On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (2 page)

She flopped on her bed and picked
up her phone, scrolling to the photo of a woman with chin length blond hair,
the exact color of her daughter’s. Anne Benedict’s was professionally colored
since going grey, and Baskia’s was natural, even something London admired. Her
hazel eyes matched her brother’s, an almost perfect blend of her parents’ green
and brown eyes. The siblings also inherited their father’s height, lending to
Baskia’s life as a model. The photo on her phone reflected what she’d look like
in thirty years, a facsimile of her mom. But in those brown eyes, she wondered
if what she saw was happiness.

Anne had graduated from
Dartmouth, discarded her aspirations to work in the fine arts, got a job
supporting the legal staff at a top firm in Manhattan, and then promptly met
William Benedict Jr. becoming a society woman. So, happiness? Baskia observed
it came at a cost—her father’s frequent absence provided him with an ample
salary allowing Anne to spend like it was her job. But would she have rather
become a curator at a museum? Probably. Did she regret opting to work at a law
firm instead of an art gallery? Perhaps. What brought happiness, really? Baskia
couldn’t even begin to pull the complicated answer apart. She sighed and then
pressed call.

“Well, it’s about time,” Anne
said by way of greeting.

“Hi to you too.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I sent Mellie
to talk to you, but the clock is ticking.”

Baskia’s hunch was correct.
Mellie was in the seams with her mom. What happened to their friendship? What
was happening to Baskia? “I know,” she said, answering to both her assumption
and her mother’s comment.

“Please tell me what else you
know; where are we sending you to college?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We’ve been going back and forth
about this for months. You promised you’d have a decision by the time you
returned from South America.” Baskia started to say something, but her mother
cut across her. “I knew getting involved in modeling was a mistake. You meet
the strangest sorts in that industry.”

“Don’t sound so ignorant.”

“Is that Kate London still
staying with you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you see in
her. What do you have to gain from her? I’m sure she’s taking advantage of you.
If I find anything missing from that apartment—”

“Don’t worry, you won’t.”
Although Kate was a mooch, she wasn’t a thief, unless she counted other
people’s boyfriends. Baskia recalled several episodes of cheating that London
relayed, but never regretted.

“I’m just saying, girls like
her—she’s a bad influence.”

Although Baskia didn’t want to
get back on the subject of college, she didn’t want her social life analyzed
and criticized. “I thought we were talking about school.”

“Your father is eager to hear
what you’ve decided.”

“I’m sure he is,” she said dryly.
Although Baskia loved her father, he was just that, a father and not a dad. She
wasn’t daddy’s little girl or the daughter he taught how to throw a baseball or
a right hook. He was a stoic figure who paid the bills and sat in disapproving
silence at the head of the table, when he appeared for meals.

“Baskia, you have your choice,
Dartmouth, Harvard, Columbia, or Yale. You must make a decision. They’re not
going to hold your place forever, you know. You do realize most prospective
students had to make a decision months ago. Not every institution is holding
its door open waiting for you. Your brother, he went directly to Harvard, there
was no question. As for you—”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go to
Columbia,” Baskia blurted.

“Well, that wasn’t my first
choice, but good. I will let them know. I’ll send a courier over with a few
documents after they’ve been sent to me.”

“Email is fine, Mom.”

“Their prospectus is lovely, and
you’ll need—”

“Didn’t Will show you how to
press send?” Baskia asked, knowing her mother’s ineptitude or perhaps
unwillingness to move forward, with technology.

“Well, yes, but how about you
come over for dinner next Sunday. I should have everything in order by then. I
expect your brother will also be home one last time before the semester begins.
You’ll also have to discuss this with your agent. College is different from
high school with the tutors. I can’t get you excused if you miss classes or
exams.”

“I know that. What do you think I
am, stupid?” Baskia couldn’t help reverting to the argument they’d been having
since she was thirteen.

“No dear, but it isn’t like
you’re as independent and,” she paused, “adept as Mellie.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,”
Baskia snapped.

“After she lost her mother, she
had to handle everything, applying to schools, her interviews…”

“I’m pretty sure you helped her.”

“Well, not having a mother to
look after her interests—”

“Come on, Mom,” Baskia said,
feeling her cheeks flushing hot with indignation.

“Dear, it’s just that Mellie has
a clear vision for her future, she has goals, and is taking the steps necessary
to succeed.”

“If you prefer Mellie to me, just
say so. That way I can be the ditzy-orphan child and you can adopt a new
daughter. The two of you can attend stuffy dinner parties, rub elbows with high
society, and then when you’re old and dull, you can ask yourselves what it was
all for,” Baskia shouted, knowing she’d gone slightly too far, but couldn’t
stop herself. All the pressure of her upbringing and the expectations for her
future pressed against the inside of her chest begging for a way out, and
unfortunately, it was through a yelling match with her mother that continued
for fifteen minutes.

“Fine,” Baskia said. “I’ll go to
Columbia, get a degree, then I’ll get married, leave my career, have a couple
brats, and when I’m your age I’ll be so miserable I’ll either try to hold onto
my youth by trying to control my adult children’s lives—” but her mother had
already hung up. Baskia leaned back on her bed, practically out of breath,
knowing she’d just crushed her future in a rocky avalanche of acquiescence and
anger.

Chapter Two

Without a knock, London appeared
in the doorway looking as sexy as ever, despite bedhead and smudged eye makeup.
Baskia wondered how she was always effortlessly perfect. Even though Baskia
would be able to stay in the city, her pledge to go to Columbia made her feel
as alien in her skin as ever. She rubbed her eyes wishing she could see a way
clear of the situation.

“What was the tantrum about this
time? Daddy not paying your—those shoes!—where did you get them?” London asked,
interrupting herself and slipping one of the pumps on.

Baskia sighed. “Retail therapy.”

London teetered in the Louboutins
as she made her way to the full-length mirror, trying to avoid the disaster on
the floor: tangles of clothing, shopping bags, scarves, and bras. She admired
the long lines of her legs, made more slender by the studded, white heels.
“Girlfriend, if I had the opportunity to go to an Ivy League school—not that
I’d even get in—I’d jump at it. Unless your mother is Kate Moss and not that
bitch you call Mom, eventually your looks will fade. Modeling, it’s for the
young. And right now,
we
are young.”

“It’s not even that,” Baskia
said, rolling over and dismissing London’s sharp tongue.

“What, you don’t want to be a model
anymore?”

“No, I do,” Baskia said not
entirely convinced she believed her own words.

“Because, just like the waitlist
at college, there’s a long line of girls who would do anything for your
position. You’re living the dream.”

She wasn’t used to London getting
self-righteous; or rather, she was, it just wasn’t usually directed at her. She
was Baskia’s go-to for fashion advice, her party partner, and an all-around
fun-time.

“It’s not that I don’t want to go
to college, and it’s not that I don’t still want to model. I do. I know that
I’m lucky too. I suddenly feel like I’m stuck in neutral. I don’t know where to
go or what to do. No one thing seems like it will please everyone.”

“That’s stupid,” London said with
a yawn.

“What?”

“Don’t try to please people.”

“Well, I’m including myself in
the umbrella term
people
.”
What do I want?
She heard a small
voice inside ask.

“Whatever. Your family and your
money, there are so many rules and such bullshit involved. Blah, blah, blah.
Lucky for me I don’t have that problem.”

“Exactly. You just do what you
want to do when you want to do it. The problem is I don’t know what I want to
do.”

A mischievous smile crept across
London’s lips. “I know what you need.”

“I’m too tired.”

“I know what’ll wake you up.”

“I—”

“You have no excuses. Unless of
course you want me to wear those heels out to the Dome tonight?” London said,
referring to the invitation to promote a hot new label at a club.

Hours later, Baskia climbed into
the cab, behind London. The mid-August, daytime heat still hung in the air and
immediately clung to her skin. Despite their usual pre-club routine of primping
to loud music and downing a glass, or a bottle, of champagne, Baskia couldn’t
pull off a party mood.

“I really hope my hair doesn’t
frizz,” London said, smoothing her tresses. “Since Mommy and Mellie aren’t here
to chaperone, I suggest you get your groove on. This might be the last time.
When do classes start, in a couple weeks?”

At the mention of the two people
in her life she was most annoyed with, no, angry with, she nodded. That little
nudge was all she needed to party harder than usual; if only to push against
the heaviness that had settled over her since she agreed to go to Columbia.

“You’re right. Now that I’ve
resigned myself to college and the dull, scripted life my family has planned
for me, I might as well let loose while I can.”

“There’s the Baskia I know and
love.” London laughed, squeezing her arm. “So, if I see Nels, dibs. ‘Kay.”

 “Do you really like him?”

“Who, Nels? Sure. He’s hot and
hooked up, what’s not to like?”

Baskia worried about her friend
and her lack of self-control. Although they were no strangers to the partying,
she’d managed to pull back when she needed to, sort of. She couldn’t think
about it further as London ushered her out of the cab and past the velvet ropes
of the club.

The cavernous room was a contrast
of shadow and neon, flashing light. The volume of the music penetrated Baskia’s
skin, giving her an instant headache. But she was there to shrug off the fight
with her mother, the realization that her friend had come to her under Anne’s
direction, and the commencement of school. London uncorked a bottle of bubbly
and thrust a flute in Baskia’s hand. They clinked glasses, and London
disappeared into the throbbing crowd, everyone eager to party with her.

After another glass of champagne,
Baskia found herself on the dance floor, forgetting time and place, parents and
old friends, losing concerns and dreams to the rhythm of the pop music. A guy
with short cropped, brown hair grinded behind her, running his hands up and
down the sides of her chest and her waist. She didn’t care; she was gone.
Baskia had taken flight and hardly acknowledged the gravity that held her to
the earth.

Their hips moved together,
winding up and down, twisting, and turning to the changes in the music. She
felt his breath, whisper soft. He almost, but not quite, kissed her neck. The
room was a mass of gyration, a single organism fueled by alcohol, pills, and
lust.

He took Baskia’s hand in his,
leading her off the dance floor to a vacant leather banquet along the perimeter
of the room.

Baskia was no stranger to hot
parties, where people unabashedly pursued their deepest pleasures. The
club-goers made out or swallowed what made them feel good in the moment. The
fallout, or hangover, wasn’t always pleasant, but she hadn’t gone out that
night to think about the immediate or distant future. Instead, she let the guys
in the room look her up and down. She gave herself permission to do whatever
she wanted. At that, the guy who’d danced with her spun her bare knees in his
direction.

“I’m Pierce. I’ve seen you
around. You’re friends with London, right?” he said in a French accent. He
dispensed champagne. “We’ve never met, but the first time is always the best, oui?”

Baskia was used to being the one
in the know, but London had been hitting the party circuit hard the last month.
“Yeah, London lives with me.”

“Let’s take the party back to
your place then,” he said.

She didn’t say no.

After another glass downed, they
pressed through the crowd, losing minutes to dance, tossing back more drinks,
and gathering other people to take back to her apartment for an after-party.
Finally, she found London straddling Nels in a smoky corner.

“Where have you been? Having fun,
I hope.” London wiped her nose.

“Not as much as you,” Baskia
answered, eyeing Nels. “We’re going back to the apartment, the party
continues,” she slurred over the blare of the music.

London launched to her feet. “You’re
not serious?” She drew everyone’s attention with her hiked up skirt and the
impish grin that promised a good time.

“I am.”

“Whoa, wait, after all this time
and all my begging and pleading, you’re finally opening the door to a party, at
our
place?”

Technically, it was Baskia’s
parents who owned the penthouse apartment and let her stay there on the
condition she not have parties or guests unless they were trusted by the
family, like Mellie. Even letting London stay there was a stretch, but Baskia
had sold London’s story about not having anywhere else to go, which wasn’t
really a lie. Up until that day—when Baskia watched any notion of her fun and
carefree life wiped away and replaced by studying what, she didn’t know—she’d
said an emphatic no to gatherings there.

“We’re gonna have a party,” London
shouted, busting a sultry move to the beat-heavy music. “You hear that
everyone, party at my place!” She whooped.

Baskia ignored this, lost in
Pierce’s lips after he pulled her to his chest, their mouths meeting in one
swift motion. The next thing she realized she was back at the penthouse,
fumbling to get the key in the lock as a loud group pressed behind her.

After making out with Pierce on
the couch, she pulled a few bottles of liquor out of a cabinet. Somehow, open
bottles and cans already littered the countertop. The room blurred as she
grabbed an aged bottle of white wine. Pierce refilled Baskia’s glass, running
his hand along her arm. Pierce pulled her away from the living room. “Where’s
your bedroom?” he asked.

Baskia had been to loads of parties
identical to this one, but never at one of her parents’ houses—it was a line
she didn’t cross. Sure, she’d invited people back to hotel rooms and temporary
rentals while she was abroad, but as she pointed to the door,
self-consciousness flooded her like the enormous sip of wine she’d tossed back.
Nonetheless, Pierce with his accent, hard chest, and who knew what else, made
her eager to forget the worries and lose herself in a night of meaningless sex.
Never mind that the numbers on the digital clock on the night table told her it
was nearly morning. They grey light seeping in through the drapes covering the
floor to ceiling windows of the bedroom distracted her.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” she
said, stumbling over the mess on the floor. A sudden thought surfaced in her
drunken mind that told her to make sure everything was okay, that nothing was
broken or worse, taken.

When she entered the living room,
London looked up from the coffee table. Neat white lines spread in a fan next
to a plastic bag.

“Best idea ever,” London said,
getting to her feet. “Want some?”

“Uh, no. We should probably wrap
things—”

“Don’t be silly. This is the most
fun we’ve had in like—” London paused when Pierce appeared, wrapping his arm
around Baskia’s waist. Her eyes narrowed seductively as if to lure him away,
despite Nels seated on the couch and Baskia right in front of her.

At that, Baskia seized the
moment, forgetting her concerns and the dawning light. She turned to Pierce,
ran her tongue from his jawline up the side of his cheek, and uttered, “I
licked him, he’s mine.”

Laughter fizzed in the room.

London sneered, not willing to be
defeated, and then hissed, “Today Baskia made the decision to go to Columbia
University.” A few people hooted and clapped. “Yes, congratulations are in
order. But it is also the day that my roomie finally made the decision to shrug
off the lame rules her ritchy-bitchy mom made up, let loose, and have a
part-ay.” She laughed and the room cheered. Nels pulled her back to his lap,
and the pair were wrapped in wet, sloppy rapture.

Baskia knew London was being the
bitch, but it didn’t matter because in two weeks everything was going to
change. She turned to the table, grabbed a half-finished bottle of bubbly, and
retreated to her room.

Pierce followed. “Ritchy-bitchy?
I like girls like you,” he said, flipping her hair behind her shoulders.

It crossed her mind that he might
define the word a-hole. As a model, she found herself surrounded by shallow
people, but equally so wonderful friends she hoped to have forever. It wasn’t
much different from the people surrounding her parents; there was greed and
dishonesty, power plays, and insults. Her people just wore their heels better. At
least Pierce was being honest with what he wanted. Baskia urged her mind to
shut off. She chugged the champagne and fell into his arms.

For the following week, Baskia
repeated the late nights at clubs, early morning after-parties at her place,
and the ensuing hang over. With each passing day, she slipped farther and
farther from the blow of the argument with her mother and the sting of Mellie’s
betrayal. Best of all, she hadn’t thought about going to school at all, at
least not while she wasn’t sober. She’d downed more than her weight in alcohol
and other curious substances, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t come up with
anything meaningful to hold onto, to use to levy herself from the tarry sludge
of the future she envisioned her mother had planned.

She’d hooked up with a couple
different guys during the nightly blowouts, but that morning, as the risen sun
eventually forced her eyes open, she glimpsed the slope of Pierce’s shoulders
as he slept beside her. She couldn’t shake a sinking feeling that didn’t have
anything to do with him; he was great in bed. It wasn’t London and the apparent
permission having a party gave her to do whatever she wanted day and night,
including increasingly more and more drugs. No, the dull prickling, that turned
into panic, was the realization that a courier had not yet sent over the
documents for school. In that rare moment of sobriety, she suddenly worried
that her mother would decide to pop in and deliver the items herself.

She scrambled out of the bed, to
Pierce’s sleepy protests, and into the living room, wearing nothing but panties
and a camisole. Just as she feared, her mother stood in the doorway, her lips
puckered scornfully.