Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

Yeah, right. Her best friend. That’s me. I’m that guy. The one who never stood a chance but was too stupid to realize that until it was too late.

What a fucking mess. Still, it’s not her fault she’s not into me, any more than it’s Z’s fault that he was never into her. So, instead of brushing her off like the still-hurt part of me wants to, I force a smirk and say, “Nice weather we’re having.”

“Oh, fuck you.” But she relaxes a little and so do I.

Maybe things are going to be okay, after all.

We spend the rest of the way back to the marina talking about nothing important—I force myself to give it a shot—and even after we dock, she seems reluctant to leave her spot next to me. Not that I’m reading anything into that. Been there, done that, and the T-shirt sure as fuck wasn’t worth it. But since I’m in no hurry to stop the first easy conversation we’ve had in months—even if I am starving—I don’t get up either. At least not until Z grabs my phone to change the music.

“If you don’t get some food soon, it’s going to be gone,” he warns us. “I swear, Logan could put away a side of beef if we let him.”

Cam glances up at him, and there’s a sexy half-smile on her face that I’d kill to have directed at me. The reminder sours my mood, has me sliding out of my chair and grabbing a sandwich I’m suddenly not the least bit interested in.

But I can play along with the best of them—it’s what I’m good at, after all—and it isn’t long before we’re spread out all over the boat, talking shit and hanging out. It doesn’t take long before the conversation turns to snowboarding because, seriously, when does it not?

“So Mitch called yesterday,” Z says. “New sponsorship opportunity.” He’s lying down with his head in Ophelia’s lap and in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never looked calmer or more at peace. I risk a glance at Cam, wondering if she sees it, too. If she can tell how good for him Ophelia is.

But she’s talking to Ash and looking pretty serious about it, so I lean in a little, tune out Z and the rest of them as I try to listen to what they’re talking about.

“Of course we’re going to the Freeride World Tour,” Ash says, looking incredulous. “Why the fuck wouldn’t we?”

Cam’s voice is too low for me to hear, but the way she looks up at me, then starts guiltily when she realizes I’m watching her, tells me something’s up. As does the way Ash ducks his head and suddenly gets real quiet, too.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “We could totally do Aspen instead. It’s cool.”

The Aspen Second Invitational? As cool as the Freeride World Tournament? Not even close. So what’s up with Cam that she’s suggesting it? And why is Ash agreeing to it?

Freeride is sick, man. The best riders boarding the most front mountains, doing the dopest tricks. Who the hell doesn’t want to be a part of it? Sure, it’s too hard for a majority of boarders, but—and that’s when, stupid ass that I am, I finally get it.

Fuck.

They’re talking about me. About the fact that they don’t think I’m good enough to do the Freeride Tour. About the fact that they’d rather get stuck in Aspen at some rinky-dink tournament than hit one of the biggest blasts in snowboarding because they think I can’t hack it.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can’t hack it. Streetstyle’s definitely more my game than big, back country slopes. I can board rails with the best of them, can usually hold my own in the half-pipe. But slalom? Or big mountain runs? So not my strong suit.

We all know it, so I don’t get what the secret is. Or why they’re suddenly so gung ho not to do something just because there’s a lot of the tour I won’t be able to compete in. Unless—unless they’ve always done this and I’ve just been too stupid to catch on before now.

Fuck.

The thought hits me hard, nearly levels me. I try not to let it, try to focus on the positive such as it is. Maybe I should be grateful that they’re good enough friends they don’t want to leave me behind. Maybe I should be grateful that they’re putting me over their own careers, their own goals.

But fuck that, man. Fuck their guilt. And fuck their lack of faith. I don’t need it and I sure as hell don’t want it. I’m twenty-one years old. It’s been a long time since I’ve needed a babysitter.

Not that it matters what I need—or what I can do. It’s all about their expectations of me, or should I say lack of expectations. And that shit gets old fast.

I don’t say anything though. What’s there to say that won’t cause a fight? Or worse, ruin the whole fucking day? So I keep my mouth shut and try not to stew about it. I crack jokes, make them laugh, just like they expect me to. Just like I always do.

Same old shit, different day. It’s the story of my fucking life.

Chapter 3

Cam

There are some things in life you can’t unsee, no matter how much you want to.

Your first horror movie.

Blood gushing over the snow after a bad fall results in a wicked compound fracture for someone you care about.