottle. “All the time.”

“Then your secret is safe with
me.” He winked, melting her insides despite the chill of the beer.

Before going back outside, Trace
handed her another. “Enjoy,” he said and then retreated to the deck and
reclined in the hammock.

Baskia watched him through the
window. He lit a cigarette. The cold liquid sent a million carbonated thoughts
racing into her mind. Was the car done being repaired? She ought to call her
brother and check her messages—there were at least a dozen from her mother, but
she couldn’t connect to voicemail. She hoped Will put out any fires her
departure caused. Anne didn’t appear at the cabin, so that was hopeful. She’d
been able to send a few texts, but mostly they bounced back. She was on top of
a mountain; she couldn’t imagine what blocked the connection.

Earlier that day, in lieu of a
call or email, she’d hand-written a letter to the advisor noted in her packet
for Columbia, outlining her reason to defer until the winter semester. The time
alone, relatively, made her realize that for all her life experience she hadn’t
been prepared to be truly on her own. Therefore, she felt it irresponsible to
begin college until she knew, for sure, she could rely on herself in times of
difficulty, that she could be her own best friend; that she could figure out
how to make a damn pot of coffee. Then there was the issue of discovering her
heart’s desire and figuring out her hopes and dreams.

Out on the deck, she added the
empty bottles to the row on the railing. “Speaking of responsibility you really
shouldn’t smoke,” Baskia said to Trace. In the glare of the penetrating sun,
her thoughts slowed down, relaxing, drifting, and settling like silt.

 One thought, a single word, rose
to the top, above all the other thoughts and ideas competing for her attention…Trace.

“It’s only one of my bad habits,”
he said, taking a long drag.

“You’re not going to acknowledge
that it’s bad for your health?”

“It’s only one of the things I do
that’s bad for my health.”

“But—” she grabbed the beer from
his hand and took a big sip. “You don’t care about your—”

“I care, just not enough.” He let
her finish his beer. Like the water in the lake, his eyes were clear, despite
the heat and row of empty beer bottles. They were the exact color of an exotic
spice she couldn’t recall the name of, but had to throw toward the camera
during a shoot in Morocco. His hair, his motorcycle, his voice was as
all-American as they come, but there was also something about him that was just
out of reach, mysterious and off-limits. She wanted it.

The hammock swayed slowly as the
sun dropped behind the mountain. Baskia leaned her head against the back of the
Adirondack chair that she’d pulled over. Trace glided toward her in the
hammock, his face just inches from hers. She gazed at his lips. The bottom one
was slightly fuller than the top. The hammock swayed, carrying him away. Then
he returned. The impish grin stubbornly remained fixed on his lips, as if he
could read her thoughts, answer her desire, but refused to. The heat or beer or
his presence made her sizzle inside. She leaned in, just close enough to touch
her lips to his, but the hammock glided away.

Chapter Eight

“I thought you were hungry,”
Trace said. 

“I am,” she answered, her pulse
quickening. They were a breath apart. She closed her eyes, imagining their lips
meeting. When she opened them, he was on his feet; the sunset glowed behind his
lean and toned body.

He slid his jeans on.

“Where are you going?” she asked
lazily, eyeing the empty bottles on the rail. They cast long shadows across the
wooden deck as the remaining sunlight slipped lower and lower.

“I’m going to make us dinner.
Your brother wouldn’t forgive me if I let you starve.”

Baskia only half-heard him as she
rested into the glow of relaxation. Her mind decided to shut off and there was
just the faint hum of her breath and the crickets and frogs chirping down by
the lake. Otherwise, all was quiet. Baskia closed her eyes and drifted on a
wave of beer that brought her nowhere except exactly where she sat.

The smell of onions and peppers
wafted through the window screen from the kitchen. Baskia stayed put, never
wanting to leave that peaceful place where no one, least of all herself,
expected anything from her.

Trace brought out two plates and
set them on the table on the deck.

“Looks good.”

“My specialty,” he said.

Baskia grabbed silverware and
napkins. Trace lit a candle.

“Thanks for cooking.”

“Neither one of us has had a
proper meal.”

She looked down at the scrambled
eggs, cheese, peppers, and onions on the plate. Butter coated two thick slices
of toast. “Breakfast for dinner,” she said, enjoying the peaceful stillness of
the evening.

When Baskia pushed her plate away,
full, Trace said he was going inside to get dessert. Baskia wondered if all he
needed was a relaxing afternoon, a few beers, a swim, and a decent meal to
transform into the aforementioned “chivalrous” gentleman.

He returned with a bottle of
tequila. “I couldn’t find anything sweet enough. Do you think Mr. and Mrs.
Benedict will mind if we enjoy a shot or two?”

Baskia went inside to get some
salt. “Where’d you find that anyway?” she called.

“Should I tell you? I didn’t know
you were a lush,” Trace said.

“I’m trying not to drink.”

“You’re not doing a very good
job. Did mommy and daddy throw you in rehab and this is your convalescence?”

“No. Things just got too
complicated, so I opted to remove the common denominator. Beer, champagne,
tequila. Recovery? Pshaw. Who needs that?” she said, her mood hardening.

“Well, congratulations. I mean
that. It can be damn difficult to get out of a tough situation.” He brushed his
hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “It’s in the cabinet above the
bookshelf. There’s practically a fully stocked bar in there. Plus, the wine
downstairs. We could have ourselves a good time.”

“Yeah?” Baskia said with a smirk
that could easily match his or London’s. She’d tried to go without alcohol, but
returning to the slightly numb state, that kept her vein of emotions sealed,
made her question her entire plan. And then there was Trace, undeniably hot,
right within reach.

Trace passed her a shot glass,
linked his arm through hers, and tossed the tequila back.

“What am I doing?” she said
aloud, the words gurgling as if pouring through something viscous.

“Tempting me.”

“What?” Baskia said, her thoughts
syrupy thick, not following the thread of conversation. He’d already poured the
second round. Three days without alcohol suddenly seemed like a long time. 

 “There’s a saying, something
like, ‘Chasing angels or fleeing demons, go to the mountains.’ Which is it?” He
gazed at her with his sterling eyes for a long time, perhaps measuring her intentions.

Baskia surveyed the sweeping mountains
and the brushstrokes of pines reaching toward the night sky, dyed purple,
inviting a ripe moon into the basket of stars. She imagined secrets breezing
into the trees on a gust of wind, forgotten and lost.

“Both.”

He snorted.

The alcohol, summer heat, and
nowhere-ness of the mountain hideaway made her feel like she was losing
herself, slipping away, and it felt…good. “What about you?”

“I’m—” he paused, lifting his
shot glass and swigging the tequila back.

“I’m going to chase you down to
the lake.” With that, he was on his feet grabbing her by the hand. Giggles
erupted from her as he pulled her toward the water. As before, he stripped off
his clothes. The rising moon reflected brightly off the water. She admired his
lean and muscled body, the shaft of dark hair beneath his belly button, and his
smile, luminous in the fading light. He disappeared in a splash. Ripples formed
circles spreading out from where he’d dove in. She held her breath, waiting for
him to surface.

“Come on in,” he called, treading
water.

“I thought you were going to
chase me.” Nevertheless, she peeled off her tank top and let her shorts slip
down to her ankles.

Trace whistled.

She padded to the end of the
dock. Lifting her arms overhead, she dove in. The water was colder than she
expected, yet she swam over to him, buoyant with laughter.

Trace took her into his arms,
tattoos flexing, pressing his chest to hers.

“I thought we were skinny
dipping,” he said, tugging on the strap of her bra.

“Since you didn’t chase me in, it
stays on,” she teased.

“How about now,” he tickled her
waist and up the length of her torso.

She giggled and swam away. They
were both laughing and splashing until he gripped her, once again, pulling her
close.

“And now?” he asked, finding the
hook to her bra. He tossed it onto the dock. He tugged off her panties. In
seconds, their lips met. Despite the meal he’d made, she’d never hungered for
someone so much. He kissed her with equal intensity. His arms were strong
around her body and the sand on the bottom of the lake cushioned her feet. She
hardly gave a thought to the weeds and critters lurking beneath. He was hard
against her as she pawed and squeezed his back, raking her nails along his
skin, eager for him.

Trace took her by the hand,
leading her back to the cabin. He hardly took his eyes from her, but he didn’t
say a word.

Once in the bedroom, her breath
quickened, as they kissed.

“I want you so bad,” he said.

She found herself giving into her
longing; it didn’t matter that they’d had a prickly introduction or that their
banter, early on, had been antagonizing. He’d been rough and weighted when he’d
arrived, but the mountain exposed another side of him. Baskia promised that
she’d focus on unraveling the mystery of her emotions later, but even as she realized
she’d just made the knots more complicated, she let herself moan, filled with
desire after he joined her on the bed. 

^^^

Morning sun melted through the
windows like liquid, bathing the wood floor in golden puddles of light.
Baskia’s head ached and her skin tinged with the dank scent of water and weeds
particular to the lake. Trace lay there, still naked, another reminder of the
night before. She went back to sleep.

Later, a distant crack of thunder
sent a shudder through the cabin. She rolled over, but the bed was empty. She
gazed up at the ceiling. Rain pattered on the metal roof. Over the wind, she
heard another dull rumble. Looking out the window, the sun hid behind bruised
clouds. A figure, on a motorcycle, pulled out of the driveway, his leather
jacket already soaked with the rain.

As he disappeared, she spotted
the BMW sitting in the driveway. The digital clock next to the bed read
afternoon. She must have slept through Wes returning the car. Did he find them
in bed? Even though she was alone, an unusual burst of modesty made her gather
the strewn sheet around her chest.

When she got to her feet, the
room spun. She needed water, but didn’t trust herself to move yet. Glancing on
the table beside the bed, she spotted a full glass and a couple aspirin. An
hour passed before the blurry edges of her headache dissolved.

Trace wasn’t back yet. She got in
the shower. Even though he’d been at the cabin, she found no evidence of him
anywhere. No hairs in the sink. No toothbrush left behind, he must have been
using hers. In any other circumstance, that would have grossed her out, but it
was somehow endearing, especially after the night they’d shared. A rush of
nausea, while in the steamy shower, reminded her they’d been drunk. But still.
She felt the imprint of his hands on her, his lips and hips pushing her
pleasure beyond what she’d previously known possible.

While she brushed her hair, she
padded to the kitchen, but the fridge was nearly empty, Trace used the rest of
the groceries she bought that first day to make dinner. The dishes were clean.
The empty bottles, from their indulgence the night before, he’d stacked neatly
by the trashcan. She sighed. He must have gone to the market.

Baskia adjourned to the deck. The
rain had stopped, ushering in a rich, earthy breeze. The return of the warm sun
and lingering hangover made her sleepy. She reclined in the hammock, letting it
cradle her. When she woke up, the sun had set, but no rumbling motorcycle told
her that Trace had returned.

Her stomach growled. There were
just a few bottles of beer left in the fridge, milk, and condiments. She pulled
out the tub of saltines and spread them with jam. She felt as if she was right
back where she’d started.

Unsatisfied, she went to the
bedroom. At the sight of the unmade bed, a flame of passion ignited inside,
filling her in a way food and drink didn’t. Despite her plan to get him back in
the bed when he returned, the sheets reeked like the lake. She pulled them off
and went down to the basement.

On the front of the washing
machine, Trace had taped a note. In ink, it said:

Lift the lever to the right of
the washer before you turn it on. Sort the colors into lights, mixed, and darks.
If you toss your pink bra in with the lights, you’ll learn that the hard way.
Then fill the first container with soap (blue bottle) and the second one with
fabric softener (white bottle.) Adjust the dial to the corresponding load
(cottons, whites, etc.) Then press start. XO

She waited to read more, but that
was it. She knew, despite the amazing experience the night before, that he
wouldn’t be returning. He must have, in his words,
gotten his shit together
.

Baskia sniffed, but didn’t cry.
As unwelcome as he’d been at first, the house felt empty without him there. It
was her turn to get herself together, and drinking the way she had only filled
her with uncertainty and nausea. She straightened up the bedroom, but like
before, found she didn’t have anything else to do. She played an app on her
phone, sent a few texts, only half of which went out, and then listened for the
dryer to beep. She listened to the rain falling on the roof. She listened to
the muffled night noises. She listened to her breath.

The softness of that in-out
whistle scared her more than a stranger barging into the cabin in the middle of
the night. It was more frightening than what the sex had or hadn’t meant. It
was worse than her mother forcing her to live a crappy reproduction of her
miserable life and disappointing her father. Her breath meant she had a future
and had to make a move toward it.

The next morning, Baskia found
the keys in the ignition of the BMW. It started right up. There was no bill so
she checked the mailbox. Old sales circulars stuffed the hollow, but nothing
from Wes or the mechanic.

She took the long winding drive
into town and stocked up at the market, still looking out of place with her
designer clothes, shades, and long, lean physique. When she loaded the bags
into the trunk, she spotted a familiar pickup. She leaned against the BMW,
checking her email, sending texts, and waiting for Wes to turn up.

A half hour passed. She called
her brother.

“Mom is pissed,” he answered. “I
told her you were fine. You just needed some time. But—” she thinks you left
the country with London.

“Well, I am in the country,”
Baskia replied as a tractor inched by, belching out dark smoke. “And hello to
you too.”

“I learned your houseguest left.”

Baskia stuttered, unsure what to
say. She had called Will to inquire about Trace. She didn’t know much about him
except he knew how to make coffee and kiss, how his hands felt as they glided
over her bare chest, how he tasted like metal and mint, and he could tread
water and hold onto her. “So, uh, what’s his story?”

“He didn’t spill?”

“Nope.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll just
have to leave it to him. Another story for another time.”

She wanted to ask if there would
be another time. He didn’t have a cell phone. How would she see him again?
Would she?