Tracy Wolff - Shredded

Either way, I’m freezing. I reach for my turtleneck, slide it on, then follow it with my jeans, sweater, jacket, and scarf. None of the layers seem to help, though. I’m still one degree away from having my teeth chatter and my fingers turn blue.

There’s a knock on the door and I turn to see the nurse from earlier standing there. She’s got that I’m-so-happy-I-must-be-on-really-good-drugs smile on her face that so many of the people in this town seem to wear all the time. “The X-rays all turned out, Ophelia. You’re free to go.”

Thank God. I slide my feet into the thick socks and Uggs I just spent too much of my first paycheck on, then snatch my purse out of the visitor’s chair. This place gives me the creeps.

The nurse’s eyes widen at my full-out charge for the door, and she quickly steps aside to avoid getting run over. Smart woman. I have no intention of stopping until I’m out of this damn place—even the snow outside looks good in comparison.

To be fair, there’s nothing wrong with the clinic per se. Just the memories that being here brings up. But if the X-rays show what the doctor thinks they will—that the screws from the last surgery are healing exactly as they should be—then I won’t have to come back here for a long time. That’s something, anyway.

“The doctor will call you later today or tomorrow to let you know the results of the X-rays,” the nurse calls after me.

I lift my hand in a wave to let her know I heard her, but I don’t stop. The ball of nerves that’s been inside me since I got off the bus this morning has grown to epic proportions. I’m nauseous and dizzy and desperate to escape, as much from my past as from this damn clinic.

I take a wrong turn, end up racing down a long hallway. I make another turn when I get to the end of the hallway, and then another one, all the time getting a little more frantic, a little more freaked out. I feel stupid, weak, ridiculous, but I swear if I don’t get out of here I’m going to lose it completely.

The sign at the end of the corridor says the exit is to the right, so I make another turn and end up plowing full speed into what feels like a brick wall.

I stumble and probably would have fallen—like a complete idiot—except the brick wall reaches out and grabs my shoulders. “Hey there. You okay?”

If possible, my stomach gets even tighter. I know that voice. I look up from a chest encased in a tight black T-shirt into blue eyes that somehow manage to look both wicked and concerned. “What are you doing here?” I demand, the words popping out of my mouth before I can think better of them.

Z isn’t offended, though. He just gives me that yes-I-can-get-you-to-drop-your-panties-with-just-a-look grin of his even as he makes sure that I’m steady. When it becomes obvious that I am—or at least as steady as I’m going to get—he pulls his hands away. But not before rubbing his fingers gently up and down my arms.

There are three thick layers of fabric between his hands and my skin, and yet I swear I can feel the heat of his touch. It’s crazy, but it’s true. My arms still burn where he was touching me. I try to shrug it off, to pretend I don’t feel it, but I never have been very good at lying. Even to myself.

Z points at his forehead, and the stark white bandage that covers the left corner of it. “Hazard of being a snowboarder.”

Something about his voice and demeanor—soothing, solid, sexy—settles me. The panic recedes, and my brain cells start firing again, not a moment too soon.

“What? Having to wear really ugly Band-Aids? Or having to catch girls who all but throw themselves at you?”

He laughs. “A little bit of both, actually.”

“Yeah, I bet.” I take a deep breath and a step back. Then regret both. The breath because he smells really good—like pine and cinnamon and, randomly, oranges—and the step back because now I’m far enough away for his eyes to skim over me. Which they do. Not in a rude way, like he’s trying to get a look at my body, but in a hey-what-brings-you-to-a-medical-clinic kind of way. And since that’s the last thing I want to talk about, I find myself tensing up all over again as I wait for the inevitable questions.

In the end, he doesn’t ask them, though. Instead, he points down the hall to a red-and-white Exit sign. “Is that what you’re looking for?”

The fact that he reads me so easily has me bristling. “How do you know I’m looking for anything?”

“Believe me, I know the look. You’re as desperate to get out of here as I am.”

I can’t stand that he can see through me that easily, especially when I pride myself on my ability to hide my emotions. “Maybe I was just looking for the bathroom,” I tell him, annoyed.

His indigo eyes narrow suspiciously. “Were you?”

“No.” I don’t know why I admit it. At least not until he smiles and the damn thing lights up his whole perfect face. For the first time, I actually get why the women line up to throw themselves at him. The knowledge only makes me more wary, and I take a second step back.

“So,” he says, brows raised. “Are you ready to blow this pop stand?”

I start to turn him down, to make something up to get away from him, but the fact of the matter is that I’m breaking out in a sweat despite the cold. If I don’t get out of this clinic soon, they’re going to have to carry me out—after medicating me into a drug-induced stupor. “More than ready,” I finally admit.

“Me too.” Z puts his hand on my lower back, starts to guide me toward the door. I shrug him off, shoot him a glare, but he just grins. “I had to try.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

We push the door open and walk into the waiting room. Before I can do more than take one step forward, we’re surrounded.

“What did the doctor say?” Cam demands, poking at Z’s forehead. He winces but other than that tolerates her concern.

“Tell me you don’t have a concussion, man. You’ll be out for weeks.” Ash looks miserable at the very idea.

“I’m good,” Z answers. “Just a little bump.”

“A little bump? You were knocked out for three or four minutes!”

“I’m fine, Cam.” He reaches out and pats her head. “I swear.”

“Excellent! X Games invites are going out soon, and with the Olympic trials next month, it would totally suck if you were grounded,” Luc tells him, then glances at me curiously. “What are you doing here, Ophelia?”

“I had a doctor’s appointment. Z was just showing me the way out.” I pull out my cell phone, glance at the time. I’ve got fifteen minutes before the next bus leaves for the resort, which means I need to move it if I want to get to the bus stop in time. “Thanks,” I tell him before heading toward the door. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“Hey, wait!” Luc says, jogging after me.

I don’t stop until I hit the sliding glass doors at the front of the clinic. The second I step outside, the tension leaves me in a rush. I take a few gulps of air before turning to look at Luc, who is watching me curiously.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Where are you rushing off to?”

“Back to the lodge. I’ve got things to do.”

“Are you working today?”

I pause for a moment, consider my answer. But since I haven’t gotten any better at lying in the last five minutes, I opt for the truth. “No.”

“Awesome. Then you can come with us. Since Z’s okay, we’re going to catch a late lunch and a movie.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” he says. “Just come on. It’ll be fun.”

I know I should say no, but I haven’t been to a movie in months. Haven’t done anything fun in months, if I’m being honest. And Z’s friends seem nice enough, even if he is a total hound.