Shredded - Wolff Tracy (читать книги онлайн полностью без регистрации txt) 📗

“It’s good. One of the original dystopians, back when they were popular the first time.”

“So you’ve read it?”

“Yeah.” I’ve read a lot of things. Sitting on your ass for weeks at a time while you recover from a drag racing accident will do that to a person.

“Cool. So when I’m done, maybe we can talk about it.”

“Sure. I’d like that. There aren’t that many people I can talk about books with.”

“I know, right?” he says with a grin. I think he’s about to say something else, but another customer comes up to the counter.

I smile at him in apology, then turn to take the order. Harvey smiles back and gives me a little wave before he takes his coffee and book over to a seat beneath the window. He spends the next fifteen minutes immersed in the book and doesn’t look up until his break is over. Then he stands up and catches my eye before giving me a little wave.

I wave back. He’s a nice guy, and I think maybe we’re on the way to being friends. I have to admit it feels pretty good, especially since I haven’t had a friend for a while.

I’ve only got about an hour before my shift ends, and the time goes by pretty quickly since the snow has really started kicking up outside and a bunch of people have decided to hit the lodge early. In fact, I end up working about half an hour after I should have gone home just because we’re so slammed.

When reinforcements finally arrive, courtesy of a couple of the kitchen staff, I shed my apron gratefully. It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet. I’m supposed to have dinner with my aunt and uncle tonight, and the sooner I get there, the sooner it’ll be over.

It’s not that I don’t like them, because I do. They got me this job and have been pretty cool to me—especially since I messed up in the first two positions they put me in. When I got here I didn’t understand that letting the old geezers flirt with me was practically part of the job description, so when a couple of walking midlife crises with fake tans and bad hair tried to make a move on me, I made sure they understood I wasn’t interested. Unfortunately, I was a little too forceful in my rejection of them and complaints were filed.

After the second incident I thought I was going to get fired, but Aunt Penny put me in the cafe hoping that the third time would be the charm. And except for that little incident with Z the other night, things have been good. It turns out that as long as I keep a counter between me and the lecherous losers, things go pretty well.

And while I hate the cold, I’m still glad my aunt gave me the chance to settle in instead of sending me packing the first week—which she probably would have been justified in doing. After all, we’re not exactly close. She’s my dad’s sister, and since he walked out on my mom when I was six months old, it’s not like I’ve had much chance to get to know his family.

Penny, however, has always made a point of staying in touch with me—birthday cards, Christmas presents, a couple of letters or phone calls scattered through the year, just to make sure I’m doing okay. But that was always as far as it went. At least until the accident happened and my mom figured it’d be better for my “recovery” if I got out of town for a while.

Which I guess it has been, if you consider the fact that I almost had sex with Z three days ago. That’s something I could never have imagined happening back home, where memories of Remi lurk around every corner—on every street I drive down and every store I go into.

Though I’m trying not to think about him, an image of Z pops into my head. Once again, I shove it right back out. We said everything we needed to say to each other before he left my apartment. There’s no use regretting it now. No use feeling guilty because of how I handled things. God knows I carry enough guilt around on a daily basis. The last thing I need to do is add to it.

The elevator dings on the fifth floor, and I step out. My aunt and uncle have a small but luxurious apartment on this floor—one of the perks that come with managing this place—and they’ve decided we’re going to eat here tonight instead of in one of the resort’s restaurants. I think my aunt’s trying to do the whole home-cooked-meal thing in case I’m missing New Orleans, but my mom’s always been more of the frozen-food-in-the-microwave kind of cook. Either way, I appreciate the gesture.

Penny’s husband, Alex, answers the door when I knock. “Hey, kid,” he says, ruffling my hair like I’m five. “Come on in. You look beat.”

“I feel beat. The last hour and a half has been insane.”

“Yeah. Always is when the weather turns bad.” He gestures to an overstuffed sofa. “Have a seat and relax for a few minutes. Penny’s almost done with dinner.”

“Let me just go say hello to her, see if she needs any help.” In my house, the few times my mom actually tried to cook usually resulted in a visit from the fire department or a trip to the ER—just one of the reasons I learned to cook before I was ten. Total self-preservation.

But when I get into the kitchen, it looks like my aunt has everything under control. Chicken breasts are simmering on the stove while Penny whips up a quick pasta sauce in another pan.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, hi, sweetie.” She leans over and gives me a warm, brown-sugar-scented hug. “How was your day?”

“Good. Busy, but good.”

“Mine, too. But at least they go by fast that way.” She nods to the salad on the small island in the center of the kitchen. “You can toss that if you’d like. The dressing is in the bowl right next to it.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Chicken marsala. It’s one of Alex’s favorites.” She glances at me. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Nope.” My cooking repertoire lends itself more to jarred pasta sauces than chicken braised in wine. “But it smells fantastic.”

“Thank you. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

I pretty much run out of stuff to say then, and expect things to get awkward quickly. But my aunt is a born chatterer, and by the time we sit down to dinner, her nonstop talking has got me almost totally relaxed.

The first few minutes of dinner are spent going over the inner workings of the lodge—not the most exciting thing in the world—but it doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn to the skiers and snowboarders that the lodge sponsors. Despite my best intentions, I find myself listening for the mention of one snowboarder in particular.

“That Ash is something else,” Alex says in between bites of chicken. “Mark my words, ladies. Come January, he’s going to be America’s lead contender for Olympic gold.”

“Really?” my aunt says. “I think Luc Bradford’s got a lot of flair.”

“He does,” my uncle agrees. “It’s why I wanted to sponsor him. He’s a crowd-pleaser. But that kid is all flash and not that much substance, if you know what I mean. Kind of like Kevin Byerle. Now there’s a kid who can get the crowd on its feet with his tricks. But when it comes to basic skiing talent, he just doesn’t have it. Not the way some of the other skiers do.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Luc’s snowboarding seems pretty solid to me,” my aunt disagrees.

“That’s because you can barely get down the baby run on a snowboard,” he tells her. “Despite thinking you’re a total badass.”

She glares at him, but I can tell she’s trying not to laugh. “You could let me have my illusions, you know.”

“I could.” He toasts her with his wineglass. “But where’s the fun in that?”

They laugh, and I can tell the conversation is about to take another turn, but I’m not ready to let it slip away yet. It seems like they’ve talked about everyone but the person I most want to hear about.

“What about Z Michaels?” I ask, doing my best to sound only vaguely interested.

“Z?” My uncle’s gaze sharpens immediately. “Why are you asking about Z?”

“Uh, just curious, I guess. I mean, I’ve heard people talk about him—”