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Chapter One
Aspen
COMMON LILAC (SYRINGA VULGARIS)
The Uber pulls to an abrupt stop in front of the dive bar next to a puking college kid drowning the lilac hedge in sickly green vomit. He lurches again under the sign for the Moose and Goose, another torrent following the last, as a shudder rolls through me from scalp to soles. This is the college experience everyone says is a rite of passage. The lineup of two-dollar shots, and the kaleidoscope of spew that inevitably follows. I should have timed my arrival for later, or earlier. Either would have worked, but arriving now, at 10 p.m., means every patron will be nicely toasted, well on their way to rolling drunk, or already coupled up for the evening. Damn late flights and rescheduling. Damn scholarships to a college I wanted nothing to do with but needed to accept if I was ever going to find out the truth about my father’s disappearance. And damn this fucking town in the middle of nowhere, founded by a family raised on revenue and reputation. Fuck Wyldan, and everyone in it.
“Can you drive on a little? That kid just painted everything green.”
“Get out.”
I guess not. I shimmy across the back seat to unlock the other door. While I’m not precious about shoes or labels, I draw the line at wading through piles of yack on the way into a bar. On the way out, meh. But entering, no thank you.
The stench hits as my boots approach the bottom step. Despite being drunk, the college kid remains steady as his friends haul him up and lean him against the railing amid two broken pickets. His slurred apology ceases when he looks up and straight at me.
“Heyyy—”
How does anyone drag three letters and one syllable out for over three seconds? It’s a gift.
“Not tonight, buddy. I’m pretty sure you gave everything you’ve got to the Syringa vulgaris.”
His buddies, more sober than their pal who now has his head back and is snoring, straighten and slap each other with the backs of their hands in that typical bro fashion. I’m immune to all of it.
“Not interested,” I bark almost cruelly, because I’m not. Taking feelings into consideration doesn’t win you any points. If anything, it sends a message that you’re a decent person, and perhaps, a pushover. I’m neither.
“Oh, come on. We haven’t even introduced ourselves yet.”
“Don’t bother,” I snap, taking the last steps two at a time to get away from the rizz bruhs and that sour smell.
“Fucking bitch,” one replies, and I smile. Because for a bro, he at least summed me up pretty well, too. I’m not here to make friends or socialize; I’m here to learn, and not just the Botanical Science syllabus at Wyldan University.
Inside, the bar has the milled scent of hewn logs mixed with smoky bourbon and sweat. Wyldan is a timber town, the old mill employing generations of workers intent on pumping out as much of the surrounding forest into dressed lengths of lumber for construction. Then there’s the university, also named after Otto Wyldan, the affluent Bavarian immigrant founder of the area. Pretty much everywhere you turn, the name Wyldan is etched, engraved, or enduring.
Men sit with wide asses on small stools, or clutch pool cues in grips so fierce their knuckles flare white from the strain of remembered motion. Balls clink before rolling on worn felt, the wear clear from the elongated overhead lighting. Past the pool tables are booths of college kids, a mix of guys and girls—some older, some younger. I don’t recognize any of them from orientation, but why would I? I arrived late and left early, gracing the college with exactly eleven minutes of my presence. Enough time to locate a map of the buildings that make up the campus, notably the dining hall and the Botanical Science wing. Then I checked that my registration was accurate, my scholarship requirements up to date, and I left. Staying longer only invited participation in icebreaker games. I’d rather cover myself in honey and staple my titties to a hive than answer questions about myself and what I wanted to get out of my academic journey.
As I pass the packed booths, I attract some curious glances. A bartender polishing glasses slings his cloth over his shoulder before two huge hands meet the sticky timber top.
“ID before you tell me what it’ll be.”
That’s fair. I’m twenty-two but resemble a middle-school teenager. The smoky kohl may offer a certain allure to the eyes, and the matt lip stain is working its magic, but both can’t hide the fact that I’m five-foot-five. My baby face wasn’t anything I took notice of, nor played up to. Trying to grab a drink, or five, in a backwater Alaskan bar, this face has done me no favors.
I fish out my driver’s license and flick it up toward the bartender’s gaze. He peers at it, critiquing the photo with a little too much zeal.
“Alright, Aspen. What can I get ya?”
“Double vodka lemonade, thanks.”
His biceps bunch and flex under his plaid shirt. I want to tell him that just because we’re in lumberjack country, doesn’t mean he has to fit the stereotype. Why not go with a simple black Henley? Then I consider the fact that his arms have a wider circumference than my thighs, and I refrain from the jibe. It is our first interaction, after all.
I pay, and he slides the drink across the bar where it’s the least sticky. He’s a gentleman, and that is a trait I’m not sure there will be a lot of up here in Wyldan. Supposedly, descendants of old man Otto are aloof assholes focused on finance and fame. In the trees that stretch as far as the eye can see, and then some, your money means nothing. It’s all about survival; withstanding one of the harshest environments on earth.
The band in the back is pumping out some sweet tunes, all electric guitar thrashing out riffs to the grungy drumbeat. Before I even see the lead singer, I can tell he’s dressed head-to-toe in black, has long hair stuck to the perspiration dripping off his brow, and has a habit of cupping the microphone to his lips as he whisper-shouts angsty lyrics penned about some obnoxious ex-lover. This back section of the bar is a writhing mass of bodies, their hair plastered to sweaty foreheads just like Devon or Knox or some other cool name the lead singer took up when his band took off. He would be a George or Christopher on his legal documents though—or Geoffrey might be the winner.
I didn’t expect it, but they’re good. A hint of bluesy twang dips in between bass licks only to re-emerge after each chorus. From my position near the back of the room and away from the rolling mob, I prop a booted foot on the timber panel behind me, and that’s when I see him. Tall, broad, and a face like thunder. He’s not caught up in the harmonies or moving to the vibrations reverberating through the floor—no—he’s taken up a position to mirror mine but looks way cooler doing it with his massive frame. He’s in dark-wash jeans and a black band tee I can’t make out in this light. Even when a strobe of color swathes his torso in pink or green, it’s too faded to read up close, let alone forty feet away. An unruly mop of waves rouses about his shoulders, one or two shades lighter than his trim beard, and more auburn chestnut than dark brown. His eyes are dark, brown or deep blue maybe, and fixed on the wall behind me, because there is no way I am his focus.
The song tapers off with a hi-hat crash before they launch into a moody rendition of Nirvana’s “Come as You Are,” which, may I add, is more than decent. The lights have swapped out for moody blues and golds, and when I gaze across the room again, the bear of a man is gone. For a man his size, he has melted into the darkness effortlessly, unless he joined the mosh pit undetected. My drink dwindles, the tiny cubes of ice circling the glass like jewels in a case. Hugging the walls, I shimmy past the dancers and angsty emo thrashers and head back to the bar. I step around a guy laughing and leaning back on a stool and right into something solid with a thwack. Liquid sloshes over the rim of his glass and straight onto my chest. The aroma of malty hops invades my nostrils while the icy beer puddles in my bra and drips between my boobs. Fucking wonderful.
I look up, and up past the Pearl Jam Vs. album cover graphic on his chest to a throat with a prominent Adam’s apple swallowing thickly.
