Novels2Search
Riverside High
Chapter XXV.

Chapter XXV.

The Aspen air tastes different than Sankt Moritz, Amber thinks, watching snowflakes dance against the inky evening sky. Less refined, more commercial - like comparing department store perfume to Chanel. But tradition is tradition, and the annual holiday ski trip with the Lawrences and Woodlands predates her opinions on European versus American slopes.

Besides, this year is different. This is Nate's second time joining them - a calculated gift from her parents who understood that a week with Jake Woodland required significant compensation. Her lips curve into a smile as she remembers last year's invitation, how her father had presented it at breakfast like some kind of royal decree: "The Brooks boy should join us this year. Assuming his technique on snow matches his performance on the field."

Now, fresh from another endless Woodland family dinner, Amber's boots crunch against pristine snow as they approach their private lodge. Jake leads their small procession.

"Jesus Christ," Jake groans, fumbling with the keycard. "I thought Dad would never shut up about his new development project. Three hours about sustainable architecture or whatever the fuck."

Amber can't help but laugh, remembering William Woodland's increasingly animated gestures as the wine flowed freely. "At least he didn't break into song this time. Remember two years ago? The impromptu performance of 'New York, New York'?"

"Don't," Jake warns, but he's grinning. "I'm still in therapy for that one."

The lodge door swings open, revealing a space that screams old money without having to raise its voice. Everything is exactly as Amber remembers - hand-hewn beams stretching overhead, antique furniture that probably witnessed the signing of important documents, a massive stone fireplace that dominates one wall. The opposite wall is pure glass, framing the snow-covered slopes like a perfectly composed photograph.

"I'm getting supplies," Jake announces, already heading for the hidden liquor cabinet that's probably worth more than most cars. "Dad's speech requires significant chemical intervention."

Amber settles onto one of the leather sofas near the fireplace, her muscles pleasantly sore from a day on the slopes. Without prompting, Nate kneels before her, his hands moving to her boot clasps with practiced ease.

"You're spoiling me," she murmurs, but they both know it's expected. Four years of careful devotion have set certain standards.

"That's the plan," he replies, his movements gentle as he eases off her first boot. His thumbs press into her arch, drawing a soft sigh from her lips.

"God, I wish Justin was here," Susan sighs, settling beside Amber on the obscenely expensive sofa. Her blonde hair catches firelight like captured sunshine, even after a full day on the slopes.

"Come here, little sis," Nate says, reaching for Susan's boots. "Can't have my favorite Lawrence suffering after those double blacks."

Something dark and familiar stirs in Amber's chest as she watches Nate's hands work Susan's buckles with the same careful attention he'd shown her. The rage builds like waves against a shore - irrational, unstoppable, burning hot enough to melt snow.

Then Nate's eyes find hers across the space between them, dark and steady and full of everything that matters. He reads her like a language only he speaks, understanding flowing between them without need for words.

Jake returns with an armful of bottles. "Single malt for the gentleman," he announces with exaggerated ceremony, "and some fancy French vodka for the ladies. Though personally, I think eighteen-year-old scotch is wasted on Brooks here. Man still drinks like a freshman."

Susan's attention shifts to Jake like a flower tracking the sun, leaving Nate free to focus entirely on Amber. He moves with liquid grace to settle beside her, one hand finding her waist with practiced ease.

"Hey princess," he murmurs against her hair, his voice carrying that particular warmth that still makes her heart skip beats. "Come back to me. Whatever's happening in that beautiful head of yours? It's not real. This is real. Us. Here. Now."

The rage recedes like tide pulling back from shore as Nate's lips find hers. He kisses her like he's spelling promises against her mouth, each touch an anchor holding her steady in the storm of her own mind.

"Drinks!" Jake's voice breaks through their moment, crystal glasses appearing like magic in their hands. "To family traditions, overpriced ski equipment, and friends who are basically family anyway."

Amber takes a careful sip of the vodka, letting it burn away the last traces of her earlier darkness. Because this - the warmth of the fire, the weight of Nate's arm around her shoulders, the careful choreography of their shared world - this is what matters. This is real.

The firelight dances across Nate's features as he stares at his phone, each shadow deepening the lines of frustration etched across his face. Amber watches him send another message, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack diamonds.

"Still trying to crack the Marshall code?" Amber aims for lightness, but something in Nate's expression makes her voice waver. She's never seen him like this - not even during championship games or college interviews.

"Jesus Christ, Brooks," Jake drawls from his position by the bar, "You're acting like you're defusing a bomb instead of texting a girl."

Nate rises suddenly, startling them all. The crystal tumbler in his hand catches firelight like trapped lightning. "Tell me something, Woodland. This place clean?"

Jake's trademark smirk spreads across his face. "Cleaner than my browser history. Dad's paranoid as hell since that thing with the SEC. Weekly sweeps, military-grade jammers - we could plan a presidential assassination in here."

"Nate?" Amber keeps her voice soft, controlled, even as anxiety claws up her throat. "What aren't you telling me?"

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He starts pacing, expensive boots wearing tracks in even more expensive carpet. "I've tried everything. Every fucking angle. Played the childhood friend card, the study buddy routine, even let her think she was getting somewhere with that ridiculous social justice crusade of hers. But she's just..." His hand tightens around his glass. "It's like she's got some kind of immunity to me."

"Oh please," Susan waves her hand dismissively, "That girl's been in love with you since elementary school. Just turn up the charm."

"Don't you get it?" Nate's voice cracks like thin ice. "She's not some freshman who'll melt because I remember her coffee order. She's..." He drains his whiskey, adam's apple bobbing sharply. "She's looking for something specific. And if she finds it-"

Amber's never heard him sound like this - like he's one wrong move away from shattering. It reminds her of that night at Hampton Beach, when everything went sideways and the only thing holding their world together was Nate's steady hands.

"Baby," she rises, crossing to him with careful steps. The rage that usually burns in her chest is replaced by something colder, more dangerous. "Let me help. Whatever this is-"

"It's all of us, Amber." His eyes find hers, dark and desperate. "If she connects the dots... if Megan talked, or if Victoria-"

"Both neutralized," Susan interjects smoothly. "Megan practically tripped over herself warning me about their little Brookswood adventure. And Victoria?" Her laugh tinkles like expensive wind chimes. "Let's just say her father's new development project requires certain... approvals."

But Nate's still wound tight as a spring, muscles coiled beneath his cable-knit sweater. "And what happens when that's not enough? When she finds the one person who'll talk? Because she will - Hannah's like a fucking heat-seeking missile when she thinks she's fighting for justice."

"Then what's your play?" Jake's voice cuts through the tension, suddenly serious. All traces of the perpetual party boy vanish, replaced by something darker, more calculated.

Nate stares into his empty glass like it's a crystal ball. "We need help." His eyes flick to Susan and Amber. "You handled Lisa beautifully, but Hannah... she's different. She's..."

The firelight catches something dangerous in Jake's eyes - a darkness Amber recognizes from that night at Hampton Beach.

"If we do this," Jake's voice carries a weight that makes the expensive vodka in Amber's stomach turn to ice, "there's no taking it back. No more playing nice."

Nate buries his face in his hands, shoulders heavy with invisible weight. "I know. God, I know."

"Do what?" Amber asks, though part of her already understands. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.

"The people who helped us last time," Nate says quietly, his words barely carrying over the crackling fire. "The ones who... cleaned everything up."

The memories hit Amber like physical force - her father's carefully controlled voice on the phone, William Woodland's precise instructions, Richard Lawrence's connections making problems vanish like morning mist. She remembers how quickly everything had been handled, how efficiently their carefully constructed world had been preserved.

"You're catastrophizing," Susan cuts through Amber's spiraling thoughts, crossing to where Nate sits wound tight as a spring. "We don't need the nuclear option. Not yet."

She perches on the sofa's arm, all calculated grace and careful confidence. Amber's fingers find Nate's shoulders automatically, working tension from muscles that feel like steel beneath his sweater.

"Think about it," Susan continues, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes everyone lean in despite themselves. "Megan and Victoria are locked down tight - our fathers made sure of that. The rest?" She waves her hand dismissively. "Lisa was passed out by the pool, Jeff and Justin were on some stupid beer run, and Charlotte and Morris were probably setting a record for longest make-out session in Hamptons history. It's just us now. The four who really know."

Susan leans down, wrapping Nate in a fierce hug. "Come on, golden boy. This isn't like you - where's that Brooks backbone? The guy who carried us through that night?"

"Thanks, Sue." Nate's fingers find Amber's, squeezing like she's his only anchor in a storm. "I just... I can't lose this. Any of it. You guys are my whole world - my best friend, my little sister, the love of my life." His voice cracks slightly. "And I helped bury it. All of it."

Something dark and familiar rises in Amber's chest as she watches Nate struggle. Because this is her fault, isn't it? Jake might have started it, but she'd been the one who... She slams that mental door shut before the memories can surface.

"Baby," she whispers against his ear, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with expensive whiskey. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

Jake rises suddenly, his movement carrying predatory grace. "We handle it ourselves first," his voice holds no trace of his usual charm. "But if that doesn't work?" A smile splits his face like a knife wound. "Then we let my father deal with it. And trust me - after that, our little songbird won't make another peep."

The words settle around them like fresh snow, beautiful and cold and absolutely final. Because that's what their world does - buries uncomfortable truths under layers of privilege and power, until even the echoes fade to silence.

"You don't have to carry this alone," Amber says suddenly, an idea crystallizing in her mind like frost on glass.

"Meaning?" Nate's eyes find hers in the firelight.

A smile plays across her lips as the plan takes shape. Because isn't this perfect? Nate - her sweet, golden boy with his gentleman's code - he's not built for the kind of warfare this requires. But she and Susan? They've been crafting social executions since middle school.

"Take Nate to that new club at the resort," she suggests, her voice honey-sweet. "He could use a break from all this...."

"Sue?" She turns to her partner in crime. "I need those particular skills of yours. The ones that made Jessica Thompson transfer schools junior year."

"I know that look," Nate says, something between admiration and fear crossing his features. "You're about to do something terrifying, aren't you?"

"Phone." She holds out her hand imperiously, though her eyes soften as they meet his. "Let me help you, baby."

Nate surrenders his iPhone with a slight shake of his head. Amber's heart does that stupid flutter thing as she sees their lockscreen - the two of them on her family's yacht last summer, her hair wild from salt air, his smile brighter than the Caribbean sun.

"Code?"

"6767," he smirks. "Like you haven't known that since sophomore year."

"God, you're deliciously evil," Susan practically purrs, settling closer to watch the show. "I've missed this version of you."

"Do you trust me?" Amber asks Nate, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. "To handle this... delicately?"

His laugh carries genuine warmth as he rises. "Princess, there's no one I trust more." He presses a kiss to her temple. "You two are literally the scariest people I know."

"Come on, Brooks," Jake claps him on the shoulder. "Let's leave the ladies to their social warfare. That new DJ from Berlin is playing tonight - heard he makes molly feel like baby aspirin."

After the boys disappear into the snowy night, Susan curls up beside Amber like a particularly elegant cat. "Ready to break a heart?"

Amber opens WhatsApp, finding Hannah's conversation thread. Her fingers fly across the keyboard:

"Hey... sorry for being weird lately. Just got a lot on my mind."

They watch the typing bubbles appear almost immediately.

"Everything ok? You seemed off"

"Can I tell you something? Something I haven't told anyone?"

Susan returns with a bottle of Château Margaux. "This feels like a red wine kind of destruction."

The bubbles appear again: "Of course. You can tell me anything"

Amber's smile turns predatory as she begins crafting their carefully constructed trap. Because some battles require brute force, but others? Others need a more delicate touch. And no one does delicate destruction quite like Amber Rosenberg.