On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (20 page)

“You were amazing in there,” he
said. The intense look in his eyes told her it was for reasons he wasn’t yet
ready to explain. Then, planting his lips on hers, they kissed, warming each
other in the chill night air. Glancing at his watch, up to the sky, and then
back down into Baskia’s eyes, his lip quivering, he uttered, “Happy New Year.”

Chapter Twenty

As Baskia tried to sleep away a
splitting headache, scenes of the night before wedged in her mind. Trace lay
beside her, tangled in the sheets. The cabin was quiet; they’d danced and drank
into the early hours, but it was already afternoon on New Year’s Day. Baskia
wondered if her brother and Mellie were still asleep downstairs. Had Wes made
it home? What about the Manhattan crew?

She’d wondered if Mellie and Will
were an item, but she’d seen Mellie shyly flirting with Wes. Regret at not
making a greater effort to smooth things over with her seeped through the
disjointed cracks connecting the events from the night before. Her friend had
no reason to apologize. It was all Mellie could do to keep herself going after
her mother passed away. Baskia had been selfish, drifting into oblivion on the
party circuit when Mellie needed her most.

Baskia listened for sounds of
sleep, scattered around the house. There was only Trace’s soft breathing.
Immense gratitude washed over her for dodging a bullet, in the form of drug
addiction and a bloated self-image a la London.

Watching Trace sleep, with the
hint of a grin on his lips, made her feel lucky not only because he was
gorgeous, had a perfect body, and was great in bed. Those things mattered, but
not as much as whom he was, how he somehow reflected back to her the best and
worst parts of herself. Above all else, he was helping her grow out of her old
ways and into someone new. 

She slinked to the kitchen,
expecting to find Carlito and Gigi in the living room sprawled on the couch,
but it was empty, the only evidence of their presence, the countless empty
glasses, and bottles covering every surface.

On the counter, she spotted a note,
written in Will’s block penmanship.

Thanks for the party. Whew,
wasn’t expecting that. Gone skiing and then back to Boston. Happy New Year’s.
Love, Will.

She paused, affectionately
thinking of her brother and wondering about him and Mellie. If they were indeed
a couple, he’d certainly show her how to loosen up.

She caught herself on the edge of
the counter when the room spun. Taking a glass of water for herself and one for
Trace, along with a box of granola and a carton of milk, she returned to the bedroom
to lie down.

Trace rustled when she got back
in bed.

“I’m not yet fit to be upright,”
she said, as she poured a bowl of granola and then reclined on the pillows. “I
brought one for you.” She pointed to the bowl on the nightstand.

“How about eggs or something
greasy to sop up this mess,” he said, groaning and rubbing his abs.

Baskia thought about the diner in
town, but it was even riskier on an already queasy stomach. “There are eggs in
the fridge.”

“Don’t eat another bite. I’ll
make us breakfast.” He stopped as his feet hit the cold floor. She reveled in
the perfection of his sculpted chest, as if he were a statue etched during
ancient times. What irritated her was that he knew it. She put the bowl aside
and pounced on him.

They kissed recklessly, Baskia
not caring where her lips landed only that she couldn’t get enough.

Trace paused. “The others?”

“I think they left or they’re
asleep.”

He kicked the door shut and then
dove back into bed. “You’re so sexy,” Trace said.

Baskia didn’t feel sexy. Sober
and in the daylight, she wanted to close her eyes. She wasn’t shy, but in front
of him, baring it all translated beyond skin and nudity. He kept his eyes open
as if to take all of her in, so as not to miss the pulse of desire as it spread
across her face, gauging how good he could make her feel. His lips were hot on
her chest as he trailed down toward her belly, kissing the skin below and
inside her thighs. He lingered there, and Baskia couldn’t help but relish every
moment.

After he made her moan, he rolled
her on top of him, taking her wrists in his hands as he rocked gently beneath
her. She moaned more and closed her lids.

“I want to see you,” he
whispered. His eyes shone like an invitation, like eye contact allowed her to
see the real him: the most intimate and terrifying parts, the pieces of his
past that made him self-deprecating, cynical, and always at a distance. His
kisses changed when she waded into the depths of his eyes. It was as if he
suddenly feared the moment wasn’t real, as if they were just ghosts and would
pass into flickering memory.

“Are you sure?” She brought her
hand to her lips, unsure why she’d asked. But her words seemed to break the
desperation in his trance.

“What do you think?” he asked
with a smirk. He flipped her over, looking deeply into her eyes, melting into
her, skin to skin. They moved together, Baskia quivering and trembling with
pleasure.

Trace delighted in his ability to
give her what she wanted. She pushed on his shoulders, rolling on top again,
and after a few moments he shuddered and shook, his eyes fluttering closed. A
grin spread on his lips before he blinked open his eyes.

They lay together, afterward,
holding hands, whispering to each other.

“Your eyes,” she said, looking
into those pools of knowing: honest and penetrating.

“Your lips.”

“Your muscles.”

“Your tits.”

“Your smile,” she brushed her
finger over his lips.

“Your voice.”

“Your confidence.”

“Your legs, your ass, your
courage, and strength. Your—”

“Hey, no fair, it’s my turn.”

Trace laughed. “It’s going to be
dark soon.” He looked out the window, quiet for a few minutes.

Baskia sensed that he hoped that
if he looked hard enough he’d find what he was looking for.

“What are you thinking about?”

He shook his head. “Dinner?”

“What ever happened to breakfast
or was that lunch? How about breakfast for dinner?”

“Breakfast in bed,” he asked.

“I never want to leave it,”
Baskia said, rolling onto her belly and smiling at him.

After eating a plate of eggs,
toast, and home fries, Baskia started to clean up the mess from the night
before. “So, you got to meet the old crew.”

“Yeah,” Trace said, obviously
unamused by their antics.

“I wonder when they left?”

“No note?” Trace asked, glancing
at the one from Will.

“Nope. And no silver either,”
Baskia said, putting some of the glasses away in the china cabinet. “I just
knew London took the decanter from our old apartment. And now she took some of
my mom’s serving platters. Who does that? I’d expect money, electronics,
jewels…”

“Can you get it back?”

“Probably not.”

“There are ways,” he muttered
under the clinking of the empty bottles he stacked.

She wondered if he was some kind
of hot reverse-criminal, if he could or would go so far to get the missing
items back. She shivered. “I guess I’ll consider them a party favor.”

Trace raised an eyebrow.
“Pricey.”

“But I guess I’m not doing her
any favors by supplying items to sell to support her drug habit.”

“I’ve seen girls like her. Either
she’ll stop or she won’t.”

“That’s one way to look at it,”
Baskia said glumly.

Trace’s eyes hardened along with
the set of his jaw as if he knew all too well what he was talking about. After
cleaning thoroughly and leaving no evidence of the revelry from the night
before, the quiet that settled between them was too much to bear. Baskia stepped
to the window, as if to confirm that the tire tracks in the driveway had indeed
brought her brother, Mellie, and everyone from the City.

Trace took her hand and pulled
her onto the couch. The fire burned away the tension caused by how closely the
subject of drugs had affected him.

“So Baskia Benedict? Tell me,
where did you get your name?”

“What about Tracey?” she said
jokingly. “Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“Ha ha. It can be, but it’s
actually my great great…I could keep going for about a minute… grandfather’s
family name. It means warlike.” He smiled like it was a badge of pride.
“Interestingly, I was never picked on or bullied at school,” he said, planting
a kiss on her neck and working his way up toward her ear.

 “I’m not surprised.”

“And Baskia?”

“Will is, well, William Benedict
the Third. Baskia was our mother’s maiden name. I guess to honor her lineage
they named me Baskia. She has three sisters, but no one to carry on the
illustrious Baskia legacy. Baskia French Benedict. That’s me. If she wanted me
to blend in with her society friends, she should have given me a normal name.”

“So you think we grow into the
names we’re given?” he asked. Curiosity bloomed across his features; as if he
wanted to watch her lips move all night.

“If you’re asking me if I think
you’re warlike? No, not entirely. There’s a peaceful side to you too.” She
leaned in, returning his kisses as if demonstrating how docile he could be if
approached tenderly, like a lion tamer cuddling up to a deadly beast.

As his mouth moved against hers,
the intensity increased, and her fingers tangled in his hair. Her breath
quickened.

“Baskia,” Trace whispered.

She moaned at the sound of her
name on his tongue as he kissed behind her ear. She wondered if her mother gave
her the name she bore before getting married, as her way of quietly holding
onto, or passing on, independence, empowerment, and the ability to pursue her
dreams; the very things she lacked after marrying William Benedict Junior.
Trace groped under her shirt, drawing her back to the moment. “You feel so
good,” he said. As he slipped off her shirt and pressed his bare chest against
hers, all thought was lost. She couldn’t imagine anywhere she’d rather be.

^^^

Late that night, as they lay in
bed, Baskia asked, “What do you want?” She felt his lips pull into a smirk.

He rolled onto his side, playing
with a lock of her hair. “What does anyone want? Happiness. Health. Security.
Peace.”

“I thought you were warlike?” she
said with laughter in her voice.

“Only when I have to be.”

“Do you have to be often?” Baskia
saw many things in him: exhaustion—like he carried more than his own
burden—amusement, cynicism, and freedom. But always on the edge, never
committing, ready to leap or bite before anyone got too close. She wondered if
fear pushed him away. 

“That’s a long story,” he
answered.

“We have all night.”

“How about you tell me what you
want. If you recall, I asked first.”

“I also appreciated the note on
the laundry. I’m a pro now, you know.”

“I believe that anything that you
put your mind to will be amazing.”

“I wish everyone had so much
confidence in me.”

“Only you.”

“Only me what?”

“Only you need to believe in
yourself. What was that about the girl moving mountains?”

“Sometimes I think the mountain
is moving me,” Baskia said softly.

“So, this self-imposed exile,
what’s it about? What do you want?”

“I want you,” she said, planting
her lips on his, breathing deeply.

He slowly pulled away.

“I’m serious. What do you want?”

“I’m serious too.” She rolled
onto her back. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. It’s like there’s a block; a
frosty window that I can’t see through.”

“But on the other side lays your
heart’s desire?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s keeping you from
scraping the window clear or smashing it?” Trace asked, leaning on his elbow,
looking at Baskia intently.

“I’m not violent. I don’t know.”

“Sometimes we have to fight for
people, sometimes those people are ourselves.”

“But I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he answered, wrapping his
arm under her back and lifting her head toward his.

“Then tell me,” she whispered.

“You’re worth fighting for.”

Baskia flopped back on the bed.
“I’m not warlike.”

“Not all fighting is war.
Sometimes we wage an inner battle for or against ourselves. Sometimes we need
to reframe our thinking, try a different approach, smash our way through—that’s
my personal favorite. Other times, we just have to let go of things or people
who have what they believe are our best interests in mind. Maybe they’re not
aligned with what we need. And still other times we just need to sweat.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“I mean toil, prove to ourselves
and no one else, that we’re capable, worthy.”

Wes’s do-it-yourself sensibility
rang in her ears. “I think I know what you mean.”