Shattered (Extreme Risk 2)

There’s some kind of secret, nonverbal communication going on between the brothers as well. Even if I didn’t see it, I would feel it crackling in the air all around me. Still, my knees almost go out from under me when Ash nods decisively. “Okay, then. We’re going to Chile.”

He slowly crosses to his brother, crouches down before him and pulls the younger boy into his arms. As the two of them start to talk, really talk, I head for the front door. Let myself out. There will be time enough for me to contact Ash tomorrow about the details. Tonight, he and Logan need some time for just the two of them.

As I climb into my car, I try to focus on all the great things that just happened. Focus on the relief and the happiness that come with knowing Timmy will get his Make-A-Wish, and maybe—maybe—so will Logan.

It’s easy to do. It is. After all, for the last five days I’ve been focused on this to the exclusion of almost everything else. And if there’s a little voice screaming inside of me, reminding me of the pathetic, ridiculous fool I just made of myself—well, then, I shove it down deep. Put on my proverbial earplugs. And pretend with everything I have inside of me that I don’t feel unattractive.

Unfeminine.

Completely unfuckable.

It might even work, too, if I hadn’t spent the last decade of my life making it a policy never to lie to myself, no matter how unpleasant my reality is.

Chapter 9

Ash

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Those nine words are my mantra as I pack up my snowboarding gear. I’ve left it for last, behind helping Logan pack for the trip, triple- and quadruple-checking his medications and talking to Victor, the home heal

th care aide that is going to accompany us on the trip because Sarah has family responsibilities and can’t just take off for an eight-day trip to South America at a moment’s notice. Or at least that’s what she told me when she turned the trip down. Unlike me, she actually gets away with that excuse. Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Everything has gone like clockwork so far—the dates, the chartered plane, the medical equipment—which for Logan isn’t any more than what we’d need at home at this point—but that only makes me nervous. If I’ve learned nothing else from my parents’ deaths and everything that came after, it’s that shit always turns ugly when things are running the most smoothly.

We’re halfway to the airport when I dial Z. Of course, the coward doesn’t pick up, but then I didn’t actually expect him to. He’s been avoiding me for the week since I decided to do this, knowing, I’m sure, that I have every intention of chewing his ass about the donor thing.

I get his voicemail for about the twentieth time in eight days and this time I don’t beat around the bush. “You can’t dodge my calls forever, asshole. I’m going to kick your ass eventually, and we both know it, so you might as well pick up the phone … Look, I’m almost at the airport. I talked to Cam and Luc last night, but I didn’t want to take off for the fucking Andes without at least saying good-bye. So good-bye. You dick … And … thanks. For everything.”

Another thing my parents’ crash taught me. You never know ahead of time that it’s the last time you’re ever going to talk to someone. If you did, everything would be different. If I’d known … well, if I’d known, I would have had a lot more to say to my mom and dad than “Don’t forget to bring the video camera I forgot” or “Yeah, sure, I’d love some of your homemade snickerdoodles, Mom.”

I don’t know what I would have said—maybe “Don’t come” or “Be careful” or “I love you.” Who knows, but it would have been a lot more important than an offhand comment about a bunch of fucking cookies.

I finish the call, just as we pull onto the tarmac at the Salt Lake City airport. Like any big airport, it’s got a smaller terminal and separate tarmac for charter flights—I know ’cuz I’ve gone this route with Z a few times before. A couple years ago, he got a wild hair up his ass about boarding Patagonia, so we flew down there by private charter. The boarding was sick as hell—we nearly died, but that’s pretty much to be expected when you’re riding lines that are close to fucking Antarctica.

We’ve ridden other places through the years, too—Italy, Japan, New Zealand, Switzerland. We’ve even been to Chile before, a couple of times. But not like this. Never like this.

I climb out of the car, look up at the small but fully loaded jet in front of us. And wonder how the hell I’m supposed to get my brother up there and maintain his pride. There’s no ramp, no lift, just a narrow set of stairs leading from the tarmac to the plane. The only way Logan is getting up there is if I carry him, and he’s going to hate that. Now that he’s starting to build up arm and shoulder strength, he really likes being in control of his chair. Really likes being able to get himself around from place to place.

Victor has climbed out behind me, is staring at the same staircase. “He’ll understand, man,” he says with a supportive clap on my shoulder. I make a face at him, but he just nods encouragingly. I decide to take his word for it—no other option at this point, anyway. After all, he’s been Logan’s relief aide for months now. He knows how my brother reacts in situations like these, probably better than I do.

“Logan, I’m going to get our gear loaded, and then I’ll come back for you,” I tell him. “Okay?”

I don’t mention the stairs, or the fact that I’m going to have to carry him up them. But then, I don’t have to. He’s staring out the window at them, a resigned look on his face. For a second, I try to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. So screw it. Let’s get this show on the road.

It takes a couple of trips, but eventually I get all our stuff over to the guy who’s in charge of loading the cargo area of the plane. I’ve got two boards and a suitcase for me, but Logan has a bunch of stuff—between his chair, his medications, his damn video games and his clothes—it’s amazing there’s room for anybody else’s shit.

I’m just walking back to pick up Logan when I see her climbing down the stairs. Tansy. We’ve talked on the phone and via email numerous times since that disastrous night in my kitchen, but I haven’t seen her face-to-face since she snuck out while I was talking to Logan.

She looks good. The spiky, blue hair is gone and so are the ripped jeans. She’s wearing a long purple skirt instead, along with a black T-shirt that reads, Lettuce Turnip The Beet and a vintage blazer. She’s got Chucks on her feet and enough hemp and leather jewelry on to stock her own flea market booth. Her now purple hair is slicked back from her face and she’s wearing a flower headband. Ironically, I’m sure, since this is definitely her hipster look.

Who is this girl? I wonder, as I meet her eyes. She’s like a chameleon, changing color and camouflage every time I see her. From floral sundresses to bitch boots to hipster tees. Which one is the real Tansy? And why do I care so fucking much?

“Hey, thanks for coming,” she says as she walks over to me. She’s got a cool, practiced smile on her face but her eyes are looking through me instead of at me. “Timmy and his parents are already on the plane. He’s so excited to meet you that he can barely sit still.”

“Great.” I try to catch her eye, to make her look at me instead of over my shoulder, but she’s way better at ignoring me than I’ve been at ignoring her. “You look … good,” I tell her, because she does. The purple skirt hugs her tiny waist and hips before skimming along her legs. My fingers itch to inch the skirt up, to slide it over her slender legs and see if her skin is as soft everywhere as it is on her hands, her shoulders.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this. She’s the Make-A-Wish girl, for God’s sake. The one who’s in charge of making sure this whole trip runs smoothly. Not to mention the fact that there’s an air of innocence about her, one that’s taunted me every single night since I last saw her. I’ve wanted to wreck her ever since she came to see me at the resort. To absolutely ruin her and to hell with the consequences—for either of us. The fact that she offered to let me … well, that just makes the ache worse.