by A. J. Wynter
I didn’t recognize the voice, but it was low and somehow reassuring. “Everything is fine. Your friend has just had a little too much to drink.”
I had already made it to the highway, the car shuddering as I got her up to sixty miles an hour. “What about Dylan?”
There was no response. “Shit,” I muttered and dropped my phone into the coffee-stained cup holder. I had entered into the granite outcroppings that killed all cell signals for at least ten miles. “Ten Ten Mustang Point Road,” I whispered to myself. The Volvo’s headlights were old and yellowed, and I clicked them onto their high setting to read the road signs.
Ten-ten was the last cottage on the dead-end road, and easily one of the biggest. I turned into the driveway, past a gilded sign that read ‘Pine Hill’. Dylan and I once joked that we should name our house, but the best we could come up with was Little Brown. There were several cars lined up around the circular driveway that led to a classic cedar shake sided cottage.
I hopped out of the car, tempted to leave it running to ensure that it started again, but the number of shadowy figures staggering around the driveway told me that it wasn’t a good idea. It wouldn’t be the first time that a town drunk woke up with a ‘borrowed’ car parked haphazardly in their driveway.
My text to Paige sat unanswered and I waited a minute by the car, watching the cigarettes and joints glowing orange in the dark as people came and went from the cottage. I glanced at my phone, still no response. I sighed and then headed to the door, suddenly very aware of my disheveled appearance. Everywhere I looked I saw eyelash extensions and even longer hair extensions – puck bunny city. What was the protocol for crashing a party at three a.m.? I raised my fist to knock on the door but changed my mind and let myself into the front foyer of Pine Hill. I was met with the stench of stale beer and blaring music. I followed the sound of the pounding bass, kicking discarded red cups out of the way and emerged into a great room, its crystal chandeliers glowing, reflecting in the twenty-foot-tall wall of windows that framed the darkness of the overcast night. A fully clothed couple writhed on one of the sofas and I averted my gaze, less out of privacy, and more out of disgust as the guy’s hands clumsily fumbled down the back of the girl’s pants, exposing her tanned ass cheeks.
There was no sign of Paige or Dylan. The kitchen was in worse shape than the great room and my feet stuck to the floor as I passed through. “Do you know Paige Thomas?” I asked a group of girls who were sitting on the counter, their lips stained the same vibrant pink as their wine coolers, two of them looked at me and shrugged.
“Check the lake. I think there are some people swimming?” the third girl suggested, a classic valley girl upswing making her statement sound like a question.
Great, I muttered under my breath and hurried out of the kitchen. The Paige I used to know wouldn’t be that stupid, but this new boy crazy version might be dumb enough to jump in the lake while wasted out of her tree.
“Hey, Paige is over here.” I turned toward the deep voice and was met with the ice blue eyes of number eighty-eight.
“Oh, it’s you.” He stepped back.
That’s exactly what I was thinking. “Where is she?” I asked.
“Come with me,” he waved his arm in a follow-me gesture.
I nodded and focused on his bare feet as he navigated through the maze of hallways to a bedroom. Paige was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands.
“Are you okay?” I rushed to her side.
She peered between her fingers. “Jessie?”
“I’ll leave you two.” The hockey player’s bulky form turned in the doorway.
“Wait,” I said.
He paused.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
The guy sighed and then stepped into the room. “Her boyfriend showed up here and started a fight.”
“Her boyfriend?”
“Yeah, Dylan Moss. You know him. The guy you were sitting with at the game.”
I stood in the space between Kane Fitzgerald and whimpering Paige. I hadn’t imagined it. He had seen me at the game.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Paige said a little louder than was necessary.
I was tired, and it was becoming very clear that there was nothing wrong with Paige, other than the fact that she was wasted. “Where is Dylan?” I asked.
Kane held the lever on the door as though it was a crutch, holding him upright. “I don’t know.” He shrugged.
Dylan was a clown, an entertainer, but he wasn’t a fighter. One punch from a guy like Fitzy would level his lanky body to the ground. “Is he okay?” I tried to keep the tremble out of my voice.
Kane’s eyes seemed to focus sharply on me, and he let go of the door. “Is Dylan your boyfriend?”
I turned to Paige, whose eyes were crossing as she attempted to direct a wand of lip gloss to her lips. “Paige, where is Dylan?” I repeated.
She huffed out a breath and set her hand on her thigh, the lip gloss wand dropping to the pine floor. “I don’t know. He got in a fight and he...” her voice constricted, and the tears started streaming down her face, “he left me here.” Her chest heaved in a sob.
I wasn’t going to get any answers from either of these two. “Come on, Paige. I’ll take you home.” I held out my hand and heaved her off the nautical themed quilt. She stumbled toward me, stepping onto her lip gloss with her bare foot. She wavered and I caught her before she could hit the floor or break her ankle.
“Can you help me?” I groaned as I held all one hundred and twenty pounds of my friend on my shoulder.
“Right,” Kane rushed to my side and scooped Paige into his arms like he was about to whisk her away on a romantic honeymoon. I stretched tall as her weight was released from my shoulder. The guy had picked her up like she weighed nothing at all.
I hurried into the hallway and Kane followed behind.
“No, this way,” he said. The massive cottage was like a maze. We passed the kitchen where the trio of wine cooler girls was still camping and after passing through an extremely well-stocked pantry entered yet another hallway, one that led to a circular staircase.
“What is this?” I glanced into another bedroom as we made our way to the stairs.
“Servants’ quarters,” he said.
“Servants’ quarters? How old is your cottage?”
“Why?” he turned to look at me, Paige’s head lolled against his white t-shirt.
“Decommissioned servant’s quarters? I mean, that’s got to mean, maybe the twenties?” I guessed.
“I think it was built in the twenties, but we still have staff when my dad is here.”
The room beside me was bigger than mine, furnished like the rest of the house, a blue and white quilt, made perfectly on a four-poster bed. He led me to a door, and we exited out the side of the cottage into a screened-in porch, complete with a swing. “I’m parked in the driveway,” I said.
He pushed open the screen door and raised his eyebrows at me. “That’s usually where people park.”
My cheeks flushed hot. Was it condescension or was this asshole jock trying to be funny? His stupid flip flops slapped his feet as we made our way through the mess of cars. My hair blew in the wind and my chest prickled with goosebumps. I crossed my arms, trying to disguise the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra.
“The wind just shifted; did you feel that?” He stopped and pointed to one of the flags that snapped in the wind like an angry dog.
“I can walk,” Paige murmured, her fingers looped around Kane’s muscled neck.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He replaced his hand on her back.
“Thanks, Fitzy,” Paige murmured.
“Mine is the Volvo,” I pointed out the rusty wagon at the end of the line of cars.
He nodded. “Nice ride.”
“It’s a car, asshole. Not all of us have mommy and daddy’s Bentley at our fingertips.”
“No.” He gently lowered Paige until she was standing on her ow
n two feet. The hinges of the passenger door groaned as he pulled it open and he helped Paige slip onto the worn leather seat. “That’s not what I meant; this is a classic. I love these old wagons.”
“Oh...”
“Is it a GL? He gazed at the front grill of the car as he made his way to the driver’s side.
“I don’t know. It’s a car, it has a steering wheel, and this is the key.” I held up my keychain.
Kane held the door open as I pulled on the stained seat belt. My dad had been a mechanic, his hands permanently darkened with oil and grease, the dirty seatbelt a reminder that this had once been his car.
“I need to find Dylan. Do you have any idea where he went?”
“He disappeared with some townies. Why is it so important for you to find Moss? He’s an inconsiderate piece of shit.”
I yanked the door to shut it, but Fitzy’s grip was stronger than my pull. He held it open, waiting for my response.
“That might be true, but he’s my brother.”
“Oh.” Kane released the door and held up his hands as it slammed shut. I jammed the key into the ignition, stomped the gas pedal and turned the key.
Click.
Nothing.
“What’s going on? Why won’t the car start?” Paige fumbled with the volume button on the radio as I tried turning the key two more times. I felt Kane’s presence at the window but didn’t want to face him.
He rapped on the window with his knuckle and made the roll down the window motion with his fingertips. The car was old enough to have crank windows, making his miming accurate. I lowered the window.
“It’s your battery.”
“I know.” I sucked in my breath. “Or the alternator.”
He nodded. “Or your alternator.”
I squeezed my eyes, trying to suck the tears back in before they fell. “What time is it?” I gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
“Uh,” Kane glanced at his watch, “Holy shit, it’s three-thirty.”
I dropped my head to the steering wheel and turned the key one more time. I knew it was fruitless, but I had to be at the arena in half an hour.
“Come on, let’s go,” Paige stared out the passenger window.
My vision flashed white with rage. “Paige, I’m trying,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’m going to miss practice.”
“Oh, no.” She sat up straight. “Oh, Jessie. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”
It was all her fault, and Dylan’s. I wanted to scream and tell her she was right. She and my selfish brother had ruined my night, but I was exhausted and after playing taxi driver to her drunk ass I was going to miss the only thing that mattered in my life – skating.
“Come on,” Kane opened the door. “I’ll take you.”
“You?” While he seemed significantly more sober than when I had first arrived at Pine Hill, he looked like he was swaying on his feet. “You’re drunk.”
“Maybe a little.” He extended his hand to help me out of the car. “You can take one of my cars.”
I stared his hand, “It just needs a boost.”
“If it’s your alternator, you’ll just be stranded at the next place. And, if you leave now, you might be able to make it to the arena for four.”
“I couldn’t.”
He reached and grabbed my hand, pulling me away from the car. “Take one of my cars. Please. I will have yours towed to your garage first thing in the morning, or we can boost it.”
“Oh no,” Paige said. We both turned to see her fumbling to open the passenger door, one hand clamped over her mouth.
Both of us groaned as the contents of Paige’s stomach splattered onto the paved driveway.
“Okay,” I agreed. “But are you sure you want her in one of your cars?”
“Better now that thirty seconds ago.” He laughed and tugged at my hand. I let him lead us into his five-car garage and handed me the keys to a Mercedes Sedan.
“Are you sure about this?” I took the keys.
“It’s my stepmom’s,” he laughed. “It’s also the crappiest car we’ve got.”
I glanced at the rest of the cars gleaming in the fluorescent light
“Get going, or you’re going to be late,” he shooed me away with his hands. Paige had already gotten into the passenger seat. Kane pressed the button and the garage door opened behind me.
“Thank you.” I slid into the buttery leather of the driver’s seat, pressed the ignition button, and the powerful engine growled to life. Out of habit, I stomped my foot on the accelerator and the V8 engine roared.
“Easy there, tiger,” Kane smiled then pushed the door shut.
I rolled down the window. “Thanks again, Fitzy.”
“It’s Kane,” he said. He reached his hand in the window.
“I know.” I shook it. “Your face is on the hockey tickets.” For some reason, I felt like I needed to clarify exactly how I knew his name.
“Get going, Moss’s sister. You’re going to be late for practice.”
He stepped away from the car. “It’s Jessie,” I smiled and put the car in reverse.
“Well then get going, Jessie Moss.” He smiled back and patted the hood of the car like they do in the movies.
Without the rattle and shimmy of the Volvo to drown out all other sounds, the pounding of my heart hammering against my ribcage thudded loudly in my ears. I waved at Kane and noticed the tremble in my hand. The thudding in my ears intensified as he shot me a toothy grin and waved back. There was no denying it. Kane Fitzgerald was the first man to give me butterflies in years.
Chapter 8 – Kane
The shutters clattered aggressively against the cedar shakes outside my bedroom window. I sat up and rubbed my temple, trying to judge the severity of my hangover before I got out of bed. Check number one, the room didn’t start to spin. Check number two, I didn’t feel like I was going to barf. I chugged down the glass of water that drunk me left for morning me and stretched my arms over my head.
When I set down the glass on my nightstand, I noticed a set of keys on a pewter figure skater keychain. The events from the night before, while a little hazy, started to come back to me. The figure skater, she had been here. Dylan’s sister. The figure skater, I added. Last night I had jerked off to someone I could never have – my right winger’s sister. I shook the image of Jessie’s nipples from my brain and stumbled into the bathroom. I grabbed my swimsuit from its hook; a swim was the best hangover cure I knew.
“Hey guys, get out.” I banged on the back of the sofa and a partially clothed couple groaned and entwined tighter into each other.
When I rounded the corner into the hallway I almost ran right into Mike Ryan. “Whoa.” Mike blinked and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Thanks for the party, Fitzy.”
“You out of here?” I asked.
“Yeah, man. Back to the dorms. I’ve gotta go sleep this one off.”
“You can stay here if you want, buddy.” Mike pointed to the guest room and made a throat-slitting motion with his hand. I looked inside the room and saw a disheveled puck bunny, her mouth slightly agape, the pillow smeared with black eyeliner. “I’m gonna get out of here.” He winked.
Mike was a total player, but I didn’t feel bad for the bunny, it wasn’t exactly a secret that he was a dog. “See you tomorrow,” I said to him and then shut the door gently.
My to-do list grew longer as the hangover fuzziness subsided. I found my new phone amongst the tangled duvet on my bed and sent a quick message to Margie, the only cleaning lady I could trust not to rat me out to my dad, asking her to come and help with the mess.
Next on my list was to deal with that car. I pulled on an Otters hoodie and parked the Land Cruiser beside the rusty old Volvo. I hooked my car battery up to Jessie’s with booster cables. “Shit,” I swore as my knees bashed into the steering wheel, clearly set up for Jessie’s height. I turned the key in the ignition and pulled the choke out slightly, just as Jessie had done the night bef
ore, pumped the gas pedal once, and then smiled as the car roared to life. It sputtered, but I gave it a shot of gas, and soon enough it was purring.
I waited a few minutes, then unhooked the cables, turned off the car, and held my breath before trying it again. The old rust bucket roared to life – it was just a dead battery.
I made my way to one of the bunkies, where my best friend always crashed, “Tanner,” I shouted, opening the door.
“Yeah.” Tanner squinted at me.
“Get up, you’ve got to help me with something.” I shut the door before Tanner had the chance to say no., I sat in one of the white Adirondack chairs and listened as the waves crashed against the shoreline.
“What’s going on?” Tanner stepped out of the bunkie, ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, and pulled on a blue flat-brimmed Otters team hat.
“Coffee run.”
“No way.” Tanner turned to walk back into the bunkie.
“I’ll let you drive,” I taunted. Tanner loved my car almost more than I did. I smiled and tossed him the keys.
“You asshole,” Tanner muttered and snagged them out of mid-air with authority. “Let’s go.” He grinned.
My phone rang as we sat in the drive-through of the local coffee shop. I glanced at the screen, wondering who could be calling so early in the morning, “It’s Coach.”
“I missed a call from him too,” Tanner said. “I haven’t called him back yet.”
“I wonder what he wants...” My mind started to race with both good and bad scenarios.
“Maybe he wants to run some drills today or something,” Tanner mused.
Both of us knew that was bullshit. The coach never had last-minute practices. The call was definitely about something else.
Neither of us said anything as Tanner inched the car up to the speaker box, the Rolling Stones’ song on the radio the only thing that filled the air between us. We both knew that the scout from the New York Thunder had been at the game, but Tanner’s silence told me that he was just as nervous about the call as I was.
“Are you going to answer?” Tanner pulled up to the window.
