Fireworks: A Holiday Bad Boy Romance (64 page)

Ian just kind of had a
smirk on his face the whole time like he was amused by that my father would
dare to argue with him, but he kept his tongue pretty well in line. The whole
thing kind of seemed to be beneath him, though I’m having a little trouble
picking out exactly what it was about what he said and the way he said it
that’s giving me that impression.

I look behind me to make
sure that the door’s locked before I walk forward and fall on my bed.

This is so stupid.

I’m twenty years old.
It’s not that I think I’ve got everything in the world figured out or anything,
but I’m not some precious gem that needs to be protected from everything,
either.

It’s all about mom.

I remember my dad being a
lot different when I was younger. My dad was—until
 
mom left, at least—the one that encouraged me
to see if there was a sport I was interested, and even when it turned out that
sport was skating, dad was all about it.

He even bought me my
first board.

I never really got along
with my mom. It seemed like she was always in a bad mood.

That said, she’s still my
mom, and even though I don’t actually have any measurable amount of respect for
the woman, there’s still a part of me that just wishes she’d come home already.

That day I came home from
school and found dad sobbing on the front step, though: That’s when everything
changed.

It was obvious something
bad had happened, but I had no idea it was what it was. Mom had been a little
extra withdrawn, but there was no clear indication that she was going to up and
move.

I didn’t even know about
the boyfriend until I got ahold of the note she left a few days later. It
wasn’t long, but it pretty much covered all the necessary bases.

“Alan, I’m leaving you.
I’ve been seeing someone else. Tell Mya I’m sorry.”

Yeah, she misspelled my
name in the last communiqué I’d ever see from her.

That was mom, though.
Even as a kid, I wasn’t all that surprised.

Let’s just say she was a
less than inspiring person.

What was inspiring,
though, is the way that Ian stood up to my dad without managing to cross any
serious lines.

I saw something new in
him today. It was restraint.

Before now, I just
thought he was one of those people for whom patience and tact were not
understandable concepts, but he really surprised me today. I half expected
fists to start flying, but he was decent.

Still, though, there was
that look of danger in his eyes, a warning not to push his kindness too far.

The motion is so
instinctual that I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my hand is slipping
under the top of my pants.

What am I doing?

Oh, who cares?

When my fingers touch my
center, I’m already wet. Maybe what I’ve been finding so distasteful about Ian
isn’t that he’s so different from what I’m looking for, but that he’s so nearly
it.

The first major
criterion, some palpable interest in skating, is more than met. I haven’t seen
him skate since that competition a month ago, but the replay has been branded
inside my brain.

He’s smart, although he
tries really hard to avoid letting it show most of the time. Yeah, he’s
immature, but that skater’s build of his, lean, but firm…

The pad of my middle
finger circles my clit and I’m okay choosing the fantasy of Ian over the
reality of him for right now. Not that the reality is all that bad.

In my closed-eye theater,
I’m at the skate park with Ian. It’s dark and there’s nobody around.

His board is off in the
background somewhere, but we’re not there to skate, and his lips are eagerly
moving over the skin of my neck and he feels my breasts through my shirt.

A few times, I try to
imagine taking off the ever-present beanie of his, but for whatever reason, my
brain doesn’t allow it. It doesn’t seem to have any issue imagining the firm
ridges of his upper body, though.

My mind doesn’t seem to
have any trouble whatsoever imagining him without his shirt, pressing against
my body as he removes my own top in a single, passionate motion.

I’m slipping the first knuckle
of my middle finger into me, and the fantasy dissipates for a brief moment as I
take a hot, gasped breath.

When the tape starts
rolling again, we’re on the ground naked as he puts himself inside me, kissing
my mouth. I look up at him and I can almost see those dark eyes against the
phantom backdrop of the night sky.

My hand moves over my
pussy and I’m back to focusing on my clit as my mind flashes images of Ian on
top of me and beneath me and behind me, and I have to hold a pillow over my own
mouth as I quiver with ecstasy.

My heart is beating so
hard it almost hurts, and I’m still breathing into the pillow as the jolt of
endorphins settles throughout my body.

Well, that’s new.

Chapter
Six

Turn on, Tune in, Drop In

Ian

“You’re mindfucking
yourself out of it, man,” Rob says as we stand at the top of the wall. That’s
what it is, it’s a fucking wall with a tiny little curve at the bottom that’s
supposed to make everything magically better.

Maybe I am mindfucking
myself out of it. I wasn’t exactly sure what he means by the phrase, but
whatever it is, I think I’m doing it now.

“Yeah, man, just drop in
and let your body react the way it’s going to react. If you have any problems
after one run, you can address them on the next. You’ll have this thing down in
no time, man,” Nick says.

I take a deep breath and
look over at my friends, my skating partners, my comrades in arms. “I really
wasn’t expecting you guys to be so cool about this,” I tell them. “It’s kind of
nice to know I can come to you when I need help, you know. Thanks.”

“Whatever, shit brick,
now let’s get you comfortable dropping in so the third-graders stop making fun
of you,” Rob says.

“Oh man, third-graders
are mean as shit,” Nick adds.

“Really, the two of you
are just spectacular,” I tell them, rolling my eyes.

“All right, so you know
where you went wrong last time?” Rob asks.

“Yeah,” I answer. “I
panicked as soon as the board started going down the side and I curled into a
little ball to lessen the impact.”

“I think you curled into
a ball before your second foot was even on the board,” Nick says. “So, what are
you going to do this time?”

“I’m going to pretend
like I have a pair of balls and I’m going to stop being such a little bitch
about it,” I answer.

They’ve made that my
personal mantra.

“That’s right,” Nick
says. “Now put your front foot on the board and guide your weight forward onto
the board. You don’t have to fight gravity, just work with it. You’ve rolled up
higher banks than this. Just try to remember what your body does when you’re coming
down from that. It’s the same thing, just with a lip at the top. It’s half the
work, really.”

“All right,” I answer and
I look down.

I don’t know why I ever
look down. I’m actually starting to create a fear of heights where none existed
before.

“Don’t think about it,
just go,” Rob says, and I try to separate my mind from itself long enough to
focus attention on what I’m doing as I put my front foot on the board.

I’m putting more weight
on the board and it’s tipping downward. So far, I’m doing all right, but as the
front wheels slap against the concrete, I’m back in my head, trying to remember
whether I’m supposed to crouch down for the curve or whether I was supposed to
have already been doing that, so I end up somewhere in between.

My front wheels come to
the curve at the bottom and it looks like I might just pull this—and I’m on my
ass.

“You know,” I call up to
Rob and Nick, “you don’t have to laugh every single time.”

It takes them a full
minute to respond.

“It looked better that
time,” Rob wheezes when he can finally manage some modicum of control over
himself.

“Yeah,” Nick says. “It
was like a building being demolished in slow motion.”

“Do you actually have
anything useful to add?” I ask, getting to my feet and stomping the tail of my
board, catching the nose in my hand.

I really wish we had the
park to ourselves, but I’m doing my best to ignore all of the people getting a
bonus to their entertainment by watching me humiliate myself.

I’m clenching my teeth as
I climb back up to the top of the wall.

“It’s not a question of
skill,” Nick says, still fighting random bursts of chuckling. “You know what
you’re supposed to do, you just freeze up when it comes time to do it. You’re
in your head, man. You need to get out of it.”

“Yeah,” Rob says, “have
you ever considered taking up hard drugs? From what I hear, if you get the
right stuff, it’ll take you out of your head and put you in a different reality
altogether. Now that I think about it, I don’t know if that would really help
you drop in, but you’ve got to try something. The competition’s not that far
off and you’re not even to the point of putting together some ideas of what you
want to do, you’re still worried about being able to start the fucking round.”

“Thanks,” I tell Rob. “I
was in my head before, but I have a feeling that’s going to do wonders for my
confidence. Really, you’re a humanitarian,” I tell him.

“Yeah, whatever,” he
says. “I’m just trying to get you mad. When you get mad, you get determined,
and when you get determined, you stop being such a little bitch about
everything. That’s when you get work done.”

“So the only time I’m not
a bitch is when I’m mad?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Rob says. “Now go
prove me wrong, bitch!”

Not being much for pads
or, well, playing with inflatable balls—let
that
phrase sink in for a second—I’ve never had the big inspirational locker room
speech. I still haven’t. At the same time, though, I am feeling a renewed sense
of purpose.

I have to get this down,
but I’m not going to think about that right now. Right now, I’m just going to
see myself doing it in my head.

I visualize putting my
front foot on the board and leaning in. I see the board coming down onto the
concrete and rolling down the side of the incline. I see the board coming to
the curve and, right where I usually bail, I see myself hurtling toward the
cement, unable to do anything to stop the impact and my imagination goes dark.

“Well, that’s
disturbing,” I mutter.

“What was that?” Rob
asks.

I don’t answer. I just
focus on the sound of my own breath, controlled, purposeful.

I’m out of my head.

It doesn’t even bother me
when Nick nudges my arm and whispers in my ear, “You know, I’ve seen Hawk
dropping into a halfpipe with his kid standing on the board between his feet.”

I am my foot coming down
on the front half of the board, and I am the board as it tilts downward once
more. The wheels roll between the wood and the hard surface beneath it, and I
am all of these as I come up to the curve at the bottom.

I am my body crouching
down to better facilitate the transition from vertical motion to horizontal
motion and I am the trucks responding to the changing angle of the obstacle,
and now I’m the soles of my shoes as I ditch the board and run out of it,
managing to stay on my feet until I come to a complete stop.

“Well that was just
disappointing,” Nick says.

“Yeah,” Rob bats back,
“if you’re going to bitch out, the least you could do is give us the pleasure
of watching your body colliding with the ground at odd speeds and funny
angles.”

At least this time I
stayed on my feet.

I’ve done the math, and
no matter what kind of score I get in the street round or in the best trick
competition, if I don’t reach at least the middle of the pack on the vert ramp,
it’s going to be mathematically impossible for me to come away with the win.

The worst-kept secret
about this competition is that Iliad is going to sponsor whoever comes away
with the goal. I’ve gotten minor offers for sponsorship, and I’ve even taken a
few people up on their offer—that’s why I’m never out of fresh beanies—but Iliad
would be the game changer.

Not only would I get that
sponsorship, but I would get invites to the next round of pro contests and
exhibitions. It’s basically the career-maker special.

All I have to do is
figure out how to drop in.

I’m not even worried about
what happens when I come back up the other side and catch air. I’ve caught
plenty of air off of straight vertical jumps. That’s not a problem. I’m as
comfortable with that as I am with anything.

Maybe that’s it.

When I climb back to the
top of the wall, I’m just as tense, but it’s a different kind of tension. It’s
the tension of anticipation.

I think I’ve figured it
out.

“You ready to get this
right?” Rob asks.

I just nod.

I’m in my zone now. Rob
was wrong. It’s not anger that pulls out the determination in me: It is
epiphany.

Every time I’m trying to
get a new trick and it’s just not clicking, I run into a veritable brick wall
time and time again until something clicks in my head and I finally understand
the process behind what I’m trying to do.

“I’m not going to drop in
from the lip this time,” I tell Rob and Nick. “I’m going to jump in.”

“That doesn’t seem like
such a good idea,” Rob says.

“No, it is. I know how to
land on something like this. I’m just all fucked up about the long roll in
after adjusting from the lip,” I tell him. “If I can get it through my head
that dropping in isn’t really different from landing something like this, I’m
golden. Then I can start focusing on my all-around work instead of parking my
brain at the top of this fucking wall all day and night.”

“If you think it’ll
help,” Nick says. “I’m with Rob, though. I think you should get first to easing
in before you start trying to be Captain America.”

Rob and Nick spend a few
moments discussing whether or not the character Captain America was ever on a
skateboard, but neither of them being comic book fans, the debate dies pretty
quickly.

Me, I’m transfixed and
unfortunately, it’s not on my little moment of clarity.

On the other side of the
park is a group of people about my age, some of them skating, but most of them
just sitting back and chatting together. I’ve been to this skate park countless
times. I have never seen her here, not once, and the one time she decides to
show up, it has to be right now while I’m standing on top of this wall with
these two douchebags, getting ready to jump in and probably leave a pint or two
of my vital fluid on the concrete below.

Yeah, I’m really looking
forward to this.

I’m trying not to make it
obvious that I’m keeping an eye on Mia out of my periphery, making sure she’s
not looking as I approach the side of the wall. I’ve got to stop thinking about
this as a wall and start thinking of it as a vert ramp, but as I look down to
plan my drop in, all I can think are those four letters: W-A-L-L.

It’s okay. This is going
to be okay.

Things are a little
awkward between Mia and me ever since her dad came in while we were talking and
decided I was the antichrist. Maybe dropping in will give me the confidence to
skate over there and see if she’d like to try to find a time to delegate out
responsibilities for the rest of the project.

Not that I’m really
thinking about the project right now.

I’m not thinking about
what I should be thinking about, either, which is taking a flying leap down the
side of the ramp and coming out at the bottom, still on the board.

Don’t think about it.
Just do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it.

My board is hanging from
my hand vertically, and one foot, now the other foot is in the air. I get the
board under my feet and my body angled for the ride down. Before the wheels
even touch the upper portion of the ramp, I’m already feeling more comfortable
doing this.

I do this a few times and
then practice dropping in from a smaller lip and I’ll have this thing figured
out in no time.

That’s the last willed
thought that goes through my head as the wheels come down against the flow of
inertia and, although I try to correct the angle, the board comes out from
beneath me and I’m still halfway up the ramp.

The rest is just a
deceptively long journey into the inevitable.

I manage some version of
the tuck-and-roll and, although I don’t come out on my feet, I’m generally
spared a harder impact. Still, when I hear the gasping, for a moment, I think
it’s coming from me and I almost lose what’s left of my head until I realize
it’s the sound of neither Nick nor Rob being able to get enough air to laugh at
me properly.

The best I can do is try
to hurry to my feet, but Rob catches his voice as does Nick a moment later and
the sound may as well be trumpets heralding my inadequacy to any and all within
earshot.

I’m walking with my back
toward the greater portion of the skate park as I go to retrieve my board, but
I can only pretend like I’m the only one who can hear the two of them so long
before I turn back around and see everyone, including Mia and that friend of
hers, looking in my direction, most of them pointing and all of them laughing.

There’s no sympathy
whatsoever.

Assholes.

*
                   
*
                   
*

I manage to get home with
a sliver of dignity, but you have to really want to see it.