I knew going on this ski trip was a bad idea when the bus refused to start. My parents had bought me the holiday package as part of their Christmas present, but it was showing every sign of turning into the Ski Trip From Hell. Here I was, stuck in an old Greyhound on the top of the Coquihalla Highway with a busload full of drunks. Night was falling, it was snowing, and the outside temperature was already --45 degrees Centigrade and dropping like a rock. Oh yeah, and the guy in the row behind us wanted to kill my best friend.
If Billy Riggs hadn't been such a good guy, I might've hated his guts, too. Billy was a tall, red-head with a charming "Aw shucks" attitude, and the fact that he had a distinctive Aussie accent only made him that much more popular with the girls. Just opening his mouth made him score faster than Wayne Gretzky playing one-on-one against a brick. But to give him credit, he was a stand-up guy and a reliable friend. I just knew that no girl would look at me twice with Billy around.
Case in point: the cute little brunette who was supposed to be our trip coordinator. That is, before she started her sixth beer. Her drunken come-ons towards Billy were getting more blatant as the trip wore on. Right now, she was staring at Billy with bedroom eyes, running her tongue around the rim of her empty beer bottle.
That also explained the animosity coming from the row behind us.
"Aussie fag," the guy with the bowl-shaped haircut slurred from where he sat, kicking Billy's seat for good measure. Billy, Steve and I ignored him, as usual. Bowl-Cut was dumb, ugly, drunk and clearly looking for a fight. And we weren't about to give him one. He looked like a gorilla and his two buddies were almost as big.
The diesel engine finally coughed to life, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Another three-plus hours of driving and we would be in Penticton. That is, if the driver could negotiate the twists and turns of the icy mountain highway without sending us over a cliff, and if Bowl-Cut didn't decide to assault my best friend. Fun, fun, fun.
I saw the bus driver bite off a curse as he tried to release the brake. He looked around before sliding out of his seat.
"Hey, buddy," I said to the driver. "What's going on?" Everybody else was too busy getting drunk to notice the drama at the front of the bus.
"Nothing," he said, smiling to hide the worried look in his brown eyes. "Just a minor inconvenience. Nothing to worry about."
He opened the door, wincing at a blast of cold air from outside. He jumped down the steps and into the snowdrift that already accumulated outside the bus.
Steve leaned over to me. "What's happening, Rick?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, but it doesn't look good."
"Fuck."
Ten minutes later, the driver pulled himself back into the bus. Ice crystals had already formed in his brown moustache. He did not look happy. He sat down in his seat and turned on the CB radio. I edged forward to hear what he had to say.
"No, we're not going anywhere," he was saying. "The brake lines are frozen, there's no methyl hydrate in the emergency kit . . . yeah, I know I'm responsible for making sure everything was okay, but this bus was a last-minute replacement when the first one broke down and we were already running late . . . No, there's no way I can get it moving again, the lines are stuck but good . . ." He waited for several seconds. "You get on the horn, see if you can get some SAR people from the ski hill. I'll try and control this fucking zoo until they arrive . . . thanks, Phil. Over and out."
I scooted back to my seat before the driver noticed me and raised my hand, forestalling Steve and Billy's questions.
The bus driver stood. "Listen up, people!" he boomed through the din. "We have a minor problem here: the brake lines are frozen and there's no way we can get them moving. We have a couple of Search and Rescue people coming from Big White who are going to help out, and the guys in Penticton are sending up another bus if we can't get this one to start. So just sit tight and relax, all right?"
Just then my heart leaped. Ali Jenson worked for the Big White SAR team! I might get a chance to see her! I still had her panties with me, a souvenir of our first encounter in an airplane bathroom. I prayed to God, Allah, Cthulhu, anybody I could think of, hoping that Ali would be one of the people they sent to pick us up.
"Hey, Buck," Bowl-Cut said between sips of beer. "Whaddya call a dead Aussie?"
"I dunno," one of his friends slurred back. "What?"
"A good start. Haw, haw, haw!"
Billy, Steve and I exchanged worried glances. Everybody else was oblivious.
The next ten minutes were a strain. Bowl-Cut was getting more and more aggressive, thumping the back of Billy's seat on a regular basis. Little brunette cutie was also getting more and more aggressive with Billy. She was finding more and more excuses to talk with him, leaning over the seat in front to show off her cleavage. Nice tits, but she was dumb as a post. Of course, that only got Bowl-Cut angrier. I think he had his eye on her, and the fact that she obviously preferred Billy didn't sit well with him. I could've cheered when I saw a set of headlights pull up in front of the bus.
The bus door hissed open and two women stepped inside. They both wore black ski pants and red SAR parkas. The first one pulled off her black toque; a wealth of curly, blonde hair fell to her shoulders.
"Hello, Nurse," Billy murmured, one red eyebrow climbing up. "What have we here?"
Steve elbowed me in the ribs. "Fifty bucks says Billy gets in the blonde's pants by this time tomorrow."
I grinned. "You're on." I watched as Ali surveyed the bus. Even in ski pants and a heavy parka, she was still painfully beautiful. Her pale cheeks were flushed from the cold and her full lips were dark. I could feel my cock growing, just looking at her.
"All right, people!" she barked out. "I'll need you to sit tight for just a little longer while we see what we can do with this bus. You got that?"
The brunette tour guide wasn't happy. She knew Ali outclassed her and she was jealous.
I tried to inconspicuously catch Ali's eye as she looked around. She stared straight at me for almost a second, then one eyelid slipped down in a wink. She looked away.
"Excuse me, ma'am?" Billy's hand went up. His Australian accent was thicker than ever, the slick bastard. "Do you need our help in any way?"
"'Do you need our help,' you faggot," Bowl-Cut mimicked from where he was sitting. "You offering to stick your tongue up her ass?"
"Do you have a problem?" Billy turned around, his temper finally fraying. He ducked as a beer bottle rebounded off the window next to his head. Glass shattered.
Bowl-Cut and his two buddies all lunged for us. Steve went down, grappling with the one in the middle. I got in a lucky punch on the one going for me, my fist connected with the soft tissue just below his ear. He dropped like a rock, cold-cocked.
I heard something snap. Billy screamed. Through a red haze, I saw his face connect with Bowl-Cut's elbow. Billy's head flew back as his nose exploded; his right arm was dangling at an impossible angle. I went for Bowl-Cut's throat.
