by Lyla Payne
*
The flight from St. Moritz to Bern went quickly; I read a couple of screenplays for movies being released this upcoming summer. My major at Whitman was radio-television-film, and even though I planned to work on the business side of the things, I loved the words. The bones behind the glances and the nuance and inflection and delivery—the building blocks that held up everything else. They could make or break any production, regardless of dollars spent on special effects or onscreen talent.
The wheels touched down as night fell over the Alps, and despite my aversion to the cold, my adoration for Switzerland bubbled to the surface. A car waited on the tarmac, American flags and security detail included, and deposited me in the lobby of the Bellevue Palace. My parents waited inside La Terrasse, a bottle of wine already half-emptied. They hardly drank before Trent left. Never had a reason to, maybe, even with the stress that came with my father’s job.
Even though he’d been a politician since before I was born, he’d managed to defy the stereotypes. I wasn’t naive enough to think he didn’t pull some underhanded and maybe questionable moves in order to get his way, but all in all, he was more Mr. Smith Goes to Washington than The Ides of March. The job got to him sometimes, but he had limits. Lines that went uncrossed.
“Mom. Senator,” I said, unable to stop my grin at seeing them.
Mom’s face lit up as she reached for a hug, and my father’s firm handshake warmed me all the way to my elbow. I sat, and we pored over the expensive but exquisite menu. Once the waiter disappeared with the easy topic of conversation, the ghost of my brother snuck in—like vapors that wafted through cracks and under doorways, invisible but deadly, his memory choked the three of us into silence as it had for the past four years.
He hadn’t even died. Sometimes I think it would be easier if he had. Then we would have someone to mourn, to put behind us, to bury. Trent had simply disappeared.
For some reason, Kennedy Gilbert’s strawberry hair and ocean eyes came to mind as the silence grew into a beast none of us had the courage to slay. She reminded me so much of my brother. Lost, with no desire to be found. Drowning, but deliberately turning away from the life preserver.
We’d all jumped in after Trent and it hadn’t made the slightest bit of difference. I had no idea if Kennedy had been thrown anything at all, but I couldn’t be the one to stand watching on the shoreline. Not again.
The Basketball Diaries was one of my favorite films—and books—and the heartbreak Jim’s mother suffered, watching his descent into madness and filth, always made me wonder if maybe we weren’t lucky Trent had taken off. Knowing. Not knowing. They both sucked.
“So, honey, are you and your friends enjoying St. Moritz?” My mom’s voice slurred a little over the mundane but welcome question.
“Yes. We’ve only been there two nights, so still recovering from the jet lag, but the skiing is fantastic, as always.”
My father grunted. “We’ve had some good snow this spring. Should be a nice powder for a few weeks, yet.”
“How long are you two here?”
My parents spent so much time abroad they might be considered expatriates, if it weren’t for the small matter of my father’s political position. I dreaded the day, but it wouldn’t be long before he announced his candidacy for President. If not in the next election, it would be the one that followed. At least I’d be done with college and settled by then, hopefully working at one of the major production companies in Los Angeles.
Maybe married, if I could find a girl I enjoyed for more than couple of weeks. It wasn’t that I wasn’t open to the idea. I just figured that any relationship that didn’t excite me was a waste of time, and I’d yet to meet that girl.
“How are your classes? Still kicking ass in accounting?” My father sipped the glass of red wine, giving me a hard look over the rim. The red juice clung to the inside of the glass, blurring the rest of his face.
My dad tolerated my major because I’d assured him I had no interest in the creative side of film—no guaranteed money in it. Everyone knew the power in Hollywood lay with the money men. He didn’t need to know I had a secret desire to one day use that power to finance my own projects.
“Yes, sir. Straight As, and we’re halfway through the semester. Going to take a couple of business classes next year, figure it can’t hurt. Maybe get an MBA.”
He nodded, relief crisscrossing his face. He was a good guy and a pretty good dad, but he could be such a cliché when it came to gender expectations. Creative shit like writing was for sissies.
“Business is as good a background as any if you decide to take up politics.”
I nodded, grateful that our salads arrived and we could focus on eating. I was proud of my dad—he was respected and good at his job—but had no interest in following him into the public eye. He hoped that would change, I knew, especially since I was pretty much his single heir at this point, but it probably wouldn’t.
Trent would have been better at politics than me. He loved people, and they loved him. I loved watching people, but getting emotionally involved with them sucked up too much energy.
My mom drank more than usual while we ate. None of us talked about the date, or that Trent had walked out of our lives exactly four years ago today. I didn’t ask if they’d heard from him, and they didn’t mention his name—as though he was Bloody Mary, but instead of hoping she wouldn’t be in the mirror, we all hoped one day we’d turn around and he would appear.
I hated it. Hated that we acted as though he’d never existed at all, that all of the days we spent running loose in the neighborhood, all of the nights we spent kicking each other under the dinner table or playing cards backstage during one of Dad’s stump speeches had simply been figments of our imaginations. Like we’d all walked out of a movie before the ending.
Intellectually, I knew they couldn’t handle it. That remembering the good times made them sad, maybe made them feel as though they had missed all of the signs, but in my heart it felt wrong.
“Sweetheart, you’re going to spend a month with us in Bern this summer, right?” My mother’s eyes shone bright.
“Yes. I’m going out to L.A. for an internship in June and part of July, but I’m going to spend the last month before I have to be back for Rush over here. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Don’t change your mind, Toby.”
“I won’t, Mom. I’ll be here.”
We shared a delicious flaming dessert and I hugged them goodbye, both sad and relieved to be free of this duty for another several months. As much as being with my parents made me uncomfortable at times, as though we were missing a piece of the puzzle, I loved them. Some people felt as though friends, or fraternity brothers, or their girlfriends, constituted home, could somehow replace the people who shaped them and raised them and harbored them, but not me. Maybe I just hadn’t met the right people.
In the car on the way back to the airport, images of my brother paraded through my mind. Clean and healthy, angry and high, strung-out and desperate. Each was uglier than the last, but my parents hadn’t seen him at his worst. Hadn’t been screamed at, been discarded for drugs. That had been me.
I pulled out my phone in the hopes of distracting my thoughts. Three text messages displayed on my phone. Two were from Finn, keeping me updated on where to find them when I got back. The other was from Blair, letting me know Kennedy had showed up and thanks for nothing.
I had no idea why that last one loosened a knot of anxiety in my chest.
*
The bar at Hotel Badrutt thrummed with energy. People in the remains of their ski gear, dinner clothes, and more casual dress packed together so tight it was hard to breathe, and I wrestled my red tie loose and shrugged out of my sport coat before I made it halfway to the bar. Sweat trickled down my back while the bartender worked his way my direction, and given that procuring the first drink took fifteen minutes, the idea of returning didn’t hold much appeal. I asked for the bottle of bourbon and a
glass, eventually spotting three tables of Whitman students near the front windows.
They’d grabbed prime real estate, which could only mean they’d been here quite a while. Their glassy eyes and loud laughter suggested I had little hope of catching up before the rest of them went home to pass out.
I recognized Kennedy, of course, but she showed no signs of recognizing me. Blair glared my direction and then slammed back a shot, turning to talk to Audra Stuart. There were two other girls, presumably Kappas, I didn’t think I knew. All of the guys, minus Quinn, crowded around the other end of the table and talked amongst themselves. Sam cast a few longing looks Blair’s direction, and I chuckled under my breath. Godspeed, dude.
“Bourbon, anyone?” I waved the bottle and grinned.
“Get your ass up, freshman, and give the man your chair,” Sebastian ordered.
Jax lurched from his seat, wobbling more than a little before weaving off through the crowd. A hand tugged the bottle of liquor from my hand and I turned to find Kennedy uncapping it and tipping it against her full lips. Three gulps later I pulled it away.
“Go easy, strawberry. Leave some for me.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? You have something against fruit?”
“No. But I have something against you.”
She stumbled backward and into a providently situated chair, then laid her head on her arms. I shook my head and took the seat Jax had vacated, pouring my own bourbon into a glass like a civilized fucking person.
Sebastian’s dark, amused gaze met mine. “Thanks for cleaning up after me last night.”
“Whatever. Maybe next time don’t engage in any potentially deadly behavior on my property. Scandals and politics, you understand.”
He shrugged and looked away, apparently bored with the conversation already. “I don’t know about you, Wright, but when a lady asks for something in the bedroom, I give it to her.”
My stomach turned. It didn’t come as a surprise that Kennedy was as self-destructive in bed as out of it, and normally, I’d be as in for a wild ride as the next guy. But I didn’t take advantage of girls too wasted to technically consent. Hell, she’d blacked out on an entire conversation this morning, and I hadn’t even realized she was still drunk, or high, or whatever.
I finished a good third of the bottle, laughing while Sam tried to find ways to insert himself in Blair’s conversation and snorting while Sebastian ordered Finn and Jax to try to pick up every significantly older woman drinking her loneliness away at the bar. My bladder gave up about an hour later, and I headed to the bathroom. On my way past the girl’s toilet two tall, pretty blondes exited through the swinging door, bitching in German about the drunk American puking in the sink.
It gave me pause, since we might have been the only Americans in the bar, and when the door swung inward again, I glimpsed strawberry hair and a generous portion of Kennedy’s bare ass. Her clingy black dress hadn’t covered much to begin with, not that I’d been complaining, but wasn’t made for hugging the porcelain sink like a teenage girl who’d gotten hold of Justin Beiber.
I pushed a hand into the door, holding it open. Not exactly enjoying the view, but not unimpressed with it, either. She groaned and spit, rinsing out her mouth. Our eyes met in the mirror and she froze, her frame going rigid. Red veins spiderwebbed the whites of her eyes and black eye makeup smudged underneath, making her look like a super-trashed raccoon. The fire in her gaze said she was just as dangerous, but instead of lashing out, she ignored me and slumped onto the floor, hair swinging forward to hide her face.
I thought about going in and grabbing her off that nasty floor. I considered helping her up to her room, making sure she had water and ibuprofen, and tucking her safely under the covers. Instinct urged me to care for her, though I had no idea why and even less inclination to do so—I’d spent years cleaning up after Trent, and for what?
It didn’t matter if I picked her up off the floor tonight, she’d be right back on it tomorrow.
So, I let the door swing shut, did my business in the men’s room, and went back out to the table. I decided telling Blair and Audra that Kennedy needed a hand in the restroom didn’t constitute getting involved, then headed outside to grab a taxi back to the house.
Two Days Ago
The girl went home from the bar with another boy, one she sort of knew this time because strangers were in short supply, and also because she believed this particular boy would not balk at her desires.
He was handsome but not particularly well-liked, a bit of an outsider on an inside circle. Not unlike her. His blond hair shone in the light from the bedside lamp, and his dark eyes were hungry, predatory, but not unkind. When he stripped, the girl touched a chisled chest, tight abs, and he made quick work of her clothes too, even though there were more to get rid of in Switzerland than in Florida.
She was on her back in the soft bed, naked, as he grabbed a condom and knelt between her knees. He gave her a hard smile, sort of sexy, but scary enough to send a thrill down her spine, and reached down to tease the heat between her legs far too gently.
“Any requests?” The boy asked.
“Make it hurt.”
He quirked an eyebrow, but no judgment passed through his eyes or his response. “How much?”
“Enough.”
“You trust me to make the call?”
The girl nodded, her body responding to the control in his voice and posture, in the way he hadn’t even skipped a beat at her demand, her mind wondering what he would do to her—how much relief it would bring, how long it might last. Whether she might be able to feel for a while, maybe longer than the time it took for the pain to fade.
He started slowly, fucking her and dealing some rough pinches and twists, a few slaps hard enough to make her bite her lip, for her ass to sting and relief to course through her veins. She wanted to cry every time, but not because of the pain. Because of the relief. To know that once, she had been capable of such a thing. Emotion.
As his excitement grew he punished her harder, and then his hands were around her throat. The girl had played this game before but not with such intensity. His fingers gripped her neck while his tongue explored her mouth. They squeezed tighter as he pounded inside her, his own pleasure mounting as their hips smacked together. She couldn’t breathe at all. Her eyes felt like Ping-Pong balls ready to roll out of her head. Black fog rolled in from the edges of the room, ready to eat her alive, to finally let her through the curtain so she could follow her mother.
To her surprise, an orgasm wracked her body out of nowhere, and the boy finished also, then let go of her neck. She lay still, gasping, throat and chest on fire as air filled her lungs. She dug her fingernails into the pain, reveling in the sweet reality of it. Sweat clung to her skin and her fingers traced the welts across her windpipe, but she did not move. The girl simply felt.
He left for a few moments, then returned to the bed and fell asleep. She listened to the still-thudding pace of her own heart, to the cadence of his easy breaths.
Still, the girl could not breathe. Something had happened when he choked off her oxygen for almost too long—she hadn’t wanted to die. The girl wanted to live, and she had never hated herself more.
Chapter 3
It was the last day of vacation, and we’d all headed out to the slopes. Even Sam had dared to strap on some boots and skis, but planned to stick to the bunny slopes. We’d been drinking since we got up that morning, then run into some of the girls having breakfast and popped three or four bottles of champagne. I grew restless, hearing the black diamonds call my name.
“Who’s headed up to the top with me?”
“Not me. I’m thinking there’ll be some snow bunnies on the bunny slopes. Maybe they’ll want to burrow away the rest of the day.” Sam winked at Blair, who snorted, apparently still immune to his charm.
“Nope. I’ve had too much to drink to do anything bigger than a blue,” one of the other Kappas, Willow, hiccupped.<
br />
She was cute—we’d actually hooked up a couple of times last year—but neither of us seemed interested in doing it again. Blair nodded her agreement, then hauled Willow up from the chair and out the door, presumably to pick out a nice blue or green slope.
“Audra? You’re Scottish, surely you can hold your liquor.”
She pursed her lips. “No way, Toby. If you think I’m flying all the way back to Florida with a broken leg, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Jax and Finn declined, too, and the cafeteria filled with the sounds of chairs scraping backward on the floor as everyone headed off to grab the last few hours of spring break daylight. I didn’t mind going up top alone—in fact, I preferred it most of the time. Skiing wasn’t exactly a team sport, no matter what the Olympics tried to tell you, and the experience of flying down the side of a mountain couldn’t be shared.
“Hey.” Kennedy’s eyes looked blue today under her knitted cap. A matching scarf ringed her neck and her cheeks and lips were rosy.
The sight of her, with the fresh snow drifting down around us, looked like something off a postcard and caught me off guard. She looked so damn normal—prettier than most girls, but normal. “Hey. Enjoying your final runs?”
“Yeah. Headed up top for a few more. You?”
Her change in attitude from the other night left me feeling a little unmoored, but my default setting of polite kicked into gear. “Me, too. Shall we?”
Kennedy hesitated for the briefest of seconds, a flicker of indecision in her eyes, before nodding and giving me a smile that could have lit half of St. Moritz. “Let’s do it.”
We poled over to the lift and waited our turn, then settled onto the cold metal chair together and got situated for the fifteen-minute ride. The higher we went, the more astounding the view. The sun dipped toward the horizon, coloring Switzerland with her own personal halo.
