Après Ski Read online

  Cassidy said, “That’s what I want, dude. Like, just have no boss or nothing, just the open road and you can do whatever you want. Party.”

  Cass leaned back, said to him, “You don’t have a boss now.”

  Cassidy laughed and came between the seats again. “No, but I got a fuckin’ landlord and he’s an asshole, you know?”

  Cass groaned in camaraderie, said, “I got one too. I got you beat: mine’s my Dad.”

  “Maybe that’s better—I don’t know your Pop. My guy is a fuckin’ slumlord.”

  “My dad’s cool—he just keeps reminding me he could get more for my apartment.”

  Cassidy asked her, “What do you do?”

  “For work? ... Waitress. You know The Lemon Lounge in Old Town?”

  “They closed it.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m out of work.”

  Cassidy leaned back, saying, “Yeah, but if you can waitress, you can waitress. You’ll be working again soon.”

  Cass sighed, ran both hands through her thick, honey-blonde hair. “I don’t want to waitress forever.”

  Cass, or Cassidy Rockwell according to her Maelstrom profile, was the tender age of twenty-one. Pretty, for sure, but not full-time model pretty. She’d probably get a dozen gigs a year off Maelstrom, amateur photographers hoping her semi-nudes might become full-nudes. Her features were sharp, angular, her brow severe; but her eyes were lively and glowing in the color of jade. A striking look, and somehow simultaneously plain—which was perfect for what she wanted today. While neither Cassidys had outdoor experience, they were thin enough to pass for fit. Both of them rich with a casual NorCal arrogance that was decidedly ‘cool’ and they’d look good in their Stroud fleeces and shells. Pretty impressive what she’d managed to pull together here today on a whim.

  The trip down here to California, alone, without Cam, had been impromptu. A confluence of shitty events sending her out on this mission, somehow treating it like a sabbatical. Work at Stroud Adventure Inc. had reached a crescendo last month; a cacophony more accurately, eight ongoing sagas that culminated in her and Cam dismissing their CFO, Cam stepping in, the corporation organizing an emergency restructuring to keep investors happy, cash flow flowing, and their inventory shipping without a blip. Three sleepless nights in a row for both of them, and the first time in her whole life she’d seen her Cam lose his cool. He’d kicked a wastebasket, thumped his desk with a fist, and slammed an office door—hardly frightening, but it had started a longing within her for the way things used to be.

  So, when she got the call three days ago from Tech-Style, the company that put her designs together, saying they’d fabricated some mockups for next spring’s line she told him she’d come and get them. Puzzled, they said they’d just ship them as they usually did, she said she’d prefer to pick them up in person, and they asked if there were any problems, and she laughed, told them no. Just need a road trip, guys. And Cam was cool with it, looking at her at first with a small measure of Cam-worry but telling her to go ahead, he’d run the ship. Cam just got her. He always got her.

  Then her good idea got better. She would get the Sprinter out of storage and take it for the trip from Seattle to Eureka. Their diesel chaperone as Cam used to call it when it was just him, and her, and Vinnie their Carolina dog driving across the country. 200,000 miles in three years driving across the U.S. and Canada together in a vehicle that already had almost 60,000 on it when Cam bought it. Then he’d stripped it, welded shelves and storage, and put in a kitchen, trimmed it out in cedar … fuck, what a time.

  Now here she was in it again, driving into the mountains with two beautiful strangers who were the same age as she and Cam when they’d first started—a cargo hold stuffed with prototype product in all its available colors, camping gear, and about forty-grand worth of her photo equipment. God, when she and Cam started the business she’d done all their photography with an iPhone.

  But there was a burden missing from her back now, a joyful power in her heart beat. Off into the woods, heading out with at least a temporary ban on obligations had her feeling more free and centered than she remembered in the last four years.

  “Hey, look,” Cass said, leaning forward with her hands resting on the dash, peering through the windshield, “that a store up ahead? Might be the one from the map.”

  “Probably is,” she sighed, an unerasable smile plastered on her face. Burnt Ranch was the last real place on the map they passed but she’d read on a camping review site about where they were going to turn at the road past the general store. And they should fill with gas while they were here, too.

  “Thank God,” Cassidy said, rejoining them between their seats. “I’ve had to take a leak for twenty minutes.”

  Amberly laughed out, turned to him, said, “Just tell me next time and I’ll pull over—you’re a guy, you can whip it out and pee wherever you want.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a gentleman,” he said in a low, serious tone, joking but trying to sound like he wasn’t.

  “Good thing then we found you a facility with the amenities a gentleman such as yourself may require,” she said, slowing, indicating, then turning into the gravelly yard of the empty—no, desolate—general store and its lone gas pump.

  THE GENERAL STORE WAS NAMELESS—A sign above its sagging awning declaring only that: General Store. The painted letters fading and sunbaked, the windows cracked, a neon lit Budweiser bowtie the only indication it might be open—and even something about that seemed off, like it might be from the 70s or something.

  “Yeesh,” Cass said, putting on sunglasses so she could hide behind them and give the store a good going over. Then leaning her head toward Cassidy, she said, “You’re going to go in there?”

  “What? ...” he said, paused, hand on sliding van door lever, head lowered like Cass’s to surmise the building.

  “Dude,” she whispered, “it looks like someone in there would cut your face off and wear it as their own face.”

  Amberly said, “He does have a nice face.”

  It brightened Cass up, and now she joked, “When you’re in there, would you mind grabbing me a jar of human teeth?”

  There was movement behind the glass of the front door and Amberly added: “Is assorted okay, or you want all molars or something?”

  The van door slid open (gosh, what a great and familiar sound), and Cassidy got out, laughing at them, pausing to stick his head back in, saying, “You guys are sick,” then slamming the door closed.

  They both watched as he passed the front of the Sprinter, stuck out a pointed devil tongue and wagged a ‘hang ten’ at them, his leather bracelets dancing on his wrist. He crossed the gravel yard, stepping up onto the concrete island that hosted the ancient gas pump—one with a flicking numerical display that spun around on a reel—jumping off on the other side, long curly black hair bouncing.

  “Holy fuck, he’s hot,” Cass said, leaning close next to her, watching from behind her black sunglasses.

  “Yeah, he’s hot,” she admitted, then felt guilty.

  “Look at his ass,” Cass said.

  Both of them watched as Cassidy crossed the sunlit yard, entered the blue shade of the awning, bounded up the four crooked steps to the store’s front door. The guy was slim, his skin olive, maybe some Mediterranean blood there, Black Irish given the name Cassidy—then a California tan on top of that. Long, thick, dark ringlets of hair, almond-shaped eyes rimmed in black, pupils a luminous hazel. Lean build, roped with veins, and a scruffy beard that worked itself into a pointy pirate goatee. He was hot. Very lean, narrow, but a perfect round ass in sandy-colored canvas carpenter jeans. She told the two of them to dress in whatever they had that they might wear camping; neutral colors, organic fabric…

  “Nice ass,” she agreed, stabbed with guilt again. He did have a nice ass but she was a married woman—happily married—with a supportive husband at home picking up all the weight in her absence.

  With the driver door half open she said to Cass, �
�Would you pump the gas for me?—I want to make a call.”

  “Sure,” she said, with a tilt to her head, bouncing her shoulders. “Diesel?”

  “Diesel.”

  When she was out of the van, stretching her legs and walking in the sun out front of the Sprinter, she dialed Cam.

  “You okay?” he answered.

  “Me? Yeah, why?”

  “You should be having fun, not calling me. Take a break, stretch your legs, babe.”

  She laughed, walking on pointed toes along a wandering line where the gravel met an old paved edge near a scrubby patch of low, stunted pines. “I’m literally stretching my legs right now.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Feeling good. Wanted to say I miss you.”

  “I miss you too. How’s the chaperone?”

  “Sturdy as ever. I miss our time on the road.”

  “Soak it up, Amberly. Take your time, enjoy it. Hey, how’s your models?”

  At the side of the Sprinter, Cass had figured out how the pump worked, had the nozzle stuck in the filler neck, and now she balanced on one leg, the other pointed out behind her like a dancer. She wore white denim shorts, and a khaki peasant shirt with cuffed arms and waist, little pink, yellow, and red flowers stitched on it. Her feet were bare and dirty.

  She said, “Perfect. Californian.”

  “You know what you’re doing,” he said, Cam always trusting her ideas to promote their brand.

  “I know what I want.”

  “Be safe.”

  “I know,” she said, “hold on.” She stood at the front of the chaperone now, waving to get Cass’s attention, pointing her phone at her. Cass looked up, tanned leg still straight out behind her, smile-snarled and held up a peace sign. Amberly laughed and took her picture. To Cam, she said, “They’re harmless. Actually, kind of sweet, really,” and sent him the photo of Cass.

  When he saw the picture, his cheek brushing for a moment against his phone’s microphone, he gave a little chuckle. “Too bad she’s so introverted, you probably won’t get her to open up for the camera at all.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to get some good shots,” she said.

  “How’s the other Cassidy?”

  “About the same,” she said, winking at Cass, trying not to give away that she was talking about them. She rolled along the chaperone’s headlight and wandered out front of it again, heading toward the empty two-lane highway. “He’s in the bathroom. We’re stopped for gas outside some place called Burnt Ranch. We’re almost at the site. How’s your day going?”

  “Just fine,” he said, his voice revving up with manufactured positivity.

  “You can tell me the truth.”

  “Dogshit. Morning meeting with Levy, then after lunch I have to go meet with Lou at the bank.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said.

  “Don’t be. I told you, have fun. Get some great shots. This company would be nowhere without your eye.”

  “Yeah,” she laughed. “I don’t know how my fun trip became work again.”

  “‘Cause you love it.”

  “I do. Remember when it was just you and me and we never dreamed it would all work as well as it did?”

  “Capture that magic again, Amberly.”

  “I love you,” she told him, leaning on the hood. Cass caught her saying it and her brow curled up and she cooed a silent ‘aww.’

  “I love you, babe. I mean it. Get in touch with whatever part of you is lost. Cool?”

  “Cool.”

  Cam said, “I’ll see you in a couple days. Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will,” she said, tapped the phone and held it to her chest. Cass kept the grip clunking on the old gas pump, watching the numbers flip behind the glass, squeezing every drop she could into the chaperone.

  Amberly sidled up to her as she holstered the nozzle back in the pump, leaning her back on the Sprinter. Cassidy came out of the general store, a bounce in his step, long shaggy hair swaying, and she caught his eye.

  “Grab some of that kindling,” she called out, jabbing a pointing finger. “Two bundles.”

  Next to the front door was a homemade display box holding bundles of firewood wrapped in plastic netting. Painted in maladroit block letters on a 1 x 10 plank above the wood: CAMP FIREWOOD. Cassidy nodded, turned on his heel and bent over.

  Cass said, “Hey, you okay if I smoke?”

  She said, “Huh? Yeah, I don’t care. Not around the gas, maybe. And probably not wearing my fleeces ...”

  Cass put her back against the van like Amberly, their shoulders touching. She said, “No, I mean, like, smoke smoke ...”

  “Oh, yeah, ha, of course,” she laughed, getting it now. “You’re talking to a woman who lived in her van for three years driving around looking for good powder to ski.”

  “Yeah, I figured it was cool,” she said. They watched Cassidy as he gathered two bags of kindling now and moved to the glass door of the store and held them up for whoever was in there to see; showing he was taking two bags.

  “Believe me: it’s cool,” she said, watching as Cassidy bounded down the stairs, smiling at them, hands out at either side holding the bags of kindling, his tanned, gleaming arms raised with a network of thick veins.

  “Is that going to be a problem,” Cass whispered to her, bumping a shoulder to hers.

  “Is what ...?”

  “Him not wearing underwear.”

  Now her eyes were drawn between his legs out of curiosity and she registered instantly what Cass meant. Something large and soft was visible tucked down one pant leg, squashing against the thin fabric then shaking as his long legs brought him closer. “Oh,” she hummed, frowned, looked away, heard Cass giggling next to her.

  Amberly whispered, “I guess we’ll have to shoot around it.”

  Cass laughed loud, then leaned close, cupped a hand over Amberly’s ear, giving her goosebumps, whispering, “Or start making those pants he’s wearing and you’ll sell a million of them.”

  They giggled and leaned against each other, Cass lightly touching her bare arm and raising the hairs at the nape of her neck.

  Cassidy stepped up onto the concrete pump platform, corded arms at his sides still holding the wood. He cocked his head and gave them a smirking, puzzled look. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” they sang in chorus.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAM LEANED WITH SASHA, both of them with their elbows on the cedar railing fifty feet above the snowy arcade below, where tomorrow the space would be teeming with people standing in line for the ski lift up the mountain. Fat flakes of snow drifted in the air, light reflecting off the blanket of white making the ground below them luminous. Off on the right, in the man-made half-pipe, two snowboarders looped and swooped, their head-lights shimmering on the icy surface.

  Sasha said, “This is some suite you booked.”

  Cam said, “And that was before we knew the show would be such a big hit.”

  “You guys did well?”

  “Better than we thought,” he said, turning his back to the view, preferring instead to watch his wife dance with Ryan. He said, “Much better than we thought. More than we could’ve hoped, really.”

  “You guys have great products.”

  He nodded his chin toward his wife who was dancing eagerly with the tall, blonde lawyer from California. She leaned forward, her rump pressed backward into the man’s hips. “That’s all her,” he said, pointing with his bottle.

  “She does the designs?” Sasha said, turning around. Now they both watched her.

  “Designs, fabrics, sourcing … she’s my powerhouse.”

  “You handle the biz?”

  “I handle the biz,” he agreed. “Speaking of which, how come I’m not repped in the Northeast?”

  “With me?” he chuckled. “Nobody from the Northeast took you?”

  “A couple. Not as big as you guys.”

  “Price point’s a littl
e high for us.”

  “You’ve got boutiques …”

  They watched Amberly and Ryan for a while, both of them smirking. Sasha said, “You have my card. Call me week after next. Maybe we can get you two to Manhattan.”

  Inside the condo suite, things were getting even more lively. Ryan ran his hands over Amberly’s narrow waist and rested them on the top crest of her buttocks. Amberly went upright again, her face impassioned, eyes closed. Her rump thrust between his legs. Cam licked his lips and took another swig of beer.

  The view was blocked as Lawson, the young-looking one, came between them, watching Amberly and Ryan over his shoulder, holding a beer in one hand and trotting down the two cedar steps to join Sasha and Cam.

  “She’s so much fun,” he said to Cam.

  “She’s a lot of fun,” he agreed.

  Phone fished out of his pocket, he swiped menus till he found their Instagram. Mostly models wearing the fleece clothing that she had designed, but there were a few pictures of her as well wearing their goods. If you scrolled far back enough they might not recognize the beefy girl she was eight months ago. Still fit, still capable, still sexy as fuck—and he’d almost fallen over when she’d agreed to marry him—but now she was very much a beauty that turned every head. Tonight, she deserved their attention. He passed the phone to Sasha and let him scroll through their image feed while Lawson watched as well over his shoulder, occasionally tipping up his beer. They would see the pictures of Amberly, the hot girl they’d danced with tonight, posing in their Stroud products, smiling, winking. Meanwhile, he watched the real live version still in the suite.

  “That’s Amberly?” Sasha said, finding a picture from eight months ago.

  Lawson said, “Wait—who’s that girl she’s standing with?”

  Without even looking to verify, he said, “Cass. Cassidy Rockwell. Friend of Amberly’s. She got her signed with the Hudson Agency.”

  In the suite, Ryan stood behind Amberly, tanned hands gripping her waist, his fingers coming around and pressing into her tummy, and Amberly swayed her hips to the music, her ass pressed back against Ryan’s crotch, the two of them grinding together, her looking up at him over her shoulder with a strange expression.