One
His nuts were going to freeze. Considering how long it had been since he’d required their services, the possibility was damn well worth going for a ride on the coldest night of the year.
Justin Norton slipped on his goggles and grinned at the snowy landscape. Even in the moonlit dark, the white blinded him, sparkling on the evergreens, glistening on the low-hanging branches he shoved out of his way. This trail was bumpier than some, but the exhilaration of flying through the night—silent but for the buzz-saw whir of his snowmobile—was worth every risk. Especially tonight.
He’d had a shitty day, complete with tears from his mother, cranky students, and a pisser of a headache that still throbbed at the base of his skull. But in a minute, none of that would matter anymore. He zipped his jacket and tugged on his thin lambskin leather gloves, anticipation already humming in his blood. Now it was all about snow and speed and wind. Out here, no one intruded.
Being alone had never felt so damn good.
He rolled his shoulders and started the engine. As he gripped the handlebars, he breathed deep. Fine shards of ice coated his throat, and he exhaled puffs of frosty air in front of his face. Both soothed him immeasurably. This was what he’d waited for all fucking day long. He didn’t have to watch the clock here, didn’t have to wonder what reaction he’d get from his mother the next time he phoned home.
Would she be happy to hear from him? Indifferent? Or would today finally be the day she didn’t answer the phone at all?
Shaking off the worry, he glanced up the trail. The dark swallowed it whole like a hungry mouth. Then he kicked the snowmobile into gear and roared into the deep woods.
Snow flew back into his face as he pressed the snowmobile into the first looping turn, but that was part of the thrill. Wind-whipped cheeks, chapped lips, stinging eyes—he craved the burn that came with doing battle with the elements and never knowing who might win. There was a symmetry to the chase. A rightness he’d never felt anywhere else.
He pushed for more speed as the trail opened up, his gaze alternating between the ice-encrusted, snowy ground and the pink-hued horizon. Nothing was quite as breathtaking as the winter sky in this neck of the woods. When the stars came out to twinkle amid the cotton-candy clouds, the rest of the world faded away.
It was just past five, and already dusk was imminent. Judging from the streaked sky, so was a hell of a lot more snow.
For once the forecasters weren’t blowing smoke out their asses. Late November in Turnbull, New York, usually didn’t yield this much accumulation, but he’d gotten lucky this year. Good thing, because he hadn’t gotten lucky in any other, more vital ways for months now.
And his frozen balls were feeling the strain.
His fingers tingled as he tightened his grip and whipped around a curve too fast. His skis shimmied on the ice before he backed off on the torque and adjusted his stance. Figured. Thoughts about his pathetic sex life were a sure path to ending up on his ass in a snowbank.
He squinted into the darkness. The light flurries had increased at a steady clip, and now he couldn’t see the gloves in front of his face. He’d yet to see another snowmobiler on the trail, so obviously people were taking the severe weather predictions seriously.
Smart money told him to turn back and head home. Thanks to the teachers who took pity on him every holiday, he had a basket with a loaf of crusty bread, a couple of kinds of fancy cheese, and a nice, chilled rosé waiting.
Somehow getting drunk on wine two nights before Thanksgiving—a holiday he’d long ago become accustomed to spending sans turkey and relatives—didn’t seem quite as lame as loading up on a twelve-pack of beer.
Right.
Shaking off the sudden tension in his shoulders, he decelerated and swung around slowly to keep from losing traction. He skidded again on a patch of ice, hard enough he nearly did a header over the handlebars.
Fuck.
Obviously he’d waited too damn long. He rode out the spin, and finally the machine shuddered to a stop.
He sucked in a sharp breath. Clearly tonight wasn’t the night for a nocturnal ride.
Just as he was about to turn around to head home to his cabin, he felt the vibration of his phone against his chest. How he felt it over the noise from the snowmobile, he had no clue. A weird sort of sixth sense, maybe, born from years of expecting a phone call about his mother.
He stopped and shut off the engine before digging out his cell, managing to grab the call before it went to voice mail. As usual, he forgot to look at the readout first. “Yeah?” he barked.
Unless it involved blood or death, now was not the time for someone to be bothering him.
“Justin.”
The soft plea, barely audible over the wind, hit him deep in the gut and made him wrap his fingers around the handlebars.
Kylie.
Her image sprung into his mind so fast his breath caught. Sunny, shoulder-length hair, wide, expressive eyes the clearest blue he’d ever seen. She grinne
d while she mopped the bar, sang while she polished glasses. Invariably she dripped beer on her tight beige Rough and Ready tank top, and every so often, the liquid would soak onto the nipples that always seemed as hard as stones under his gaze.
They’d been friends in college and lovers for one brief, unforgettable night. At least to him. Then they’d fallen out of contact, until the day more than six months ago he’d walked into Rough and Ready and found her smiling at him across the bar. He’d come back almost every day since.
“Justin?” Anguish was plain in her tone. “I need you.”
His pulse skipped. How many times had he dreamed of hearing her saying those words?
She’d said them once, on the night they’d slept together. He’d hoped that night would lead to something more.
Wrong answer.
By graduation they’d barely been acquaintances and she’d been dating some burly guy who drove a classic car and wore leather like most guys sported denim.
“What’s wrong?” She didn’t answer, so he asked again. “Kylie? What is it?”
“I’m near your house. I went riding and”—wind swallowed her words—“and then I crashed. Stupid. Shoulda went when I wasn’t mad. So…dumb.”
Her broken speech caused the twisting in his gut to intensify. “Where are you?”
Oh yeah, brilliant question. If she went snowmobiling near his house, the trails were surrounded by lots of landmarks. Like trees. Leafless branches that looked like dancing skeletons when caught in the breeze.
But if there wasn’t something to identify her location, how else would he find her? He needed something to go on.
She didn’t answer.
“Kylie? Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
“Not far from your house. I could see the lights. Pretended…I could see the lights.”
The line went dead.
Cursing under his breath, he kicked the snowmobile back into motion. He didn’t have time to waste. She couldn’t be too far if she’d seen the lights of his cabin, though how she knew which was his, he didn’t know. She’d never been to his house. Never called him before right now, though he’d given her the number. She’d also never given him her number, which he understood.
Hated but understood.
“Fuck.” He tightened his fingers around the handlebars as he ducked his head to avoid a snowy branch that aimed for his eyes. So much for paying attention.