Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

And she wonders why I don’t want to live in this house? Maybe because every time I so much as set foot on the property, her voice is in my head, telling me that I’m not good enough. That I’ll never be good enough. She thinks I’m just lucky to have friends like Z and Ash who will let me ride their coattails and who make sure I get a piece of the endorsement pie.

I pull the spare house key out of my glove box, then climb slowly out of the car and head up the walkway to the front door.

It’s not that she’s wrong, because she isn’t. I know exactly how lucky I am, just like I know exactly how talented I am—and how talented I’m not. But hearing it all the time only makes my inadequacies harder to take.

I let myself into the house, and pick up the scattered mail that’s been shoved through the mail slot in the days since the housekeeper was last here. It’s all junk, so I take it into the kitchen and throw it away.

While I’m there, I turn the faucet on and off, make sure the water’s still running—an item on my mother’s checklist, not mine, but I do it because it’s easier than lying when she asks me if I did. And God forbid there’s ever a problem and I don’t find out about it because my house check is random and shoddy.

I walk through the house quickly, checking out all the rooms. I make sure all the doors are locked, all the window are intact, and everything is exactly how she left it. It is—big surprise.

The last room downstairs is the music room, and I almost skip it. But there are French doors in there leading out to a small patio and, again, checking it is easier than lying later.

Besides, it’s one of my favorite rooms in the house. I can’t tell you the number of times I’d come in here just to listen to my sister play something amazing on the grand piano that sits center stage. Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, Mozart. Prokofiev, Wagner, Ravel. Cage, Taverner, Penderecki. So many composers. So many compositions. Such towering talent.

Of course the piano wasn’t her instrument, not really. Oh, she could play it with the bes

t of them, but the instrument my sister was known for, the one she could play like a maestro, was the violin. And when I say that about her, that’s not just family pride talking. It’s the combined consensus of the greatest musicians, conductors, and critics the world over.

By the time she was ten, people were calling Lauren a prodigy. By the time she was thirteen, they were calling her a genius. And when she was fifteen, my mother decided the world shouldn’t have to wait any longer to hear my sister’s genius in person. She’d moved them to New York so Lauren could be a soloist for the Philharmonic—which lasted all of a year before she took her on her first worldwide tour.

I hadn’t been invited. This was fine with me. The last thing I’d wanted to do was tour the world without my snowboard, and with Lauren’s white-hot career, there’d have been no time for me to board if I’d left Park City.

So I didn’t. Instead, I stayed here alone, in this house, for my junior year of high school. I only saw my mom and my twin sister on holidays—and then only when I flew out to see them. Lauren always apologized, but it never bothered me. Because I understand what it is to love something so much that it consumes every part of you. I may not be the same kind of genius at it that Lauren is at the violin, but that doesn’t make it any less important to me.

Besides, I have friends who are that good. Z has been called a lot of things for a lot of years—everything from a genius to a master to the best snowboarder who ever lived. And Ash is almost as good. So is Cam.

And we’re all obsessed with snowboarding. To blame Lauren for feeling the same way about something? I could never do that, though I do miss her, a lot.

Cam’s on my mind as I walk into the room, as I hover over the piano. Cam and fucking Josh Greene. I swear to God, if that bastard touches her, I’ll rip his fucking heart out and shove it down his fucking throat.

I reach out, trail my fingers over a few of the keys. Press them down in a quick little version of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Lauren’s not the only one who can play the piano, after all. Even if I never made it past third grade lessons.

The piano’s a little out of tune—too many months and years of disuse and loneliness. I make a mental note to call a piano tuner in Salt Lake to come up, then make my way to the second floor to ensure everything is how it should be.

It is. Of course it is. In my mother’s house, even the inanimate objects know better than to cause a problem. Nothing wants to be the victim of her iron grip or her control-freak issues.

And neither do I—which is why I do this stupid walk-through a few times a month, just so I can tell her I did it. And just to I can shut her up about it when she brings it up for the three millionth time.

The walk-through doesn’t take nearly as long as I want it to, and for a second I think about kicking back on the sofa and watching TV for a little while. But the truth is, the emptiness of this place—the lives that hang just out of reach—kind of creeps me out.

And so I finish as quickly as I can, being as thorough as possible. And then I hightail it back out to my SUV, back to my condo, where I know I’ll have to confront Cam. But after a trip down memory lane at my old house, even that doesn’t seem quite so bad. She may not be in love with me, but at least she isn’t openly disdainful either. That has to count for something.

When I get to the apartment, Cam’s curled up on the sofa with her laptop. She smiles at me, and despite everything going on inside me, I smile back. I can’t help it. She looks so warm and comfortable and inviting that all I really want to do is join her on the couch and make her come about a half a dozen times.

At least until I realize she has Ed Sheeran’s album x playing on the stereo. And then all I can think about is Josh fucking Greene and the way he spun her around the dance floor last night to the very song that’s on right now. I can’t help wondering if she’s playing the song on purpose, like maybe she put it on because it makes her think of him.

Just the idea makes me sick.

She looks up as I close the door, smiling a little sleepily as she holds out her hand to me. “How was your day with the guys?”

“It was okay. Nothing special.”

The words come out more stilted than I want them to, but I can’t seem to help that right now. I can’t seem to help anything right now. All I can hear is Z asking about what’s up with Cam and Josh. All I can see is that text message saying he’s taking Cam out. And all I can feel is the fear that’s been with me from the moment I took Cam to bed two nights ago—the fear that I’ll lose her before I even have a chance with her. Or worse, the fear that I’ll never even have a chance. Being this afraid slashes me open, makes me feel like a total pussy. But I can’t help it. Not when she’s everything I’ve ever wanted—and everything that I know I can never have.

“What’d you do today?” I ask, then hold my breath as I wonder if she’s going to tell me about Josh. It’s not that I’m trying to trap her, I just want to know what she’s thinking. About him. About me. About us.

She grabs my hand as I get close, pulls me down onto the couch next to her with a roll of her eyes. “I got trapped into breakfast with my mother.” She mock shudders. “It was awful.”