Page 7 of Slay Ride

I pat her jean-clad thigh. “Relax. Since this is the inaugural winter retreat, there are bound to be hiccups, but I bet you’ll discover that you’re more prepared than you think.”

She stops gripping her nose so that she can give my hand a squeeze. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime.”

Unlike Kindra, I’ve had my fair share of friendships throughout my life, but this friendship is unlike any other. She feels more like family than a friend.

A while later, the limo pulls to a stop beside a very large shed. A patch of dirt serves as a small parking lot, though it’s mostly covered in snow. Earthy bits peek out here and there.

The driver opens our doors, and we step into the icy air. I hold in a fart for fear it might freeze my asshole if I let it out. I’ve never experienced such temperatures.

Kindra hands a pink ski mask to me, then pulls a purple mask over her face. “We’ll take one of the snowmobiles to the mansion. I didn’t want to ask the coachman to pull the horses out just for us. I hope that’s okay.”

“Whatever gets me to the nearest roaring fireplace is fine by me. Let’s do this.” I pull the mask down and inwardly recoil at the way it presses my hair to my neck.

I have some pretty hardcore sensory issues, but I try to keep them hidden. I learned to mask my little idiosyncrasies when I was in school. The girls at the lunch table only had to make fun of my sockless feet one time before I learned it was better to be uncomfortable than to be bullied.

Now that I’m an adult, I still work to keep my non-normal behaviors in check. Instead of asking Kindra to wait while I move my hair so that it doesn’t annoy me, I swallow the discomfort and try not to think about it. Or about the way the tag in the jacket keeps making a really annoying crinkle sound. Or about the fact that the mask fabric feels like steel wool on my skin.

It’s not that I can’t trust Kindra with this secret. I don’t fear she’d make fun of me. But sometimes, people change oncethey know. They try to handle me with kid gloves, constantly checking to be sure I’m comfortable. I don’t want to put that burden on my friends.

Kindra pulls one of her bags from the trunk of the limo, and I do the same. It’s our winter gear. We hurry inside the shed to dress, and though the gray metal walls block the wind, they do little to dispel the bone-chilling cold. My nipples get so hard that it hurts, and I won’t be shocked if they pierce the lacy bra and put my eyes out.

“Put your gear on over your clothes,” Kindra says. “It will help with the cold.”

I pull out my ensemble—bought on clearance because I’m poor and New York is expensive. “I hope Maverick doesn’t see me in this,” I say as I place one leg into the fluffy pants. “By the time I get all this on, I’ll look like the Michelin Man.”

“Better than having your skin turn black from frostbite.”

“Good point.”

I hurry and finish dressing, then squeeze into my winter coat. Now that we’re protected from the elements, complete with hideous goggles, we only have to ease the snowmobile out of the building and onto the trail. Unfortunately, my arms are pinned in a position that makes me look like the letter T.

We toddle out of the shed and stop. Our luggage—and the wallpaper Kindra ordered—huddles in a little pile where the limo once stood. I look from the snowmobiles to the pile, then at Kindra.

Kindra huffs. “The driver could have at least brought our things into the shed before taking off. Help me get the bags safely into the building so that Ezra can come back for them in a bit.”

The driver probably had to hurry back to the airport. Most everyone arrives in a few days for the opening ceremonies andthe New Year’s Eve bash, but Maverick planned to fly out soon after our flight departed. He should arrive tonight.

I can’t wait.

In all the excitement, I forgot about Shorty and his poop predicament. I hurry to the pile of bags, expecting to find one very disgruntled and cold cat, but his carrier is nowhere to be seen.

My heart drops to my asshole.

“Kindra, did you happen to grab Shorty’s carrier from the back seat?”

She lowers the two bags she’s just picked up. “Please don’t tell me he’s still in the limo.”

“Okay, I won’t.” I pause. “But I think that’s what happened.”

Kindra rips off her gloves and wrestles with her pockets until she finds her phone. As she brings it up to her face, she closes her eyes and releases a deep sigh. “I have no way to contact him. He couldn’t have waited five minutes?”

Tears fill my goggle-covered eyes, and my shoulders quiver with a sob. “I’m the worst cat mom ever. I forgot my child in the car. The government will probably take him away from me now.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. CPS doesn’t stand for Cat Protective Services. And besides, the actual CPS fails children on a daily basis, so it’s not like you have that much to worry about.”

It doesn’t change the facts. I forgot my child—my shit-shoed child—in the back of a limo that is now who knows how far away. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now Shorty will be forced to sit with the stink.

---