Page 43 of Avalanche
“Everything okay?”
My head snaps up at the sound of Grant’s voice, my phone clattering to the work bench next to the skis I’ve just finished tuning. It’s the quiet part of our day, the hours between ski rental pick up and drop offs, when we turn up the music and work on maintaining all the gear. My favorite part of the day, if I’m being honest. Or at least, it used to be.
“Yeah. All good, man,” I say, forcing a smile and swiping my hands on the rough canvas of my work apron, trying to brush off the ski wax clinging to my fingertips.
Grant gives me a skeptical look before flipping the board he’s working on, angling it so he can work on the edges. It’s a nice board, not a rental, but one an instructor brought in at lunch for a tune. Grant had promised her he’d get it done before her afternoon lessons started—something we really only do for instructors or regulars.
“That was a lot of text messages,” he observes mildly, his attention focused on the scrape, scrape, scrape of the diamond file against the metal edge.
I huff in agreement and give my phone an accusing look, my mind racing as I try to make sense of Eddie’s messages. Matty’s going to propose to Lily. It’s on the group chat too—not the one we share with Lily, but the one with just us five guys.
I drag a roughened palm over my face.
What are these guys up to? Lily marrying Antoine is one thing—that can be explained as a necessity. As Lily helping him claim his inheritance. Just a piece of paper. But Lily marrying Matty? That’s something else entirely. That’s a real marriage, the kind where people promise to be together through the hard times, where people agree to share their lives and look to start a family together.
There’s no way Lily is ready for that.
I swipe my phone from the work bench and pocket it with a groan. Grant chuckles, his gaze still fixed on the board.
“I’m going to take the trash out,” I tell him, hurriedly pulling free the half-empty trash bags from behind the register.
“Yep,” Grant grunts, though somehow he makes that one word sound like ‘I told you so’. I ignore it and head for the door that leads out the back of the building.
The icy air hits me like a slap, but the midday sun is warm, coating the back steps of the building with an almost tantalizing promise of warmth. I let the door swing shut behind me then lean against it, trash bag at my feet as I close my eyes and drink in the rare sunlight, feel the caress of it on my pale winter skin.
You have four hours.
My pulse ratchets up at the memory of Eddie’s texts and I drag in a steadying breath, doing my best to ignore the smell of car exhaust and the faint hint of trash from the bins around the corner. What do they expect me to do from work? They know I get home around the same time as Lily most days.
Matty is going to propose to Lily and we need your help.
This is complete insanity.
The sound of an engine revving punctuates the sun-soaked stillness and my eyes fly open, vision sparkling and swimming as I squint into the employee parking lot. A familiar pick-up truck is idling beside my car, exhaust billowing out in a cloud behind it.
I’ve seen that truck before. Seen the guy climbing into the driver’s seat too, know the shape of his shoulders, the way his cap sits on his close-cropped hair…
My breath punches out of me, hot anger rushing through me as recognition dawns.
Tom. That’s Tom. It has to be.
I leap down the cement steps, boots skidding dangerously as I stride through the slush coated parking lot towards Tom’s truck. I see the driver stiffen behind the wheel, see him lean forward and squint in my direction. I’m close enough now that I can make out the panicked expression on his face, the sharp hatred in his beady eyes.
“Tom!” I bellow.
Slush and snow fly out from beneath the tires, spraying my car as the truck peels out, reversing so fast it nearly slides into the next row of cars. The engine revs. Tom yells something from behind his closed window, the words impossible to decipher behind the glass and over the rumbling engine. And then he’s gone, his truck skidding out onto the road and out of sight.
I jog after it, instinctively wanting to give chase, then pull up short, panting with anger in the space left by Tom’s truck.
“Fuck,” I hiss, scuffing one booted foot against a pile of slush. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
My phone pings in the pocket of my work apron, but I ignore it, glaring from the tracks left by Tom’s truck to my own car. My car, that now has a long scratch running across it, from the driver’s door to the taillight. I bend to look at it, my stomach in my throat as I rub one finger over the line, feel the faint cut beneath it going from paint to bare metal.
“Son of a bitch.”
I pull my hand back, fingers curling into my palm as I scan the car for further damage. When I get to the back, my heart sinks.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
