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1: ON HOLIDAY…SANS PARENTALS
My stomach does excited, nervous little flips as the enclosed cable car lift ascends to the peak of the Matterhorn. On my left, my younger brother Killian is obsessively—nervously—fidgeting with a zipper on his jacket. On my right, Cal—Uncle Val and Aunt Kyrie's son and my BFF/sister/cousin Rin's younger brother—seems perfectly at ease, absently tapping his snowboard against his unclipped boot.
We're on a solo skiing holiday in the Swiss Alps—solo meaning without our parents; we still have an embarrassing gaggle of bodyguards that follow us everywhere we go. For example, in this skycar with us are Roger, Albie, Gleason, Cutter, Zidane, and Kazinski—two guards for each of us; the men are kitted out with their own skis and cold weather gear, full visored helmets with built in comms, and probably an armory's worth of weapons…most of which are probably extraordinarily illegal in most of Europe. But they're with A1S, and we're the children of, respectively, Layla and Nicholas Harris and Valentine and Kyrie Roth. They can get away with it.
In the car behind ours is another group of guards who will spread out around us, skiing down ahead of us, fanning out behind us, and making the run down at our flanks. These, we won't see for the most part. They're geared to blend in, and we don't know what they look like, on purpose, so we can't give them away. Yes, we have personal bodyguards as well as undercover, plainclothes bodyguards we'll never see, unless shit hits the fan.
I fucking hate it.
Guards, guards, everywhere I go. Head to the ladies’ room? A guard waits outside. Head to town for dinner and drinks? Guards in the lobby, guards outside, guards in the kitchen, guards at the back doors. Meet a guy at the club and go to a hotel to hook up? Yep, I'm followed to the hotel, my guards waiting a discreet distance down the hallway, watching the elevators, stairwells, and emergency exits.
And windows, for snipers.
I'm pretty sure there are snipers watching us from somewhere, too. Or a satellite. I don't know that for sure, but I suspect it.
You know how those hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you're being watched? I have that feeling all the time. It's as fucking awesome as you'd expect.
"Brynnie." Killian elbows me. "Are you sure about this? This isn't Vail. It's the fucking Matterhorn."
"I'm sure about it, Killy," I say, trying to sound nonchalant when I’m as nervous as he is. "If you're scared, don't go down. Ride the car back around and go chase ski bunnies in the lodge or something. I don't give a shit what you do."
Killian sighs in irritation. “God, you’ve been such a bitch since—” he cuts off with a wide-eyed glance at me, recognizing the danger he was about to put himself in. "It's a big damned mountain and I haven't been skiing in a couple years."
Cal reaches across me to whack Killian's knee with the back of his mittened hand. "You'll be fine, Killy. Stick with me."
Killian just lets out another sharp, short sigh, nodding. "I've got this." He's muttering to himself, but loudly enough that I can still make out his words. "I'm a badass. I can do this."
I suppress a snicker of laughter—if you have to tell yourself you're a badass, then you're not a badass. I don't mock him out loud though—he’s right, I have been a bit of a bitch lately.
Or, if I'm being brutally honest with myself, a colossal, mega, ultra bitch. Super bitch. Bitch extraordinaire. Bitch-tastic. And it's not his fault, the poor guy. But he's my younger brother, so he tends to get the brunt of it more often than he deserves.
I mean, I've got my reasons, sure, but that's no excuse for how I've treated him.
I lean against him. "You'll be fine, Killy. You're a great skier. It's like riding a bike, I promise. Just go slow at first and stay to the sides until you get your legs under you again."
"Pizza, French fries, huh?" he says, laughing. "They don't have bunny hills in the Alps, I guess."
"Somehow I doubt it," I answer.
The skycar slows to a stop and lets us off. Cal is first off, pushing away from the loading zone with one foot still loose, getting out of the way so Killy and I can get clear. I join him and click into my skis, shove my hands into the oversized mittens, and grip my poles while Killian follows, doing the same.
We make our way to the mouth of the run, adjusting goggles, tugging hats and hoods in place, wiggling our hands in our gloves and mittens.
Cal pulls his balaclava up around his mouth. "See you losers at the bottom!"
He stomps his boot into the clip, hops to put his left foot forward, and carves down the slope.
"So much for sticking with me,” Killian mutters. "Fuck-tard."
I nudge him, pulling my scarf up around my mouth and nose. "Go. I'll follow."
Roger and Albie, Cal's guards, are scrambling to catch up to their ward. Gleason and Zidane, my stalkers—I mean, guards—are close by, ready to go, as are Cutter and Kazinsky, my brother's.
Killian rolls his shoulders, lets out a breath. "Fuck this. Let's go, bitches!"
He launches himself down the slope with a jump and a push of his poles—way too fast.
