My Valdez Valentine (An Odds-Are-Good Standalone Romance Book 4) Page 2

  I click on the voice mail from Elliot, waiting a moment as the message loads and pursing my lips as the voice of my brother fills my office.

  “Addy? Fuck. Why…picking up?” The words jump through static, and I slide the phone closer to me, squinting at it as though narrowed eyes will somehow help me hear better. “Ads, you have to help me…” It’s like he’s speaking next to a fan on the highest setting—it’s hard to make out his words. A long hiss of static follows, shrouding his voice in electric fog. “…ice…don’t know how this…” More static clouds his words, and I sit up straighter, turning up the volume on my phone. “…don’t know where…Ads, please… I need…” His voice is faster now, and I realize I haven’t heard him this frantic or panicked in a long time. A sinister chill slides down my spine. “…in Valdez, but…three days…won’t find…” His words come in short bouts of two or three, harder and harder to hear. “Please, Ads.” There’s a long windy, static-y pause before I can make out the thread of his voice saying, “…if I don’t…love you…”

  The message beeps to tell me it’s finished.

  I grab the phone and press the Call-Back button under the message, but it goes straight to voice mail:

  “Yo! You got El, here. You know what to do! Have a chill day!”

  “Elliot,” I say, “I was in a meeting before and couldn’t answer. Your message is really static-y. Can you call me back? I have no idea where you are or what you need.” For a second, I consider telling him I love him but stop myself. Even though we both feel it, he says it, and I don’t. That’s the way it’s always been.

  I put down the phone and press the button on the intercom. “Kitty, please come in.”

  She enters the room holding an iPad. “Do you want your schedule for the rest of the day?”

  “Um…yes. But first, what did Elliot say? When he called before? You said he was…worse than usual?”

  Kitty grimaces. “It was really hard to understand what he was saying. The first time, I told him to call back because I couldn’t hear him at all. Super static-y. I only knew it was him because of the caller ID on my console.”

  “And the second time?”

  “He kept saying ‘get my sister’ and ‘help’ and something about…um, maybe…Alaska?”

  Valdez. I’m pretty sure he mentioned Valdez in his message to me. “Could he have been calling from Valdez, Alaska?”

  She shrugs. “I…I don’t know for sure. He was calling from his cell phone. He was definitely asking for help, though. That’s all I could really make out. Was he going to Alaska?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, feeling exasperated, feeling sick. “I can’t keep track.”

  My twin brother, Elliot, who’s never held down a job for longer than six months, has essentially made a life out of “exploring the world.” He hikes dangerous mountains, hangs out on tropical islands trying obscure drugs, meets random people and shares their yurt until they kick him out, camps out for weeks in national forests with other aimless travelers, and—of course—always surfaces a few times a year to hit me up for “a few thousand” to help finance his Bohemian, fancy-free lifestyle.

  And while I may be a shark in the eyes of the world, I’m a pussycat when it comes to Elliot. I can’t seem to say no to him.

  When he shows up, I offer him a place to stay in my guest room. I pull the covers up to his chin when I get home from a long day at the office and throw away the empty beer bottles he leaves everywhere. I have his favorite foods delivered to my apartment and cross my fingers he’ll still be there each evening when I head home.

  And yes, when he’s ready to go, I give him the money he asks for.

  All I ask for in exchange is a call from time to time so that I know he’s okay.

  I take a deep breath and hold it. Damn, I wish I’d picked up. In that voice message, he didn’t sound okay.

  “Kitty, I gave my brother a credit card last year.”

  She nods.

  “I want to see the last statement. Now.”

  As she heads back to her desk, I take out a pen and piece of paper, then play Elliot’s message again.

  Addy? Fuck. Why…picking up? Ads, you have to help me…ice…don’t know how this…don’t know where…Ads, please… I need…in Valdez, but…three days…won’t find…Please, Ads…if I don’t…love you.

  Staring at the words, I try to make sense of the message.

  He needs help. He doesn’t appear to know where he is or how he got there. Has he been there for three days? Maybe he started out from Valdez three days ago?

  Wherever he is…

  If I don’t get in touch with you, know that I love you.

  “…he’s in trouble,” I whisper.

  It’s in his voice. And now that I’ve heard his voice, it’s in my head. I can feel it in that otherworldly way I’ve always been able to feel Elliot across land and time. He’s my twin, and he’s in trouble. Bad trouble. Big trouble.

  Kitty knocks on the door.

  “Come in.”

  She peeks her head inside. “He bought a round-trip ticket on Alaska Air last week.”

  “From where to where?”

  “Detroit to Valdez via Seattle and Anch—”

  My blood rushes cold. “Wait! Did you say Detroit?”

  She nods.

  “You’re sure it was…Detroit?”

  “Yes. I e-mailed his itinerary to you.”

  When I open my e-mail account, I find Kitty’s e-mail on top. A quick glance confirms what she’s told me.

  Detroit. I wince, my heart tightening in knots. Why? Why were you back in Detroit, El? We promised. We promised each other we’d never go back.

  I scroll down, noting that there are no further charges on the card. That makes sense. Elliot likes using cash. He only uses the card to cover big expenses.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Kitty asks, looking worried, cradling an iPad against her chest.

  Fucking Elliot.

  I have a week full of appointments. I don’t have time for this shit.

  Is there any chance he’s having the time of his life somewhere in Alaska, hiking outside of Valdez, and pranking me with this phone call?

  No. There was real panic in his voice. I’d know. Although I haven’t heard it in years, I remember how it sounded. I will always remember.

  Could he be high on something? So doped up on a three-day acid trip that he feels like he’s in danger when he’s really just sitting in a hotel room watching National Geographic?

  It’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time I got worried sick over my brother only to discover that he was just being his regular fucked-up self.

  I pound my fist on my desk in frustration, and it makes a lone picture frame jump in the air. The photo inside is creased and dog-eared: two eight-year-old kids standing side by side in jeans and dirty T-shirts, with ice cream cones in their outside hands, and their inside hands clasped tightly together. Their eyes are wary, but I don’t linger on their faces. My gaze slides down to the ten intertwined fingers and rests for a second.

  I look up at Kitty. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the week and book me on an evening flight to Valdez, Alaska. Tonight.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise, but to her credit, she doesn’t push back or question me. She nods once, then heads back to her desk.

  I glance back at the photo, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

  Hold on, Elliot.

  I’m coming.

  Chapter 2

  Gideon

  She stands out.

  Really stands out.

  Her dark reddish-brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her face is dotted in freckles, but that’s where the wholesome vibe ends. She wears jeans that look like they’ve been glued to her ass, black leather boots up to her knees (with a ridiculously high heel), and a poufy little ski jacket with diamond buttons that won’t begin to keep out the chill.

  She’s a city girl, and she wears her look like armor.


  It’s eight o’clock in the morning when she arrives, which means she’s probably been flying through the night, but she walks with the confidence of someone who’s used to getting by on fumes. She struts into the terminal of the Valdez Airport like she’s walking the runway, her phone in one hand, a black leather rolling suitcase in the other.

  Leaning one elbow on the counter of my kiosk as I sip a cup of coffee, I watch her approach Jim at Ski Chugach, the first of four heli-tourism kiosks in the main terminal.

  Is she looking to ski? I wonder. Doesn’t look like the daredevil kind, but what the hell do I know?

  Taking a photo out of the purse slung over her far shoulder, she flattens it on the Ski Chugach desk. I can’t tell what she’s asking, but Jim shakes his head no after looking at the picture. She nods briskly, collects the photo and slides down the line to the next counter, Heli-Fun Alaska. Same drill there. Photo is shared. Kristin at Heli-Fun shakes her head no. Red slides down the line.

  When she stops at Valdez SkiPro, she’s finally close enough for me to hear her voice. It’s lighter and higher than I would have guessed. With that red hair, high heels, and tight jeans, I somehow assumed it would be smoky and low like a lounge singer. Shame on me for making assumptions.

  “Good morning,” she says. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m looking for someone. I believe he may have passed through here several days ago, and I have reason to believe he’s now missing.”

  She slides the photograph to Sven, who looks at it for a second, then mutters, “Yeah. I recognize him.”

  “You do?” A counter separates them, but her whole body jolts forward. “You remember him?”

  Sven’s accent is strong, but he’s been working diligently on his English since arriving in Valdez two years ago. “Yeah. He was here…uh, what’s today? Tuesday? Yeah. Came in on, uh, Friday. Wanted a drop at Berlin Wall.”

  “In Germany?”

  He stares at her for a second. “No, ma’am. In Alaska.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “How stupid of me. Of course. What is…the Berlin Wall?”

  “Mountain peak. Over in the Chugach’s.”

  “Ah. Okay. And you took my brother there?”

  Sven rubs the blond beard on his chin. “No, ma’am. We don’t do that. Liability.”

  She backs away and looks down at the poster covering the board under the counter that advertises mountain skiing. “Don’t you arrange skiing tours?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe I can help,” I say, clearing my throat to get her attention. “Most tour companies won’t dump someone out in the middle of nowhere. Especially not in January.”

  She turns her head and looks at me, nailing me with jewel-green eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “Sven,” I call to my friend, “he didn’t want a tour, right?”

  “Right. No tour. No guide. Just a ride,” says Sven, nodding once before picking up his coffee and taking a long sip.

  Red steps over to me and places the picture on my counter. “Did you talk to him too?”

  “No. But I remember him talking to Sven. When Sven gave him a no, he looked over at me. I shook my head no, and he left.”

  “Shit.” Her hand covers the photo as her head droops forward. Her voice is soft and worried. “Okay. Um. Thanks.”

  I’m a sucker for a lady in distress. What can I say? I was raised by a single mother.

  “Tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

  She looks up, her eyes meeting mine for a second before they’re distracted by something over my shoulder. “Ad Astra Heli-Tours.”

  “That’s me,” I tell her.

  “Ad Astra. That’s Latin,” she observes. “Ad astra per aspera. Through adversity to the stars.”

  Citified or not, she’s smarter than she looks, and I’m impressed. “Correct.”

  “What’s with the Latin?” she asks.

  “I just like it, is all.”

  “Can you read it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where did you learn it?”

  I have a right to be insulted, but I let it roll off my back instead.

  “Where most folks learn it. In college.”

  “I see.”

  Red stares at my face for a long second, focused on my eyes.

  I’ve got weird—almost startling—eyes, because I look mostly Alutiiq like my mother’s people, except for my eyes. My emaa—that’s my mother’s mother—likes to say that “Kristof took off before you were born, but he left his piugta eyes behind.”

  Piugta. Dog.

  Ice blue like a Siberian husky and totally out of place in my otherwise Alutiiq-looking face, they’re jarring, alright, but I stopped hating my eyes a long time ago. Dog eyes. They’re a part of me, for better or for worse.

  “Your eyes are…striking.”

  I’m tempted to say, So are your tits, just to teach her a lesson about objectifying me, but her ass is so tight and round, maybe I don’t mind being objectified a little if it goes both ways. At least, that’s what my cock says, the tiny-brained, single-minded fucker.

  “Thanks,” I say, staring back at her. “Yours are like emeralds.”

  She shrugs, but I notice the pinkening of her skin under constellations of freckles.

  “They’re contacts,” she murmurs.

  Fake. Huh. Okay.

  This information disappoints me, and I clear my throat, refocusing on our conversation. “Your brother came through here on Friday afternoon. Can’t say if he got a lift out to Thompson Pass or not. Asked me and Sven for a ride. We both said no. He left.”

  “I thought you said he wanted to go to the Berlin Wall.”

  Wow. She really has no idea where she is or what she’s talking about. I lean forward a little to explain the landscape to her. “Here’s the deal: the Chugach’s are a mountain range. Span a distance of 250 miles by 60 miles in southcentral Alaska. Between Valdez and Glennallen, there’s a piece of land called Thompson Pass. Great powder. Good for winter skiing. Anyway, Berlin Wall is one of the peaks located there.”

  “What else is out there?”

  “Ice climbs. Glacier. Good powder for skiing and snowboarding.”

  “This is starting to make sense now,” she says. “Thompson Pass is a recreation area?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “And you’re saying he asked to be dropped off at the Berlin Wall which is…a ski run.”

  “Yep. He wanted a peak drop-off, which means we drop him off up top and he skis down, but you’re not supposed to go alone. You need to be with a guide, or a tour, just in case—”

  “Elliot likes doing things himself.”

  Then he’s a dumb motherfucker, because this is Alaska, not Aspen.

  “Do you think someone else would’ve taken him?” she asks. “Dropped him off?”

  Yeah, there are some less ethical guys than me and Sven who’ll do just about anything for the right price.

  “It’s possible.”

  She nods, but her eyes are scared. “What are the trails like this time of year?”

  “Trails?”

  “Ski trails.”

  “There are no trails,” I tell her. “No ski lifts neither. This isn’t Vail or Vermont, ma’am; it’s backcountry skiing. That’s why you need a helicopter to drop you off up top.”

  She gasps softly. “No trails.”

  “Nope.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Sometimes. Depends on the weather…the skill of the skier or boarder…” I shrug. “But it’s still popular.”

  “Could you take me there?”

  I nod. “Yep.”

  “Today?”

  “Why not?” I reach down for a clipboard under the desk and place it on the counter. “Just need you to fill out this form for me, please.”

  She puts her bag on the counter and takes the pen I’m holding out to her. “Thanks. I’m Addison, by the way. Addison DeWitt.”


  “Gideon Grigoriev,” I answer.

  She blinks at the Russian-ness of my last name before filling out the questionnaire, but she doesn’t question it. If she did, I’d have to give her a little history lesson about the indigenous villages along the Alaskan coast—especially around Prince William Sound—where many of the Alutiiq native people have Russian-sounding names without a drop of Russian blood. I’d have to tell her how the Russians arrived on Alaskan soil in the 1700s, bringing their onion-domed Orthodox churches and smallpox, and how indigenous families, with no connection to Russia whatsoever, were assigned a Russian surname and forced to use it.

  “It’s good to meet you, Gideon,” she says, filling out my tour form with her boxy, no-nonsense handwriting.

  She pauses at the line asking about the length of the tour requested. “How long will we need?”

  “You just want to get a look at the Wall? Like, a flyover? Or do you want to land?”

  “Flyover,” she says, “maybe a few times. I want to look for him.” She continues filling out the form, then looks up abruptly. “Did he have skis with him? My brother?”

  “I’m not positive, but maybe. I can’t remember.”

  “Okay. So let’s assume he came here to ski. Maybe he got someone to take him to Thompson Pass and drop him off at the Berlin Wall. Then what?” she asks, those fake green eyes locked with mine.

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  I’m not trying to be obtuse. How the fuck do I know what her bonehead of a brother did next?

  “How long would it take to ski down?”

  “Depends on his level of ability. Weather conditions.”

  “Decent skills. Optimum conditions.”

  “Not that long. It’s steep up top, but it’s not the worst peak of the bunch.”

  She blinks at me. “Could he get lost?”

  “Avalanche or whiteout could complicate things. Turn him around up there.”

  “Ava…lanches…” Her voice trails off as she loses her composure for a second. To her credit, however, she takes a deep breath, lifts her little chin, and tells me, “He left me a voice mail message. It was hard to make out, but I think he’s lost. He asked for my help.”