Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (7 page)

“It’s just work. I totally screwed up the first real job they’ve given me and I don’t know how to fix it.”

She frowns. “Are you sure you should be working? We agreed you could take this job as long as it wasn’t too stressful. The doctors say you’re supposed to avoid stress, concentrate on getting your strength back—”

That’s it. I tried, but I can’t take the hovering anymore. “It’s been six weeks, Mom. We just had my checkup and everything looks good. I’m exercising, building up my strength, and I really like my job. I’m planning on keeping it even after school starts in the fall.”

My mom looks horrified, just as I knew she would. Which is why I reach over and grab a muffin out of the basket on the table—one I’m sure is made with about a billion antioxidants that fight cancer—before beating a hasty retreat. In this house especially, running away is definitely
the better part of sanity. So not how the phrase is supposed to go, but oh well. The meaning behind it is the same.

I’m definitely running away.

As I grab my purse and head out the front door, I run headlong into my brother, Topher.
“Eeew,”
I exclaim as he reaches sweaty arms out to balance me. “Let go! You’re disgusting.”

“That’s the thanks I get for saving you, huh?” He leans down and rubs his dripping forehead against my own.

“Topher! Stop!” I just took a shower and now I’m covered in boy sweat. And not just any boy sweat. Sixteen-year-old-runner boy sweat. Ugh! “Gross!”

He cackles and wipes his sweaty palms down my arms before stepping back with a wicked grin. “What’s wrong, Tansy? You looked like you needed a bath. I was just trying to help.”

I punch him in the stomach, then immediately regret it when my hand comes away wet. “How far did you run, anyway?”

“Ten miles.”

“Overachiever.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be delicate hothouse flowers who sit around all day looking pretty,” he tells me.

“But I do it so well.” I bat my eyes, fluff my hair.

“Topher!” My dad’s voice rings out. “Apologize to your sister immediately. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

My brother freezes at the coldness in our father’s voice, and he steps back immediately. “Sorry, Tansy.” He moves around me, taking off down the hall without so much as glancing at Dad.

Damn it. “Dad, he was just messing with me. It’s no big deal.”

“Yes, well, you’ve had it rough and he needs to understand that. He shouldn’t be making fun of you for not having the stamina to run ten miles. It’s not okay.”

Ugh. I grit my teeth, count backward from ten. “Yes, Dad. Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Fine. I’ve got to go. I’m working today.” I head out the still open door into the sticky heat of a Salt Lake summer morning. Double ugh. No wonder Topher was so sweaty. It’s disgusting out here.

“Don’t work too hard,” my dad calls after me. “You need to keep your strength up.”

“Got it,” I tell him, wondering if it’s possible to clench my jaw so tightly that I actually break a tooth. I hope not. If it happens, I’m sure my parents will take it as some sign that the calcium is being leached out of my body by cancer. I’ll end up back at the oncologist undergoing
about a million tests I don’t need.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have to unclench my jaw and my fists as I slide into my car. I pull out my phone, text
Sorry, Dad’s an ass
to my brother. It only takes a minute for him to respond with a happy alien face. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I’ll take it. It’s more response than I usually get when Topher’s brooding.

The drive to work is uneventful—much like my life—and I’m just pulling into a parking spot when my phone rings. Figuring it’s my mom calling to make sure I made it safely—yes, she still does that and no, she doesn’t care at all that I’m nineteen years old—I pick it up without even looking at the caller ID.

“I’m fine. Just pulled into work.”

“Umm, I’m glad to hear that?” a deep male voice answers.

I pull the phone away from my ear, stare at the screen wildly for a second as I try to figure out who the unfamiliar voice might belong to. But the number is unknown,
of course
. “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

“I’m Alan Montgomery. I’m Ash Lewis’s manager. He asked me to give you a call and see if we could set up a date for Timmy’s Make-A-Wish visit.”

“He’s changed his mind?” I ask as excitement thrums through me. “He wants to do it?”

“Oh, he definitely wants to do it. He asked me to apologize to you for his behavior yesterday. You caught him off guard. But he definitely wants to meet Timmy and help out any way he can.”

“That means what, exactly?” I try to clarify. Just yesterday, Ash was completely dead-set against the snowboarding part of the wish. It’s hard to imagine that he’s changed his tune so quickly.

“Whatever you need it to,” Alan tells me. “He’s willing to spend a day on the slopes if that’s what Timmy wants, as well as hang with him wherever you deem appropriate.”

“Oh my God, that’s so amazing!” I squeal before I can help myself.

“Yeah, well, Ash is an amazing guy.”

“He really is,” I gush. “I don’t know how to thank him. Timmy will be so thrilled!”

“No need for that. Ash is happy to help whenever he can. Especially for a kid like Timmy.” He pauses, clears his throat. Then the deep baritone is back. “So, how does this work? I’ve never been a part of a Make-A-Wish before, so I’m not sure how things go from here.”

I can’t help thinking it’s a little strange that a manager with clients as high caliber as Alan Montgomery’s obviously are hasn’t had to do a Make-A-Wish before, but then again, extreme sports are still making a name for themselves in the mainstream. A couple more years and he’ll probably be crawling with requests.

“Well, this is the point where I ask you for any dates that absolutely won’t work for Ash.
Then I call Timmy’s parents and they consult with his doctors to try and see when they think it’s viable for him to go to Oregon. We’ll come up with three or four dates that work between them and the ski camp and then I’ll contact Ash to see which date is best for him. And then I’ll take it from there, make all the arrangements. All he has to do is show up. Does that sound okay?”

I pause, remind myself to take a breath. I’m trying to be professional here, but I’m so excited I’m nearly jumping out of my skin. I didn’t fail! Timmy is going to get his wish! And I’m going to get to see Ash again.

The thought creeps into my consciousness, unbidden, and though I try to ignore it, all kinds of images from our meeting yesterday bombard me. I’ve been trying really hard not to think about that meeting—about him—but now that his manager is on the phone, it’s impossible. From the way Ash’s eyes lit up when he smiled to the way his lips felt pressed against the nape of my neck to the way his whole face closed up when I told him what I was really there for. There’d been a part of me that was kicking myself, the same part that wanted nothing more than to melt against him in that storage closet. To let him do whatever he wanted to me.

Which sounds nuts, I know, but I’ve spent ten years being
that cancer girl
. So not conducive to getting kissed, let alone getting laid. And having wild monkey sex against the wall in a semipublic place? It’s certainly never been on the table before—and probably never will be again.

It’s a depressing thought. Because while it’s crazy for me to think about having any kind of sex with a guy I just met—a guy like Ash who would normally never even notice me—I can’t help thinking it’d also be awesome. I wouldn’t even care that he was just using me—hell, I’d be using him right back.

I mean, I’ve been kissed exactly twice in my life—both of them pity kisses from boys my mom roped into taking me on a date back when I was bald and still undergoing chemo. Nice, right? Not pathetic at all, especially considering the fact that I’m nineteen years old.

Yes, I definitely should have taken Ash up on his offer.

Then again, if I had, I probably wouldn’t be talking to his manager about Timmy’s Make-A-Wish right now. From what I understand, guys aren’t big on talking to their one-storage-room stands after the deed is done.

“Miss Hampton? Are you still there?”

Oh, shit! “Yes, of course, Mr. Montgomery. I’m definitely here. Sorry, you were cutting out a little but it’s better now.”

“Oh, um, good. Anyway, I was saying that that sounds great. But you should probably deal with me until we get all the details finalized, if that’s okay? Ash has a lot going on right now.”

“Right, of course.” I ignore the little niggle of disappointment that comes from knowing I
won’t be talking to Ash anytime soon. Then again, that’s probably a good thing. Throwing myself at him when he’s doing me this big favor would so not be okay. “If you give me your email address, I’ll send you the dates as soon as I’ve got them and we can go from there.”

“That sounds great.” I can hear obvious relief in Alan Montgomery’s voice and for a second, it seems a little strange. But then he’s rattling off his email address and I’m too busy scrambling for a pen to worry about the nuances of the conversation.

We hang up a couple minutes later, and I can’t help it. I bound out of my car and do a little happy dance, right there in the middle of the parking lot.

Timmy’s going to get his Make-A-Wish!

My first solo assignment is a success!

I get to see Ash again!

Wait—that last thought is so not appropriate. I shove it out of my mind (or at least I try to) and concentrate on the fact that I’m not a failure, after all. I didn’t let Timmy down. He’s going to get his wish before he dies. That’s the important thing here. That’s the only reason I have to be happy that Ash agreed.

When my happy dance is done—and yes, it takes a couple of minutes because I really am that excited—I reach into my car and grab my purse before heading into the office at close to a dead run. Suddenly, I have a lot of work to do today.

Holy shit
.

I stare at the certified letter in front of me in a kind of wide-eyed shock. I read it over two more times, mostly to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

I’m not. The words are still there.

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!

It’s from a local Salt Lake City attorney informing me that an anonymous donor wants to pay for Timmy’s Make-A-Wish trip. Only he—or she—doesn’t want Timmy to settle for ski camp in Oregon. Oh, no, this donor wants to pay to fly Ash, Timmy’s family, a home health care nurse and
me
—by private plane—to Arpa, Chile, so that Timmy can have a real,
eight
-day snowboarding experience.

There’s a breakdown of costs, along with a check made out to the Make-A-Wish foundation that covers all expenses except the private plane, which he explains the donor will provide, plus an extra twenty thousand dollars for incidentals or additional healthcare needs—with more available, if needed.

What kind of incidentals cost twenty thousand dollars?
is the first thing that occurs to me. And the second is,
Who goes out of their way to do something like this and then doesn’t even claim credit?
It makes no sense, and yet the letter is right here in black-and-white. And so is the check. Well, black-and-green, but still. It’s right here, in my hands.

I don’t even know if what this person is requesting is possible. Chile is half a world away—obviously, or there wouldn’t be snow there in July—and I’m not sure it would be safe for Timmy to travel that far. But the donor is willing to pay for a nurse, any necessary medical equipment, whatever Timmy needs …

The possibilities get to me for a second—the unmitigated kindness of someone who just wants to help—and I have to blink the tears back. I’m not a crier normally (had to give that up years ago when the cancer kept coming back) but this … this is something special. And even if it doesn’t work out, even if Timmy’s doctors say there’s no way for him to travel that far … it doesn’t matter. Because someone thought to do this. Someone cared enough to give Timmy an opportunity like this.

It boggles my mind.

Not sure what else to do, I bound down the hall to my boss’s office. Show her the letter and the check. Then, with her approval—she’s less shocked than I am, as things like this have been known to happen before—I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

There are about a million things I have to do to make sure this happens for Timmy, not the least of which is convince Ash that an eight-day trip is even better than a three-day one.

It’s been another shit day in a week of shit days.

Work’s been crazy, Logan still isn’t talking to me in anything but monosyllables, and Z and Ophelia—along with Luc and Cam—have taken it upon themselves to drive me crazy about that stupid Make-A-Wish thing about a million times a day. I’ve explained to them all the reasons I can’t do it, told them that there’s no way I’m leaving Logan alone for three days even if they all offer to be here watching him at the same time. He’s
my
brother,
my
responsibility.

It just isn’t going to happen, no matter how many times they bug me about it.