Bailing Out_Snow-Crossed Lovers

by Carrie Quest

  “Fuck with you?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

  “Let the cameras get a good shot of my face when I realized it was you under this thing.”

  He tosses the wig back at me and it lands on my lap. Because of course he has perfect aim, even in the dark. I curl my fingers into it and resist the urge to hurl it back at him.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I wasn’t expecting to see you at all.”

  He snorts. “Really? Then what the fuck are you doing down here? And why were you in disguise?”

  I press my lips together and shake my head. Then I remember that he can’t see me, but who cares? Silence speaks for itself.

  “Belle?”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  Someone bangs on the door, hard, and I scramble up so I can hold it closed. Gabe moves fast, sliding into the spot next to me so his shoulder is pressed against mine. I feel the tension in his body as he braces himself, waiting for the next blow.

  “Pascal! Stop kicking the door! There’s no way Gabriel Power is down here in some dirty closet when he’s got a hot blonde on tap and a soft bed upstairs. He probably got her to come to his room for a quickie first and they’ll head to the club later. Let’s go back to the lobby and wait.”

  The hollow feeling is back, so deep it must be bottomless, because nothing I do seems to fill it up for long. Not even anger.

  Still, a girl can try. I give them a few seconds to walk away and then dig my elbow into Gabe’s side.

  “Ouch! What the hell was that for?”

  “Ruining my plans, bringing your minions down on me, messing up my night…pick something.”

  Breaking my heart.

  He rubs the spot I hit and every tiny movement echoes through me. His hand is right there, his knuckles brushing softly against my side, up and down, up and down, soft and slow. It’s hypnotic, and all that blood my galloping heart has been pumping through my body starts to tingle.

  Shit. I move away from him, needing some space.

  “They aren’t my minions,” he tells me. “And if you make a deal with the devil, you need to be prepared to pay.”

  “I didn’t make any deals, with your father or anyone else.”

  “Really?” His tone is skeptical, jaded in a way I don’t remember from before.

  “Of course not. Your father is a psychopath.”

  That low chuckle again, brushing over my skin.

  “On that at least, we agree,” he says. “But that doesn’t explain what you were doing down here.”

  “I tried to sneak out the lobby door but they started chasing me,” I explain. “So I ran, and this is where I ended up.”

  “Why were you sneaking out of the hotel in a wig?”

  I can tell from his voice that he still doesn’t believe me, not completely, but I don’t owe him or anyone else an explanation, and there’s no way I’m telling him the truth about where I was going tonight.

  Where I still need to go tonight. I groan. How am I going to get to the arena now?

  “Belle?”

  “I told you to stop calling me that!”

  “Fine. Where were you going, Isabelle?” His voice is clipped and hard, all the softness and intimacy gone.

  “None of your business, Gabriel.”

  “It is my business if you and my father are in on some kind of plot. Did he find out I’m leaving? What did he offer if you could get me to stay? Exposure? Rebranding?”

  Rebranding. I like to think I am a rational woman, visions of stick figure cowboys aside, but any mention of branding is like a red flag to my inner bull. Instant rage.

  “I don’t give a fuck about branding!” I yell, my words bouncing off the concrete walls and echoing around us. “I am not a brand! I am a person. A person who has not spoken to your ass of a father in three years, and it is my greatest wish in this life that I never have to see or talk to him again.”

  I face the strip of light under the door where I know he’s standing and glare. I know he can’t see me, but I’m not only glaring at him. I’m shooting lasers of rage at every single person, starting with my mother and Zoe, who have been making decisions about my life based on branding ever since I strapped on my first pair of skates.

  No drinking in public. Your brand is America’s sweetheart, not America’s party girl.

  No casual dates. Your brand is about wide-eyed innocence and purity, not sex.

  Caught coming out of a boy’s hotel room? Doesn’t matter that you’re twenty years old, your fans aren’t going like this, Isabelle. We need to fix your brand. Let’s plan a photo shoot with some puppies.

  I swear they were probably glad when I had the accident. All the publicity around the end of my skating career buried the stories and speculation about me and Gabe for good. Sure, it ended all my Olympic dreams, but they can still trot me out at skating showcases and watch me glide over the ice in a lacy white dress. I can’t do the tricks I used to do before my leg got crushed, but at least my fucking brand is back on track, right?

  I don’t realize I’m crying until Gabe wraps me in his arms. He cradles me against his broad chest, rubbing one hand gently over my tangled hair, and rocks us back and forth.

  “Shhhhh. I’m sorry. I should have believed you.”

  My face is pressed so tightly against his chest that I feel the vibrations of his voice. Deep and masculine and soothing, making me want to curl up and let him keep me safe. Just for a minute. I’m so tired of fending off all those monsters on my own. An image pops into my mind, a cozy tent with Gabe’s handsome face painted on the side, his bright green eyes on either side of the zipper, the roof topped with an unruly mop of dark hair.

  Something soft brushes against the top of my head when I let myself relax against him. His lips? The tingles in my blood start up again, and I press myself closer, burrowing in, wanting to stay as long as I can. The stale alcohol smell fades away and I breathe him in—pure Gabe—soap and skin and snow and cedar. Delicious.

  “What do you see?” he whispers.

  “You as a tent, keeping me safe.”

  Both arms wrap around me now, surrounding me, pulling me in. “I love the way your mind works. I would, you know, keep you safe. I would have, then, if you’d let me.”

  Then. I don’t want to talk about then. I can’t talk about it, actually, which is why I didn’t reply to any of his messages or calls after it happened, and why I’ve been avoiding him ever since. It’s a big world and he’s in the press so often that it hasn’t been hard. Then my sister dragged me to Sochi and here we are, mere days later, wrapped up in each other in the dark. Shit sticks. I’m screwed.

  I pull back, rubbing the tears off my face, and stepping away from his warmth. I can keep myself safe, thank you very much.

  He clings to me for a few seconds too long and I push him away. I shouldn’t have indulged myself like that, touching Gabe will only make this whole thing harder.

  “Sorry,” he mutters, letting me go. “I know you don’t want anything to do with me. I want you to know, what happened back then…”

  “I don’t want to talk about then,” I cut him off. Too dangerous.

  “Okay. Then let’s talk about now. Where were you going tonight when you tried to sneak out of the hotel?”

  The truly crazy thing is, I want to tell him. I’m dying to tell him. Just open my mouth and spill all my innermost fears and secrets to the one person who I was ever really myself with, even if it all blew up in my face last time in the most spectacular way possible.

  I love the way your mind works.

  Growing up in my family, everything was focused on skating. On training and being the best. I figured out early on that the only person who was going to entertain me and make me laugh was myself. So I learned to let my mind paint funny pictures while my body complied with everyone’s demands. A secret rebellion that I never shared with anyone until the dark-haired snowboarder seated next to me at a winter sports media banquet cocked his head at me and as
ked me what I saw when I closed my eyes and smiled.

  I shared my vision of the dinner MC as a constipated walrus, and Gabe looked past the brand and saw me. The real me. We talked and laughed, and he walked me back to my hotel, right to my door, where he leaned in and whispered, “I’m thinking of kissing you,” like he was telling me a secret.

  I’m thinking of kissing you. Green eyes. Cocky smile. Warm hand cradling my cheek.

  I’m thinking of letting you. Soft lips. Sweet kiss. A wink as he made his way back to the elevator. A promise of more.

  But that was then.

  This is now, and right now I need to get out of this closet and away from Gabe Power as fast as I can. Because here in the dark, with him so warm and close, I can admit to myself that I’ve never stopped wanting to be with him, and that can never happen.

  “It’s really none of your business,” I say. I’m proud of my voice, it sounds strong and certain. It’s a goddamned lie of course, but he doesn’t know that. “I’ve got to go, Gabe. Open the door.”

  He sighs, and we’re still close enough that the warm air of his breath ghosts across my skin.

  “Will you at least meet me later? There are things I want to say to you.”

  Hope rises up inside me, a perky little golden retriever puppy of a feeling, bouncing and begging for me to say yes and listen to what he has to say. This image doesn’t make me smile. I can’t give her what she wants.

  “I don’t know…” I start.

  “Belle. Please.”

  Stupid slidey, whispery French vowels. Stupid nickname.

  “Maybe,” I say. I’ll be stronger when I’m away from his voice. And his smell. And his arms.

  “Okay.” He moves away, heading for the door, and fumbles around looking for the handle. A click of metal as he twists it and a grunt of effort as he pulls.

  “Need help?”

  “Nope, just a…“ he trails off as something snaps. “Shit.”

  My stomach curls in on itself. “What happened?”

  “The handle broke off. We’re stuck.”

  4

  Gabe

  “What the hell do you mean? How can we be stuck?” Belle’s voice is high and scratchy with panic, like being stuck in a closet with me is on par with being stranded at a cabin in the woods with a serial killer. A bit excessive, considering she was snuggling into my chest a few minutes ago.

  “Relax,” I tell her. “We’ll get out. Give me a minute.”

  “Relax? Relax?” Her voice climbs higher, and I try to remember if she’s afraid of the dark or claustrophobic or anything, but nothing comes to mind. Surely she would have told me.

  We told each other everything, once upon a time. Long phone conversations late at night, whispering things nobody else knew, falling asleep with the sound of her breathing in my ear. We both traveled so much for competitions that we didn’t get to meet up much, but we talked every day no matter what. I loved hearing about the fanciful way she saw the world. Her imagination fascinated me—there wasn’t a lot of magic in the Power household. Not profitable enough.

  “Open the door, Gabriel. Now.”

  “I’m trying.” I reach blindly for the door and curse when I grab the jagged metal edge of the broken handle.

  “What happened?”

  She’s crowding close to me now, her hand on my arm, and I give myself a minute to breathe in the flowery smell of her shampoo. Roses. Last year I was doing a photo shoot in a rose garden in Budapest and I damn near got teary when the photographer had me lean in and smell one of the blooms. Some things never go away.

  “I cut my finger on the handle.” I bring it to my mouth and suck gently. Yup, I’m bleeding.

  “Let me see,” she demands.

  I wait a beat for her to realize what she said, and then we both crack up. It feels good to laugh together like this. Familiar, even though it’s been so long.

  “Don’t suppose you have a phone?” I ask. “Or a flashlight?”

  She shakes her head, and I take another greedy breath as the wave of scent hits my face. Lush flowers. Warm air. Velvety petals slowly parting to reveal the tiny hidden heart that nobody ever gets to see…

  “I left my phone in my room,” she says, tearing me out of my little fantasy.

  “Me too.” And thank god, because I don’t want a rescue anytime soon.

  “Well, we need a light.” Her voice is warmer now, less tense and wary. “Then I’ll check your finger, and we’ll be able to see to fix the door.”

  Something in me cracks when she says that, like my chest is opening up and I can breathe deeply again for the first time in years. I picture her bent over my finger, examining it carefully, pushing strands of that glossy dark red hair behind her ears and gently dabbing the blood away. Caring about me.

  I take my finger out of my mouth with a wet pop and smile when I hear Belle try to stifle a gasp.

  “Will you kiss it better?”

  No answer, but she’s definitely breathing faster than she was a minute ago.

  “Light,” she says firmly. “Now.”

  Fine with me. I’m hungry for her face. I want to see if she still has that constellation of freckles under her left eye, and examine those rosy lips. I want to watch her blue eyes turn indigo and see that pulse point in her neck start to jump when I get close to her.

  I came to Sochi hoping to catch a glimpse of her, maybe exchange a few words in public if I was really lucky. This chance to see her and actually talk to her—to apologize and explain my side after all these years—feels better than winning my medal. I was empty and exhausted on that podium, drained of all emotion, thinking only of escape. Now it’s like life is rushing back into me, pushing through the little cracks she’s opening up with her words and her smell and her husky laugh.

  So I’m in no hurry to get out of this closet, but she’s right, a little light would be good.

  “There must be a switch on the wall somewhere. I’ll go left, you go right.”

  “Okay.”

  She moves past me in the dark and heads to the right of the door as I reach up and lightly run my fingers along the wall. Nothing. I skim my hands over the rough concrete, shuffling sideways for a few steps. Sentences are running through my head, words chasing themselves around and tumbling over each other so fast that I can’t pin them down. Suddenly I’m not so sure about this whole light thing. Three years of zero communication, yet against all odds we seem to have come to some kind of peace here in the dark. She’s talking to me again—laughing even. She let me hold her and give her comfort when she cried. It’s more than I’ve ever dared to hope for and I’m not quite ready for it to end.

  Will our truce survive when she can look me in the eye? When I’m an actual person standing in front of her, not just a voice and a pair of arms in the dark?

  “Got it,” she calls out. “Ready?”

  “Wait. Not yet.” I should apologize now, before she gets a glimpse of my face and everything comes rushing back.

  “Why not?”

  I clear my throat. This should be easy. I’ve rehearsed this moment enough times in my head. Not a day has gone by since she left that I haven’t thought about her, considered what might happen if we were face to face again. I’ve run through speeches on the chairlift, in airports, hell, even on those endless faux dates with all the nameless girls. This should be easy. So why is my mind blank right now?

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is low and rough, like the words are fighting their way out of me. “I didn’t know what was going to happen that morning—what my father had done. It was all his plan, not mine, and I never meant to hurt you.”

  There’s more, of course. I should tell her that I loved her. That I still love her. That I wanted to come tearing across the world after her. That I stayed away and stopped trying to contact her for her own protection. Those things need to be said, but I can’t quite get the words out. Shame is choking me, because in all my hours of rehearsals I’ve never found any satisfactory answe
rs to the questions she will inevitably ask when she hears the truth.

  Why was I so weak? Why did I let my father control me for so long? Why didn’t I find a way out?

  Belle sighs. It’s a serious sigh, not some breathy, wishy-washy exhalation. It’s deep and loud, with a bit of grunt to it, like she’s letting something out that she’s been holding in for a long time.

  “I’m turning the light on,” she says.

  Yeah, that’s about right. I spend my days throwing myself over twenty feet in the air, upside down and backward, but she’s always been the brave one.

  I’m expecting the room to be flooded with the same flickering florescent lights in the hallway, so I squint my eyes, but apparently this closet wasn’t included in the upgrade. All that’s here is a single bulb hanging from a wire in the center of the ceiling. It warms up slowly, its dim glow getting gradually stronger until most of the shadows in the corners are gone. I look around, not quite ready to meet Belle’s eyes.

  We’re in some kind of luggage storage room. It’s small, maybe fifteen feet deep and ten feet wide, and the back wall is covered with a rickety metal shelf that is crammed with suitcases. A couple of mops are propped up in the corner closest to me, and there’s a wooden chest at the base of the shelves.

  If the rooms upstairs are four star, this place is a negative seven.

  Negative eight if any rats show up, which is a distinct possibility.

  Examining every inch of it takes me about thirty seconds, and after that there’s nothing to look at except her. I start at her feet, snug in those big furry boots, which is lucky since the temperature in here is dropping fast. Her black stockings and short black skirt don’t look nearly as cozy, and are a far cry from the jeans she used to favor, but I guess a lot has changed for both of us. She’s wrapped up in a black wool coat, the belt cinched tight around her waist, emphasizing the gentle curve of her hips.

  In another life I would grab the ends of that belt and pull her toward me before unwrapping her like a shiny present under the tree on Christmas morning. Instead, I jam my hands in my pockets and make myself meet her eyes. She’s checking me out as well, lips flashing up in a quick smile when she sees I’m wearing the Red Sox hat she gave me, and she flushes when I catch her looking. The deep pink starts in the apples of her cheeks and spreads down to disappear under the collar of her coat, but she keeps her gaze steady.