by Jolene Perry
I pull out my phone and text Mitch.
WON’T MAKE IT. NOT HAVING A GOOD NIGHT HERE.
Mitch answers in less than a minute like he always does.
SAY THE WORD AND A FEW OF US WILL BRING THE PARTY TO YOU.
Maybe I haven’t lost Mitch to Rebecca. At least not totally. I lean against the large wooden picnic table set in the middle of the kitchen. I know the guys would come here, and Gramps might love it, but if Mom ends up home at a decent hour tonight, that’s not going to work. I never seem to know what her schedule at the hospital is—mostly because she picks up whatever nursing shifts she can get. And now that I’m thinking about it…it’s been probably two weeks since Mom and I spent any real time together. She must really be pushing for extra hours.
THANKS ANYWAY. C U MON AT SCHL.
SORRY PEN
I start to write back and tell him not to worry but don’t bother. He’ll worry no matter what, because he’s a good guy that way.
REBECCA SAYS SHE’LL KEEP THE KEYS
Irritation rushes through me. I’m sure she’s doing it so Mitch will be given another chance to tell me how she’s trying to get along with the team, and how I might be overreacting to the stupid stuff she does, like pressing her boobs against the Plexiglass that surrounds our rink.
THX I write back only because I can’t be a bitch and say nothing.
I slump lower in my seat and realize the music’s stopped. Gramps is staring at the untouched pie.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” he asks. “To put both steak and strawberries in the same place.”
I want to lie. I want to tell him that everyone makes steak and strawberry pie, but I swore to him I’d tell him the truth—even when I really don’t want to. “A little.”
He sighs and pulls off Gramma’s apron, hanging it on the hook next to the window.
“Dessert instead?” he asks, trying hard to lighten his voice.
I cock a brow. “Depends on what we’re having?”
“Ice cream.” He chuckles as he pulls open the freezer door. “It’s too bad. I think I really nailed the crust.”
I have to laugh, even though I’m blotting tears away again. Nobody as good as Gramps should ever have to deal with losing his mind.
“Don’t worry, Penny. I know how to get two bowls. I think we’re safe.” He’s trying to tease as he sets the bowls on the counter, but his hands shake as he does it. He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t realize when he does something weird, and it makes me hate again that this is happening to him. He hits the power on the radio and the horrid country oldies station blares through the house. As much as I hate the twang, it means that things are about as right as they’re going to be. There’s definitely comfort to be gained from that.
…
Mom’s at the table in the morning looking out over what’s probably two feet of fresh snow. Her blond hair isn’t as bright as mine, but she keeps it long and wrapped up in a braided bun most days. Mine hangs perfectly straight to my shoulders—long enough for a very small ponytail. I shuffle into the room, huddled in my sweatshirt.
The February sun reflects off the wood walls, making the house feel warmer, even though the frost on the edges of the windows says it’s probably well below zero.
“Morning, Penny. Heard you helped win the game last night.” She smiles over her cup of coffee.
“We all played well.” I nod. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Brandy said you passed to Mitch for the winning goal.” Her brows go up, and the corners of her mouth twitch. Brandy is Chomps’s mom.
“Yeah, I did.” I replay the pass in my head. Perfection. But my whole left side is still a bit sore. Nothing a hot tub and some Advil won’t fix.
“I got another letter from the sports director at Minnesota. It’s big, Penny.” Her smile is wide and full of pride. “They’ve been national champions more often than not in the past five years.”
I know it’s big. They’re good. Really good. I steel myself, knowing she’s trying to bait me into another conversation about college that I don’t want to have. “Both UAF and UAA have good programs, and then I’d still be in Alaska and not so far away.” And still playing with guys like I’ve been doing since I was eight.
Mom frowns. “UAA doesn’t even always have a women’s team, Penny. Don’t you wanna—”
“Can we talk later?” I ask because the fact that UAA only sometimes has a women’s team is why I want to go. Not that there’s anything wrong with a girl’s team—it’s just not me.
I stare at the table, hoping she’ll drop the subject because I really don’t know how to answer in a way that’ll keep her happy, and me in Alaska where I want to be. Mom, Gramps, and everyone else thinks it’s important to get out—explore the world, figure out who I am or whatever. I already know who I am. Running away to college isn’t going to help me learn something I already know.
Her frown holds for a moment, and then her face softens. Like she’s decided she’ll let it go for now. Thankfully.
“Did you go to the party last night?” she asks.
I sit at the end of the bench on our table, unsure yet if I want to be sitting or not because now I’m thinking about Gramps. If I tell the truth, she’ll know he’s not doing as well as I want him to.
“I take it that’s a no?” She sets down her mug, a look of concern on her face.
“Gramps made an odd pie last night.” I let out a sigh and push to standing. Thinking about Gramps hurts too much. I need food.
“I wondered why no one had cut into it.” Mom re-shuffles on the bench and takes another long drink. “You okay?”
I shrug because I’m definitely not okay, and I pull out some bread. Gramps has yet to mess up a loaf of bread.
“The cabin renters came in a couple days ago,” she says.
“I saw.” I slide my bread in the toaster. “How long are they here for?”
“Undetermined.” She holds my gaze for a while.
“Okay.”
Mom’s never wanted people living in the cabins, so whoever it is must be giving her some serious dough for her to even consider allowing someone there open-ended.
“Don’t worry. I warned them that we only do breakfasts in the summer and that they’ll be alone for all their meals. So, just the regular stuff, you know. Bedding laundry, garbage, maps, answering stupid questions like why we call them snowmachines instead of snowmobiles…” She gives me a wink.
“Okay.” It means more work for me, but also a bit of cash. Mom and I split the profit from the cabins, so while it sucks, it’s doable. I need parts for my old Corvette anyway.
“How was your night?” I ask as I spread butter across my toast, licking the extra off my fingers.
“Oh, fine.” Her eyes don’t meet mine as she stands and walks for her room. “I need a shower.”
“Oh-kay.” I stand a bit stunned at the abrupt end of our conversation as Mom’s door closes between us. We don’t have a perfect relationship or anything, but this was our first talk in a while, and it was going fine until it was…just over.
Her shower turns on, and it’s stupid to just stand in the middle of the kitchen with my toast, so I sit and rest my feet on the low windowsill. Smoke billows from the chimneys of two cabins, and the snow reflects the sunlight in billions of tiny sparkles like it does when it’s this cold. A guy steps out. One who looks the same age as I am. I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe I should’ve been paying more attention the past couple of days.
When I’m about to give up on staring and hit the hot tub, he lights up a cigarette. I scan him again. Brown hair that’s too evenly colored to be natural and a coat that probably cost more than my whole bag of hockey gear. I can see his frown from here, making me wonder why he’s spending so much money to stay here if he looks so pissed off.
I’ll definitely be doing some digging when Mom leaves for her shift.
Chapter Three
BISHOP
I’ve been here for th
ree days and it feels more like three years. Gary’s in and out of my cabin a million times a day. He checks the whole cabin and me each time like I’m in prison or something. Once in awhile, he acts like he’s just coming to visit, but I know it’s an excuse to check up on me more often. To make sure I haven’t either died of boredom, or went outside and drowned in all the snow. Who the hell would want to live in a place where it gets this cold? I freeze my balls off every time we take one of our walks. I’m still trying to figure out the point of those. We don’t even talk…just walk. I’m pretty sure I could walk in L.A. if that’s all I’m here for.
But no. That would be too easy. And I’m sure he’s torturing me with snow-hikes because he thinks I’m in here snorting cocaine or something. Which is ridiculous. That’s not something I mess with.
So I drink a little. Take a few pills here and there to help me get by. It’s not like I don’t have a prescription for some of them. This is a hard life. Don, of all people, should get that. He’s managed enough bands to know how it is. To know how you start to feel like you’re losing your mind.
I don’t have a problem.
Gary managed to miss the pills in my bag, and I’ve only taken one in the three days I’ve been here. It’s not like I can tell him that, though. He’ll blow it out of proportion and call his brother. Don’s pretty good at turning stuff around on me, and Mom goes along with everything he says.
Case in point: me sitting in this tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. She never would have made me do this on her own, and it’s definitely not what’s best. I can’t even relax inside if I want to smoke.
Trying not to shiver, I take a drag of my cigarette. Sitting on the porch with the door open isn’t giving me any heat. And they said this was supposed to be a vacation.
After putting out my smoke, I go back inside, shrug off my coat, and start pacing the cabin. I’m starting to go stir-crazy. I’m not used to sitting around like this. My hands are shaking, so I rub them on my jeans hoping it will help. The longer I stay locked behind these log walls, I feel like they’re shrinking on me. Like they’re closing in…in…in, trying to crush me. Trying to squeeze the life out of me. It feels like it does when I’m in a crowd. Like I can’t suck in enough air. It’s ridiculous. What kind of fucking rock star can’t deal with a crowd?
My head is all hot and my feet are cold. Gary said it’s because of the oil stove and heat rising. I don’t get why the people don’t just put in a regular heater. This is Alaska, not the stone ages. I’m pretty damn sure everyone in California has a regular heater, and we hardly even use the things.
I push the hoop in my bottom lip around in the hole while I pace. This is so screwed up. The longer I stalk around the room, the faster my heart starts beating. The more I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t get out of here soon.
It’s just this place. I miss my house, my drums. That’s all it is. I’ve had drumsticks in my hands for as long as I can remember. It’s crazy how I can love something and hate it at the same time. Playing is my life, the crowds suck it out of me.
Again, I try to find something to do with my hands, but they have minds of their own and keep trembling.
I lean against the kitchen counter and do that deep breathing bullshit my doc told me to do when I feel on edge. In. Out. In. Out. When it doesn’t work, I busy my hands by pushing them both through my hair and lean over.
In. Out. In. Out.
Still nothing.
The walls move in another foot, and that’s when I know I have to get out of here. Pushing off the counter, I go straight for the front door. It’s open about two seconds before I remember I’m in Alaska and my junk is liable to freeze off if I don’t stay as warm as possible.
About ten steps later, I’m in the tiny bedroom off the main room of the cabin. There’s a beanie on the chair, which I slip on. I turn for the door, but something stops me. I don’t know what it is. My anger, annoyance, whatever it is, I turn and head for my suitcase. After looking around to make sure Gary didn’t sneak up on me, I push two fingers inside the hidden spot in my suitcase. One of the small white pills I stashed comes out easily. The ones for anxiety that I actually have a prescription for, Gary’s in control of.
Right now, I need more than I’m prescribed.
It’s just because I’m trapped in this snowbound hell, I tell myself as I swallow it dry, grab my jacket from the living room, and then head outside. If I take these instead of going to Gary, maybe he’ll report to my parole officer, AKA, Don that I’m doing well and can go home.
There should not be this much snow anywhere. It comes all the way up to my knees. White and trees is all I see for…well, for as far as I can see. The drugs are starting to kick in. I already feel the tightness in my muscles start to lessen.
I glance over at the cabin next door just as Gary steps out. His cell glued to his ear, probably whispering sweet nothings to Troy or whatever it is they do. “What are you doing?” he calls to me.
Really? Walking is supposed to be part of my “therapy”. Not that he’s let me do it alone yet. Does he think I’m going to buy something from the moose on the corner? “I’m pretty sure it’s called walking. Maybe you remember it. We spoke about doing it every day. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving, Dad.”
He gives me a huge smile and a wave, like he’s the happiest person in the world.
And now I suddenly want to puke. Nice.
As I trudge through the snow, the shaking eases up, and I actually feel like I can breathe. Still, it’s not as good as the smog-filled air in L.A. Yeah, I said that. It’s almost like things are too clear up here, if that makes any sense.
Or maybe I’m going crazy. I heard people get depressed in Alaska since it’s dark like ninety percent of the time.
I head for the far end of the property and toward the freaking wilderness, wishing someone had told me to buy some boots before I got here, but the last thing I want is to end up as breaking news. I can see the headline now: TEEN DRUMMER BISHOP RILEY OF THE BAND BURN MISSING IN THE ALASKAN WILDERNESS, WHILE HIS “BABYSITTER” WAS BUSY ON THE PHONE WITH HIS BOYFRIEND AND HIS MOM AND MANAGER WERE PARTYING IT UP IN THE LAND OF FREAKING NORMALCY WITHOUT HIM.
I make a quick u-turn to avoid finding one of those sleeping bears Gary was talking about. My feet are cold as hell as I pass my cabin again and start toward the main house—if you can call it a house. I’ve never seen anything like it with all the different floors and obvious additions. I mean, it looks kind of cool, but also makes me wonder if we’re renting cabins from a bunch of nutcases.
I’m walking around the other side of the house when I see the leggy blonde standing by a kickass Corvette. Deprived as I am, I take a minute to admire them both. I’ve seen her come and go a few times. Not close enough to see her face, but the rest of her is gorgeous. Her hair is just past her shoulders, stick straight, and I swear it’s only a few shades darker than the snow.
She’s tall. Taller than I usually go for, but not too tall to appreciate. She’s curvy in all the right places. Yeah, definitely something to appreciate.
And the car? The car is incredible, too. For the first time in a while, I remember the 1970 Ford Ranchero sitting in my garage back home. It’s one of the first things I bought when we got signed. I’ve always wanted one, a piece of shit I could fix up myself. If I weren’t a drummer, that’s what I’d do: rebuild cars.
The plan is already set on what I want to do to mine. She’ll be incredible once I ever get a chance to work on her. She’s been sitting there for over a year.
Why haven’t I worked on my car?
The Snow Queen pushes off the car, and I try to turn so she doesn’t realize I was staring at her, but she catches my eye before I get a chance.
Two thoughts slam into me at once. First, she’s unreal beautiful. Not plastic in the way the girls I know are. Big eyes, slim lips and a nice little smile. And second, I totally don’t feel like talking to her. I’m out of my element here. The last thing I’m
in the mood for right now is trying to befriend the locals. Plus, she might recognize me, and that’ll make things a whole lot worse. I should have grabbed the hat Gary bought me instead of the beanie. Obviously that would make a huge difference.
If I thought it would get me home, I’d tell her who I am, but knowing Don, he’ll find a way to blame me and I’ll get sent somewhere even worse. Though I’m not sure where would be worse than being in the snowy wilderness with no real civilization.
Shoving my hands in my pocket, I move to turn away when I hear, “Hey!”
“Damn,” I mumble under my breath before I start to walk her way. Maybe she can let me know who delivers all the way out here. Chinese sounds bomb.
“What’s up?” I nod my head before looking toward the ground. I’m awesome at disguises.
I hear her chuckle and glance up at her to see her eyes are on my feet. Yeah, I know I’m not wearing the right shoes. She doesn’t have to be cocky about it. “Something funny?”
“No, no.” She tries to play it off, but I can still see the smirk lingering. “Can you help me with something real quick?” she asks, while I’m busy watching her face. Trying to look for any signs that she recognizes who I am.
“Sure.” I shrug, finding the ground again with my eyes. She leads me to a huge toolbox—one of those tall, heavy ones.
“I’m Penny Jones, by the way,” she says over her shoulder. The garage door is open and she’s only wearing a hoodie.
“Bishop Ri—” Oh, shit. I forgot I’m not supposed to use my full name. I look at her as she licks her bright red lips. “Ripe.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “Bishop Ripe?”
Yeah. So I’m an idiot. Who gives a shit? “Problem with that?”
Penny shakes her head, but I can tell she’s fighting another laugh. Not that I wouldn’t be laughing in her situation.
“I need to roll this over to the car, but the wheels are messed up. Sometimes they fall off, so can you stay on the other side just in case?” Her voice is kind of a mix of snark and sweet—the sweet feels like a contrast to her strong, tall build. And somehow, I have a feeling the quiet sweetness is her camouflage. Like she’s a black widow or something and could bite my head off at any second. Or maybe I’m being paranoid because I’m in the land of Ice Road Truckers.
