Hydraulic Level Five (1) (2 page)

“You are going to drown yourselves one of these days if you’re not careful…” I simply nodded and dug through the wet bag for my fishing hat. “Why don’t you head over to the hot springs? They’ll heat you right up.” Reaching under my chin, she unlatched my helmet like I was a five-year-old and gave me a shove.

Danita and Santiago stretched out on flat rocks like seals, black and sleek, heads lolling in the sun. Danita Maria Cabral…a tumble of gleaming black curls, curvy Latina hips. The Cabral gene pool certainly kicked out some lovelies. She waved me over. I saw the no-nonsense eyebrow lift behind her designer sunglasses and tried a pre-emptive strike.

“You’re wearing Dior shades on a rafting trip?”

“They’re old.” She ripped the sunglasses from her eyes. “If you keep trying that hydraulic, one day either you or Angel won’t break the surface.”

“Yeah, Molly said the same thing.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to me, Kaye.” Molly planted herself next to me on the rock. “You take too many risks. Ice rappelling, paragliding…and I heard about how you skipped out on Vail’s last ski day to chase avalanches in the backcountry with Hector…in cow costumes, no less!”

“Hector and I didn’t go leaping and twisting off cliffs. Just two friends taking a leisurely ski down a scenic mountain. We were
udderly
safe. Get it?”

Santiago’s ears perked up at the word
ski
. “Dang, Kaye, you cliff-huckers.” Cliff-hucker? Hmmm…it had potential for my cuss-word stockpile.

“We live in Colorado, playing on mountains is in our blood,” I reminded them.

Danita huffed. She couldn’t stand Hector Valdez and thought his penchant for risky sports was a bad influence.

I eased my muscles into the water. Before long, Angel’s heavy footsteps plodded our way, then his deep voice cut through the quiet. Despite the cool spring air, he’d rolled his wetsuit down to his waist, showing off his beautifully muscled chest. Once upon a time, he’d been pimply and pudgy, never acknowledged save by our small group of friends. But he left for the Air Force Academy and came back confident and…well…hot. One hand clutched his water shoes, the other, the Goon Bag—our consolation prize of cheap, nasty wine.

“Tra-di-TION…Tra-di-tion! Tra-di-tion!” He shimmied in his best Tevye impersonation and tossed me the Goon Bag. “Drink up, Kaye! Shlapp that hard,
hermanita
, you earned it today.”

“Yessir, First Lieutenant Valdez.” Lifting the plastic bag over my head, I gave it a couple of good smacks and trickled crappy wine into my mouth.

“How’s the water?” He beamed at Dani and stooped for a kiss. She twisted her head away, taking his grin with her.

Danita sucked furious air through plump, pink lips. “Angel Esteban Valdez, you
pendejo
, I am so sick of watching you and Kaye try that same old stupid surfing stunt on a
class five
hydraulic! What if you’d drowned?
Ave María Purísima
, you are no better than Hector!”

“Dani—”

“I’m not exactly keen to lose my fiancé right before the wedding, especially since you just got back…” She lapsed into Spanish, winding down.

Angel gave her the minute of venting she needed. “I’m sorry you were worried.” His dark eyes shone with regret, though I noticed he hadn’t actually apologized for trying to surf the rapid. “But I know what I’m doing. There’s that stretch of calm water right after the rapid. If we didn’t have that, there’s no way we’d try to surf. Trust me,
mi amor
.” Danita sniffed, but she didn’t say any more. While patient to the point of being lackadaisical, even Angel had his breaking point. “Anyway, I found this burned-out Ford up the hill, behind those aspens. It must be fifty years old. The upholstery’s gone and the windows are broken out, but it’s a good place to set up camp.”

The car it was.

It was a tranquil night. Just the rushing water, the cadence of evening birds, rustling aspen leaves. Angel grilled burgers over a small campfire. Danita and Molly chatted on their sleeping bags. Santiago leaned against the old car, mini flashlight in his mouth, hunched over a book.

The sun faded. Amazing didn’t do it justice—I was never one for clever descriptions. It had always been
him
, so lyrical and perfect.

“Kaye, listen to this.” Santiago held up his book. “It could totally be us right now: ‘As the sun set, the entire mountainside went up in flames like parched timber. It crept behind the Matterhorn, painting them in bottomless blues and purples and stars…’ Creepy, huh?”

I anxiously crossed my arms over my chest. “What are you reading?” I already knew the answer.

“
Water Sirens
.” The other three’s heads shot our way and Santiago mistook their concern. “Yeah, yeah, I know it’s been out for like, six years. I’m probably the very last person in Lyons to read it. But damn, Kaye, your ex can write an awesome story!”

“Don’t I know it.”

“I can’t wait to read the other five books!”

“Yup.”

“I’m still not sure what a nixie is.”

“Nixies, nacken, sirens…They’re all seductive water spirits known for drowning their victims.”

“So, why are water spirits battling…what are those monsters called?”

“The Others.”

“I mean, did Cabral have some sort of obsession with mythology when you guys were together?”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation
again.
Not ten months after our marriage crumbled, Samuel had struck gold with his debut novel, and ever since, I’d been subjected to readers, critics, and entertainment journalists prying into my personal life.

“Knowing him, they’re most likely metaphorical nixies. Something along the line of being lured in and drowned by his ex-wife?”

Danita winced. Santiago was unfazed. “Why the Alps, though? What’s wrong with Colorado?”

I couldn’t tell him how the Swiss Alps were like Camelot to my ex. His birth mother had taken him on a ski trip to Zermatt when he was five. He stayed in the lodge while she hit the slopes and the nightlife. It was the one and only “family vacation” she’d ever spent with him.

“Probably changed it so I wouldn’t sue his sorry tail.”

He tilted his head like a cockatiel. “Why would you sue him?”

Danita groaned. Molly muffled a laugh. Did this man live under a North Face-embossed rock?

“Santiago, how far into Samuel’s book have you gotten?”

“Um, about one-third.”

“Do any of those naughty lil’ nixies seem familiar to you?” I knew my bitterness was loud and clear and I’d become
that
person. But Neelie Nixie was a sore spot for me.

Santiago shrugged. “I’m not paying too much attention to the characters. The action scenes are much better.”

I practically had this bilge memorized, I’d stewed over it so long. “‘She had the soft mouth of an angel,’” I hinted, “‘but what came out of it was so awkward, it made the comparison farcical.’”

A blank look. Santiago probably didn’t know what farcical meant.

Molly jumped in. “How about ‘eyes as deep as ancient forests’? I always liked that one.”

“‘Fashion sense of a hobo’?”
Thanks, Danita
.

“‘She could drink a ladybug under the table…and that was about it.’” Molly laughed. “Smart boy, your ex.”

“‘Chaos stalked her so frequently, she should have slapped it with a restraining order,’” Angel piped up from the campfire, flipping another pineapple skewer.

“Oh har har har. You all can quote that brilliant Byron’s little snipes like scholars. How about some burgers there, Valdez? It’s almost eight o’clock.”

But Danita, mouth quirking, added one more to my pile of published shame. “‘In the sack, Neelie didn’t care if she won…she was just happy to be nominated.’”

“Dani, you tramp, that isn’t even in there!” Oh, that was it. I leaped from my sleeping bag and dove, evoking a screech from my traitor friend. But then, a figurative light bulb flickered over Santiago’s stubbly head.

“You—you’re Neelie Nixie? Seriously?”

I hated that cartoon nickname. Hated it almost as much as I hated my first name—Aspen—courtesy of my hippie parents. Seriously, what had Samuel been
thinking
, sharing all of that personal stuff with millions of strangers?

“Wow…Kaye.” Santiago’s eyes went wide as they flicked across the page. “Is it true you have a heart-shaped freckle on your—”

Samuel Cabral was going to die when I saw him again, I thought for the thousandth time.
If
I ever saw him again…

Steaming, unholy waste, plague and atrocity—Angel and Danita’s wedding.

Chapter 2: Bank Scout

Before navigating a treacherous stretch of river,
a paddler must get out of the craft and scout
the rapids from the bank.

I S
TARED
A
T
T
HE
B
LANK
whiteboard, tapping a dry-erase marker on my knee. I never had problems coming up with ideas in my beloved brainstorming room. Warm purple walls. Cushy art-deco chairs. A marvelous cascade chandelier I’d found at a local art festival, made entirely from recycled eyeglasses. And the centerpiece: my big whiteboard.

Tap tap tap tap tap
…I tossed the marker on the table and ran a hand through my loose curls.

He was coming home for Danita’s wedding. Two months to mid-June. Two months until I had to stand across from him at the same altar and witness another couple pledge to love each other for the rest of their lives.

I stared at the whiteboard, willing ideas to just auto-populate. Nope, still blank. I needed Molly. I found her at her desk, ginger hair twisted up with a pencil.

“Is that the new website for the Rocky Mountain National Park?” I asked, impressed.

She looked up from her screen. “Whaddya think?”

“Perfect. I love the photography. Hey, I can’t wrap my mind around the Fine Arts Center pitch. Brainstorming?”

“Yup, I could use a break.” She saved her work and grabbed a marker.

Molly and I had been in business together for nearly a decade, since we founded TrilbyJones in our humble freshman dorm room. Following graduation, we secured a small-business investor and a loan. Once word spread and business rolled in, we took on a staff of six. Now I handled client accounts and Molly was art director.

Boulder proved to be a killer location. From Pearl Street to the Flatirons lording over the town, it had everything a granola kid could want. Buying and renovating the dilapidated Victorian to house TrilbyJones was the only occasion I’d ever spent a dime of Samuel’s alimony. Our offices were downstairs. Upstairs was my apartment, lovingly decorated by Sofia Cabral—Samuel’s tender mother. She insisted I needed a beautiful home of my own, something brand new for my fresh start. I’d cried in Sofia’s plump arms for an entire afternoon.

Sofia. Even now, almost seven years after my divorce, Sofia was still
mi madre
. Like Samuel and me, Alonso and Sofia played together as children, but in the shabby streets and fairy-tale gardens of Ciudad Victoria, Mexico. When Alonso left with his brother for Harvard, an opportunity he couldn’t turn down, it nearly broke Sofia’s heart. But he came back, married her, and they made their home in Lyons, Colorado. Lyons was a teeny tiny town in the shadowy imprint of hulking mountains. It had hippies and Hispanics and farmers, microbreweries and music. It had my father, my mother, and my Cabral
familia
. Boulder was a great place to work. Lyons? It was home.

“We should move the press release here, after the radio spot,” Molly said, putting the final touches to our now-full whiteboard.

A rap at the door interrupted us, and Danita stuck her head in.

“Hey!” I swooped in for a hug. “What are you doing in town?”

“It’s not like I haven’t just spent an entire week in the wide world of nature with you.” Danita laughed. “I want you to look at something for the wedding. Do you have a minute to pop across the street for lunch?”

“Sure. Molly, thanks, I owe you one.”

“Bring me back a brownie.” Fisher’s Deli was famous for their huge, cake-like brownies packed with walnuts. Those things would kill my hips one day, but it would be worth it.

A drizzle brushed my face like the lightest of feathers. We didn’t have many days like this outside of the mountains, as Colorado was embroiled in the longest stinking drought on record. Danita and I claimed a table under the canopy and absorbed the balm and breeze. Our waiter winked at her. The wink didn’t faze either of us. I’d trailed my buxom Chicana friend long before she had cleavage that pervert boys ogled, and was used to being eclipsed by her bountiful blessings. If I didn’t know better, I would assume she torched metal in heels and a push-up bra. But I’d seen her many times in her welder’s jumpsuit, sparks flying, face sweat-streaked and dirt-speckled beneath her visor as she gently wielded molten iron into something exquisite. The dresses and heels were a vestige of womanliness in a testosterone-dominated world.