My Perfect Mistake (Over the Top Book 1)(5)

By: Kelly Siskind

But today can kiss my ass.

Nico and Sawyer coaxed me into this trip with good intentions, but if I have to listen to them spouting off about my need to get out and live a little, work less, and find myself a piece of ass, shit’s going to get real. Although it’s been a while, I chased as much tail as Sawyer in the day, and I wasn’t the president of my fraternity for nothing. My list of pranks is a mile long. Even at twenty-nine, I have no problem whipping it out.

This winner of a day started with Sawyer smacking the back of my head as he pushed past me into the condo kitchen, saying a groggy, “Morning, shithead. Can’t believe you turned down that chick last night. Another few weeks, and you’ll be revirginized.”

I chucked an empty beer can at his head. “Have you forgotten your scrawny teenage ass would still be whacking off to pictures of Leah Richardson if I hadn’t lied and told her your dick was huge?”

A few more insults were traded, enough to get me out to go skiing, a smile plastered on my face. But the day turned into a massive game of dominoes, each irritation fueling the next until they tumbled into a giant pile of frustration.

My ski pass not working at the base of the mountain sucked. Not day-crushing sucked, but I sent the boys to ski on their own and had to wait for twenty minutes while the dude at the wicket stared lamely at his computer to deduce why my piece of plastic lost its data. Once his boss issued me a new pass, I hauled ass to my gear, itching to ski out my tensing muscles. That’s when I noticed the dent in my binding. Another hour and I was at the top of the lift with rental skis. Pack on, goggles down, boots buckled tight, I gripped my poles, ready to let my skis fly, but the sound of little-kid sobs stopped me. The boy looked about Jackson’s age, and if my kid were by himself at the top of Aspen Mountain, I’d raise hell.

Instead of skiing out my frustration, I spent the next thirty minutes in the lodge, feeding the little dude chips and chocolate to keep his meltdown in check. When his ski school instructor turned up, I copied the fuckwit’s name down and made it clear he better not lose any more kids while teaching. The boy’s quiet “Thank you, mister” as he tugged on my hand had me missing Jackson hard.

This is the first vacation I’ve taken without him. The longest I’ve been away from him in seven years. I’ve spent every minute wondering if he’s tripping on that shoelace he never ties. If he’s brushing his teeth. If he’s practicing his writing. Missing him also brought back thoughts of Marina and what I’ve lost. What I might never find again.

Determined to tackle the slopes and dull the pang of missing Jackson and Marina, I went back outside. Skis on again, goggles down again, and the snow crunched with each fast turn, finally easing the negative energy churning in my gut. Not for long. Halfway down the mogul run under the chairlift, I was resting my legs, cold air raking through my lungs, when a bra landed on my head. A fucking bra. Some girls were laughing their asses off as I fisted the black fabric and flung it into the trees, every cord in my neck ready to snap. Like I needed the reminder my dry spell could rival the Vancouver Canucks’ Stanley Cup drought. Sawyer would’ve busted a rib laughing.

Nearing my breaking point, I skied down hard—quick, aggressive turns until my thighs screamed—only to get stuck on the next chair for five minutes. When I made it to the top, I didn’t hesitate. I flew toward the nearest groomed trail and let my skis run, barreling down, holding nothing back. I let loose every little thing eating at me.

Until that chick careened into my side.

I saw her fly from the trees just in time to avoid a head-on collision, but the tips of our skis crossed, sending her on her butt and me hurtling onto my shoulder. My hand and pole smacked into my goggles, the wind knocked clean out of my chest. The irritation festering all day built into full-blown rage; my only consolation was the fact that my weak shoulder didn’t dislocate. And this chick? No apology. No remorse for causing the collision. She got up and blew past me. Not before giving me the one-finger salute. Bitch.

As I stare out at the rugged mountains, trying to let go of the pile of shit heaped on my shoulders, I can’t help picturing how she raced down the hill like an Olympian. There’s something about athletic girls who can hold their own on the slopes that gets me going. I bet her legs are toned, her ass probably tight. Strip her out of that ski gear, and man, could that be the thing to take the edge off my day. If she could keep her mouth from running.

But that would mean casual sex—quick, fun. And meaningless. My gut churns like it did the last time I met a woman at a bar. The girl had mile-long legs and knew how to have fun, and it was. For a time. Until I left her apartment, went home alone, woke up alone, and spent the day with my son. Alone.

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