Adrenaline: An Ode to Love and Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  Her eyes glint sleepily as she stirs from my ministrations, and my thoughts stop being random. It’s almost twelve, and we’ll be getting up at seven for another full day of snowboarding before we head down to civilization again. Even so, all I can think of is how good she feels beneath my hands. Against my body—

  “Inga, do you mind if I…”

  She lets out the slightest sigh as I enter her. She’s smooth, delicious around my cock.

  “What in the…?” she murmurs, smile growing as she realizes what we’re doing.

  “Sorry. I asked—you said—Ah.”

  “I did?” she whispers, moving with me.

  “No—that. Was just me—appreciating—you.” The words come out truncated.

  “So I didn’t say ‘please let yourself in?’”

  “Quite the talker tonight,” I groan out. I’m so hard I’m hurting. It’s painful, and fucking awesome. “Do you know how good you feel inside? If you knew, you’d…”

  I don’t care where I’m going with this, and she trickles out a breathy laugh against my mouth. “Silly…”

  “Yeah? I’ll show you silly.”

  It takes me less than a minute to turn her expression from horny amusement to pure lust. I adore how her face slackens as she absorbs everything I do to her. She doesn’t hide from me, and there’s never shame in her eyes. I love, love the way we love. I love…

  I might just love—

  “Ah, Cam!”

  The morning came too fucking fast. I feel like someone’s beat me up with a hammer. Ingela, though? Is much worse off. The girl can hardly to move.

  “I’m bruised,” she explains, aware that it comes with the snowboarding territory. I’m investigating her every dip and curve, partly for bruises and partly for my own enjoyment, when the guys bang on the door.

  “Open up. We’re freezing out here!”

  “Goddammit,” I mutter, eyeing Ingela, who rolls her eyes at the commotion. “Funny how they’re all pussies now that we have a room.”

  Later, Ingela takes the hotel stairs backwards when the elevator isn’t working. Every step makes her pupils dilate with pain, and with my one-tracked mind, my dick swells, recalling her eyes black for completely different reasons.

  “Sore today?” Dan asks her belatedly.

  “Yep, it’s been ages since I hit the slopes last. I haven’t snowboarded since I came to the States. My legs are destroyed, I think. I may very well never walk stairs the normal way again.”

  “She’s funny,” Marek tells me, brows raised in surprise. “Not the worst one to get all whipped over.” He crunches down on an apple he has nabbed from the reception desk. I ignore the comment.

  We’re checked out now, which makes us ready to head straight home after the slopes. “Remind me to always walk in front of you,” I tell Ingela, “so I get to watch that sweet ass.”

  “Instead of tapping it?” she asks, grinning.

  “Holy shit, is she for real?” It’s slowly dawning on Marek why I fight for her. “You snore and dirty-talk like a lumberjack, Inga.”

  “Negative! Plus, maybe lumberjacks have pretty language,” she argues.

  “No way. They’re definitely as bad as you.”

  “I side with Marek on this one.” We’re climbing into the van as I say it, and she’s too close to deliver the full effect of the Inga Back Slug. She gives it her all, though, which leaves her in so much pain.

  “Damn piece of crap stupid muscles,” she whimpers. “I don’t even know if I can pull off another day on the board.”

  Everyone’s getting tired. We have that half-smug, half-sated look, Inga with an upward twist to the side of her mouth.

  “Glad you came, doll?” I drawl out, rubbing the curve at the small of her back. I follow her gaze out over the wide, white heaven waiting below us on the mountainside. This is the last unexplored track of the pro runs. We haven’t tested it yet.

  Dan and Marek are shouting from the woods to our right. “Cam. Dude. Seriously. You have got to go off-piste this time. It’s sick in here!”

  When Marek says it’s sick… it’s sick.

  My muscles boil with adrenaline despite how tired I am. I’d pay with my own blood to go. But Inga’s not an off-piste girl, and she’s already pushed herself so hard today, past aching muscles down increasingly advanced slopes. She hasn’t even slowed us down; she and I have been at the bottom of the hill right on the guys’ heels.

  “Nah, we’re okay,” I call back. Rub my hands together like I’m preparing to follow them.

  Ingela lowers her eyelids, smiling at me. “You think I can’t take a round on my own?”

  “Nope, I need to babysit you, you fragile little thing,” I tease, dip her scarf farther down to reveal her entire mouth so I can kiss her.

  “Last chance. We’re going.” Dan sounds like a kid right now. God, he’s enthused.

  Fuck. Well.

  Inga plops to her butt and snaps off her rented board. Shoves it under her arm and starts walking. “We’re coming!” she hollers so loud my ears hurt.

  “Yeah,” the guys whoop in unison.

  It takes a minute to get there. She’s breathing hard, cheeks rosy from the cold and the exertion. God, this fucking awesome extreme-sport girl—I’m a lucky man. The feeling I have right now is better than anything: I’m about to hit, according to people I trust, the most radical off-piste track imaginable—with a woman who manages to give me a full-on rush entirely on her own.

  My life’s crazy good.

  “Ready?” she whispers at the top. The glance she shoots me glitters as she takes in my joy. I lift her up on her feet, let the snowboard she has reattached dangle for a moment before I set her down, and nuzzle her scarf-covered neck.

  “Yeah. You first.”

  “Nuh-huh, oh no. I’m watching your sweet ass this time,” she tells me. “You go next. I promise I’ll be right behind. Remember, this is our last run, and I want you to fucking kill it.”

  I am so pumped I might as well have been on the edge of a ravine, wingsuit tightened and parachute prepped at her words.

  “See ya.” I grab the back of her head and suck her lips so hard she squeals. Oh. I love to make her squeal.

  Then, I’m off. At first, I hear her giggle behind me. Next, it’s just me and the intense nature, trees, rocks rising out of nowhere and making me bounce out of the way last second. White, glittering snow flies past with a speed I only get while base jumping.

  I’m so excited I don’t even cheer. The hillside is steep as hell—I follow the loose tracks of Marek, then of Dan. They’re as irregular as mine must be. From a bird’s view, they probably look surreal.

  I catch up with my buddies. Inch past them. Grins and thumbs-ups follow me, and Dan’s “whooh!” as he finds the mother of a jump to my left. I silently curse, hoping I’ll run into one like it. The trees thicken around us, requiring a different riding technique—shorter, more abrupt moves. Sometimes to dodge, sometimes to fly. If I’m too slow, I’ll crash, and at this velocity, it’ll mean disaster.

  My mother jump appears out of nowhere like Dan’s did. I’m off it at such speed, I’m a bird in the sky. Arms to the side I whoop my fucking ass off. I’m so fucking free right now, this is life, this is everything, this is—

  I take a chance on a somersault too late. Hit a tree trunk and roll, roll, roll. With my snowboard still on, I keep tumbling downhill top speed until I’m ended by a fallen pine. I can’t breathe. It might have something to do with my head being shoved in between thick and fucking rock-hard branches in the snow.

  Hmm. This is bad.

  I’ve got snow everywhere, and it’s impossible to retract my head from the claws of the tree. I swallow snow, spit snow—snow’s in my ears and in my nose, freezing me to ice in seconds. I try to breathe, but searing pain is everywhere.

  “Dude, you all right? That was epic.” Marek laughs his ass off behind me. “You zoomed off like a bullet. And what were you thinking with that somersault?” He pulls
at my legs to get me free.

  “Ah, fuuuck. Stop.” I groan. I’m face down but try to hit him behind me.

  Dan has arrived, and he’s chuckling. “He got his head stuck?” he asks Marek like I’m not right here. Morons.

  One of them grabs my arm. I growl in pain. They let go in favor of a different angle, which also hurts like burning hell on wheels. “Can you just get me out of the tree? Useless shits.”

  “Dude called us useless shits.” Dan’s snickering.

  “Grab the tree!” Ingela yells behind them.

  “It’s too heavy, Inga, we can’t—”

  “What the fuck do you know if you haven’t even tried? Jesus, what are you a bunch of ass-whoppings?” She’s pissed, but her choice words make me laugh, which destroys my upper body. Note to self: do not laugh.

  “Just get. Him. Out!” she shouts.

  “Your attitude is not helping, Ingela. I hope you understand that,” Marek mumbles, and I hear a smack. Then another.

  “The fuck?” Marek says. Ingela’s hitting him repeatedly, and I laugh again and end it in a moan, because seriously, it feels like my bones are all broken.

  “Shut up and work,” my girl growls.

  “Told you she growls,” Dan says.

  Ten minutes later, a motor saw roars way too loudly at my ear. Against my orders, Inga called the ski patrol and here they are, fucking cutting my head out of a tree.

  Once I’m free, I get up on hands and knees. Everyone and their brother extends a hand or tries to grab my elbow. I swat them off. One of the rescue guys scours me with a professional expression and motions me to sit on their snowmobile. This is way obnoxious with everyone staring.

  “Nothing to look at here,” I mutter. “Keep moving.”

  First, there’s a lot of dabbing with cotton and burning alcohol. Inga straddles the seat next to me and scoots in. She brushes my hair out of the way.

  “Damn, you’re beat up,” she informs me unnecessarily. “Your face is super-swollen and red and cut up. What about the rest of you?”

  “All good,” I croak out, wishing I didn’t sound like I’m dying.

  They make me move my arms and legs. Stand. Show that I can walk. Because hell if I’m going down to the car on a snowmobile stretcher.

  In the end, they reluctantly let me go. I wait until the crew’s out of sight, then I get up and totter out onto the prepared slope. Despite my instructions, Inga walks next to me all the way down. It takes us two hours. By the time we’re there, I’m in so much pain I actually see stars whenever I blink.

  Dan and Marek duck out of the resort restaurant, fully gorged on food and drink as of probably ninety minutes ago. “You good, man?”

  “Yeah.” My voice doesn’t work anymore either, apparently.

  “No, he’s not. Get him to the car, and I’m grabbing us some food. See you there in ten,” Ingela bosses.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dan says.

  The five-hour ride to Deepsilver is excruciating. Ingela claims I keep fainting, but she’s full of it. All I know is there’s no position that doesn’t hurt like hell. Every muscle is beat to pulp, which wasn’t unexpected from a weekend of snowboarding. What’s different is how every bone around my entire torso feels like someone poured gasoline on it and lit it on fire.

  She has me stretched out on the back row of the van. We brought ibuprofen, so that’s what she’s been feeding me between the junk food and the beer Marek assures me will help.

  Dan got a great idea about two-thirds of the way down to Deepsilver. Due to me groaning in pain with each exhale, we stopped and bought vodka. Now, I’m really buzzed and in the same amount of pain. I want to laugh, but whenever I do, those stars of absolute agony explode again.

  “You know how delicious you are?” I slur to Inga as Dan pulls up to her place. “You’re soooo delicious I’d eat you for dinner. And breakfast. And then lunch. And for snacks.” I’m being funny so I laugh, and curse sailor-style at the pain.

  “Shouldn’t we take him to the ER?” she asks Marek.

  “No,” I say.

  “He doesn’t like the ER.”

  “Whatever, get him to the ER,” she demands.

  “Not gonna happen. I want to sleep. With you.” I’m trying to sound sexy, which isn’t working. I sound whiny and pathetic.

  She’s quiet, considering for a moment. Then, she goes, “Okay. But if you’re not better by the morning, you’re going.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” everyone says. It’s like she’s the boss of all of us since I crashed. So fucking funny. I laugh and black out.

  It’s been an interesting week. Cameron held off on the ER and didn’t go to a doctor until he got an appointment with a private practitioner. Good thing he went, though, because the X-rays revealed five fractured ribs. Miraculously, his nose is intact, and besides a busted lip, his entire head is pretty much back to normal, not even a concussion this time.

  But his upper body? Jesus.

  “Here,” I say to Brigitte, who just returned to work from a getaway with her husband. I hoist Cameron’s shirt up and show her the map of giant, black bruises. “Isn’t it insane? It’s like he’s got inner bleedings everywhere.”

  “Because I do, Kitty. I’m full of blood.” He winks to Brigitte, who’s covering her mouth in shock. The sight is indeed unsightly. Such a toned, gorgeous body and it’s completely ravaged.

  “He can’t even have sex anymore. His wee-wee broke too,” I say.

  “Shhh, shut up.” He chuckles and curses. “Evil—you make me laugh on purpose. Anyways, I promise, ladies”—he gestures into the empty room—“my dick’s in better shape than ever. Come to think of it, this morning Inga moaned something to the effect of, ‘Oooh, your dick’s so thick and fiiine.’”

  “Did not. That was you in the mirror.”

  “Ooohh, gimme more, Cam, please…”

  “You little shit!”

  “They’re at it again?” Leon asks, flicking icy blues at Brigitte.

  “Yep.” She nods, starting on the stack of beer glasses. “Are we open?”

  “In five.”

  Cameron and I have a tacit agreement that he’ll stay at my house. I’m not fond of the neglect Dan would provide at the dorm if he slept there. The doctor gave Cam stronger pain meds, but if he doesn’t take them on time and twists his torso unexpectedly, he faints like a princess.

  Our trip and Cam’s accident have been all-consuming. I’m still amazed at how all of last Saturday passed without me checking my phone for communication from Bo. Despite knowing Clown Irruption was playing Talco that weekend, my mind never strayed to him. The first time I picked up my cell was on Sunday when I called Red Cross after Cameron crash-landed.

  “Grab him,” Arria shouts. “Cameron, that slide is coming down. It’s the death of me.”

  “No-no-no,” a way-too-cute escape artist sings, rounds the corner to the bar, and grabs onto Cameron’s legs. He’s wearing pajamas, the pair Cam ordered off the internet after Lyric’s first successful flight by slide. It’s got karate rabbits on it—and yellow slides.

  “Little dude needs something to do, Arria,” Cam explains. He bends and groans with pain as he lifts the bundle of joy. “This is his only hobby: to figure out ways to split.”

  “Pop.”

  “Oh heck no.” Arria grabs Lyric before Cam can answer. “No pop for you, mister. It’s bedtime, you’re full, and we need no extra pee-pee in your diaper tonight, all right?”

  Lyric wags his head adamantly. If I didn’t know already, it’d be hard to decipher whether it’s in agreement or not. What he says, though, is crystal clear: “Heck.”

  Cameron grins and pinches Lyric’s cheek on the way past. “At least you didn’t say ‘Hell.’”

  “Hell,” repeats the tiny Smother monkey.

  Arria glares, and for a second I ponder what a good thing it is that eyes don’t kill.

  “Thanks, Cam. Leon-sweetie? Cameron’s overpaid. Get on that.” She winks and heads for the stairs
. I get the feeling she’d enforce it if she weren’t so nice.

  “Hell.”

  “Shhh, sweet baby. Bedtime.”

  “Hell.”

  “Applesauce. Something else. Ah, goddammit—crap.”

  Cameron and I exchange a glance. Arriane is such a perfect mom, and yet now she’s muttering PG-13 cusswords under her breath. I’m grinning so wide, I have to turn away so Arriane doesn’t see me.

  Cameron busts a short laugh and holds his ribs. “Shit. Aahhh, fuck.”

  From the top step, Arriane swings dramatically with Mister Cuteness of the Year in her arms and shoots off to Cameron, evil smirk included: “Oh, I’m sorry. That must hurt.” Then, she blows us all a kiss and retreats to their apartment.

  “Soon she’ll be rivaling you drama-queen-wise,” Cameron coughs out, his grimace a mixture of amusement and agony.

  “You poor baby,” I purr. “Too bad we’re not at home right now. I’d make you feel sooo much better.”

  “Four Coronas.” We’ve got customers already. Some people are damn eager to get wasted. Big grins and nods fly from the youngsters in front of us to a table by Robin’s booth. Judging by the responding cheers and arm waves, Jason must be letting in freshmen again.

  “Ouch,” Cameron groans, sending me a pitiful look. “You just made it worse.” We open Coronas. Stuff limes into bottlenecks.

  “It?” I accentuate the word before I cut more lime. Tara must have been on lime duty before we opened because every fruit in the fridge is still intact.

  Cameron slams down three of the Coronas on the wood, scoots us tight against the counter, and grabs my left hand. I wonder if he’s trying to be romantic—until he covers his privates with my palm.

  “Him. Me. Whatever you want to call it,” he says.

  I gasp like a Disney maiden; it really did grow at the mere mention of what it could be doing instead of just… hangin’ right now. I’m ridiculous.