Glacier Gold

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Epigraph

  Text

  Glossary of Austrian Terms

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Crystel Greene

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Glacier Gold

  By Crystel Greene

  Up in the Alps, a single night can change your life.

  Struggling college student and self-taught graphic artist Justin Bennet isn’t the most self-confident guy, but he knows he’s good at two things: snowboarding and sex. Why does Andi, the hot instructor at the Tyrolean ski resort, pretend Justin doesn’t exist?

  Justin becomes all but obsessed with the idea of scoring with the young Austrian. Because for all the man’s reserve, he made it quite obvious he likes Justin—at least from the neck down.

  When Justin books a private heliboarding trip with Andi as his guide, he thinks he’s one step away from striking gold.

  But then the forces of nature take over, trapping the men in a snowstorm, and things get real. What was supposed to be about some freeriding fun and inviting a closeted guy to start exploring his options suddenly becomes about survival—and the hidden truths of the soul.

  World of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the globe.

  Von Innsbruck herauf wird es immer schöner, da hilft kein Beschreiben.

  Above Innsbruck you’ll find beauty beyond words.

  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote this in 1786, and it’s still true today.

  DISEMBODIED VOICES humming doleful, alien tunes. Flickering bluish light emanating from cracks in the rocky walls. Giant icicles hanging from the ceiling, their shadows moving like animated daggers. It’s just relaxation music, themed interior decoration, and an electricity problem, but the overall effect is rather unsettling. And I’m all alone down here in the Glacier Cave.

  Well, it’s hardly like anything life-threatening is going to happen to me in the spa of the Fankhauser Hotel. I guess I’m just messed up by jetlag. The ten-hour trip to Tyrol today has left me feeling all woozy.

  My friends and I only flew in from LA this Sunday afternoon. An hour ago we checked into the hotel and decided to hit the spa right away to catch a little wellness before closing time. Jay and Carl are in the Finnish sauna for the Aufguss.

  Since I didn’t feel up to facing ninety degrees centigrade, I opted for the vapor bath in the area called Glacier Cave instead. I’m the only one who did, it would seem; everybody else must be in the Finnish sauna.

  The bath is at the far end of the Glacier Cave, beyond a low well that constitutes the room’s centerpiece and is filled with ice cubes. A bilingual sign attached to its coarse stone walls advises me to take some cubes with me into the vapor bath and to run them over my skin for an energizing effect. That seems to be exactly what I need. Digging into the well, I grab two handfuls of ice cubes and head for the vapor bath, toeing off my flip-flops as I go. I’m wearing nothing but a slipping towel around my hips now, in compliance with the sign at the spa’s main entrance that decrees No Clothing Beyond This Point.

  Once I’ve closed the fogged glass door behind me with my elbow, I dump the ice cubes on the tiled bench, spread my towel next to them, sit down, and start rubbing at myself with the ice.

  It feels rather disagreeable, really. My head is still swimming, but now I have goose bumps too. I shove the rest of the cubes from the bench to let them melt on the floor.

  Leaning my head back against the wet wall, I close my eyes to soak up some warmth and think of the guy from reception for a bit.

  A. Fankhauser. That’s what it said on his shirt pocket. It’s A for angel, in all likelihood. Honest to God, this man is the most beautiful guy I have ever laid eyes on, so beautiful I had trouble wrapping my head around it. I had expected a nice Austrian lady in a dirndl to book us in, the kind that was on the hotel home page. Not a supermodel.

  God, he looked so damn trim in his black button-down and his horn-rimmed glasses and with his shiny dark hair slicked back over his pretty head.

  I’ve moved my hand too close to my cock. It’s what happens when you’re relaxing on your own in a cozy place while being bare-ass naked. And I’ve got to stop this now. I’ve got to think of something else, and quickly.

  Opening my eyes, I see another sign mounted to the wall opposite me, right above two bowls on a shelf. Squinting through the vapor wafts, I look for the part in English and learn that this is pine honey and rock salt, and that a honey-and-salt peeling will give me baby-soft skin.

  It can never hurt to have baby-soft skin. I get up, slipping a bit on the melting ice cubes, and start slapping generous amounts of honey onto my chest, stomach, and back with a long wooden ladle. For good measure, I sprinkle a couple handfuls of salt onto the mess.

  It quickly spreads everywhere, and I mean everywhere, causing a nasty itch where I need it least.

  I still sit down and try to hold up for the sake of the promised effects, but after a minute or so I can’t take it anymore. Quickly I get up again, grab for the hose that’s attached to the wall next to the door, and switch on the water. Putting a foot onto the bench, I aim the jet straight at my ass to try and rinse the biting stuff away.

  Phew, my blood pressure doesn’t seem to like this. And the tiles are even more slippery now with the honey-salt mix all over the place. Oh man, I need something to hold on to—

  The next moment I’ve crashed to the floor in one smooth, curved motion.

  As I struggle to process what just happened, I’m hit by a flash of brightness and a cool draft.

  “Everything okay?”

  Someone is in the doorway.

  Through the vapor and the sweat running into my eyes, I can make out a tall figure looming above me. Must be Jay who came to look for me.

  I rub at my eyes.

  “It’s fine,” I say, looking up at Jay.

  Only it isn’t Jay. It’s the angel from reception, without the glasses.

  He seems to have frozen to the spot, staring down at me. Swallowing. And staring some more, like he’s trying to peel the salt-and-honey crust off me with just his gaze.

  It’s a startling ice blue.

  “Hey, dude, I’m fine,” I croak, scrambling to my knees. “You can stop the checking.”

  He gives himself a shake.

  “Sorry,” he says, abruptly stepping back. “I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to… I was just… I heard this noise, and I wanted to make sure you were okay….”

  “Never better,” I say, getting up and giving him a good once-over while I sling my damp towel around my goo-covered hips.

  He’s in shorts and a simple white T-shirt that shows off his athletic frame, and fuck, he’s gorgeous.

  “Sorry again. I didn’t mean to stare at you,” he says stiffly.

  “No harm done,” I say, grinning. “I like you too.”

  “Seriously, I’m sorry….”

  “Seriously, it’s okay. I can deal with a little ogling.”

  He bites his lip, blushing, then fumbles around on the wall to turn off the faucet. The hose that’s been whipping about my ankles spouting water settles on the floor, lying still.

  “You did ogle me, didn’t you? That’s what you’re apologizing for, isn’t it?” I ask, squinting at him to make sure I got this right.

  He hectically looks over his shoulder, apparently to check there’s still nobody around.

  “I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” I say, pushing my dissolving braids back and spreading a glob of the hellish honey all over my head in the process. “I’d just like to be sure I didn’t get this wrong, you know? Else I’ll feel like an idiot. I mean even more of an idiot.”

  Grimacin
g, I pat the asscheek I landed on. It feels like it’s going to bruise worse than that time when I crashed on a pole jam in the terrain park back home.

  His blush has deepened to a dark crimson. He’s looking down at the smeary floor.

  “You’re just so… very good-looking, sir,” he says under his breath.

  Wow, I love this.

  This could become my best ever vacation.

  “I’m Justin,” I say, not even trying to hide my sudden high spirits and smug satisfaction. “Listen, why don’t we move this conversation to the bar? Just give me half an hour to lose this sticky stuff and get my hair back to human, okay? I’ll tell my friends I met someone hot who thinks I’m hot too, and—”

  “Please don’t tell anyone about this! Please, sir!”

  I raise my palms, confused at this panicky plea.

  “Chill man, I won’t, of course I won’t if it’s that important to you. It’s fine! Mum’s the word. This is just between you and me, promise. I like a little secret.”

  I wink at him.

  His eyelids flutter. Instead of answering, he turns on his heels and walks away.

  He stops at the well to pick up a small tool kit from its rim, then disappears in a nook by the Glacier Cave’s exit. A few moments later, the light stops flickering. It’s a low-key cerulean blue now, pleasant and calming.

  I’m still standing where he left me when he emerges from where he just fixed a broken LED driver or something. I guess I kind of expect a follow-up to our conversation. But he simply throws me a brief, feverish glance and leaves without looking back again.

  Huh. This is weird. He hasn’t even responded to my invitation to meet up for a drink. Hasn’t said yes, hasn’t said no either. He just asked me not to tell on him, then basically fled the scene. I don’t really understand what’s going on.

  But I did understand the staring, and that compliment.

  You’re just so very good-looking, sir.

  I guess the ball is still in my court.

  SAPPHIRE-BLUE SKY, rows of epic mountain ranges in the hazy distance, and the prickle of tiny ice crystals melting on my face. Rotating my head, I take a deep breath.

  Focus.

  Frontside 360.

  I push off and start the run down the terrain park, quickly picking up speed.

  The slope is hard and icy and feels perfect under my board. It’s got just enough grip to it to provide that sense of groundedness you need to get airborne. If you don’t feel the harmony on the run-up, you’ll never nail the takeoff. Meaning you’ll not only fuck up your trick, but most probably end up with some nasty new bruises.

  The ramp I’ve picked for my 360 is approaching fast. It’s of medium size, but it’s getting more imposing by the second. A rush of adrenaline, then my brain shuts down and my body takes over. I’m going up the ramp, just taut muscles and concentration of energy. The next second I’m propelled into the sky like by a coil spring, flinging my arm to the side and twisting into the spin.

  Yeah. Oh yeah, this is it. This feeling in every fiber of your body and your board, this feeling that you are in total control of the craziness that is this trick.

  180, 270, 360…

  540!

  I got so much airtime I could squeeze in another turn!—

  My board hits the ground. It’s the best moment of all. The force of the impact, the rich punch the mountain deals me, like it rose to meet me. My body unfolding, and the cold air in my lungs feeling like my first breath ever, like I just landed on Earth coming in from another dimension.

  Airtime is great, but there’s nothing more satisfying than a good touchdown.

  Now I can hear Jay and Carl cheering for me. Letting out a hearty whoop myself and pushing my fist into the air, I carve down the rest of the slope to meet them.

  When I’m right in front of them, I take a sharp turn that has them disappear in a cloud of powder.

  “What the fuck, Justin!” Carl cries, shaking the snow off his chocolate bar.

  “Fuck, Justin!” Jay echoes.

  “Okay, that jump made both of you look really old, didn’t it,” I say, still gasping for breath. “I’d say I win this one!”

  They shove me around between them until I lose my balance and sit down in the snow. Laughing and calling me a pest and a pain in the neck, they grab me by the arms and haul me back to my feet to finally give me my well-deserved high fives.

  Jay and Carl. We’ve known each other since high school, since back in the days when it was still a big deal to hang with the gay kid. Because it was, West Coast or not. Yes, Jay and Carl are my best friends.

  Straight but great, that about sums them up.

  The sun is casting its pinkish late-afternoon shine across the mountainside, making the snow on the pine trees glitter like fairy dust. The summits of the glacier rising into the sky to the east glow as if they were made of gold.

  Using my teeth to remove a glove, I pull my phone from my pocket to take a couple of photos. I do a panorama picture too, to get the Five Summits of Fitsch on one photo: Hexnjoch, Fitscher Spitze, Kleiner Kaiser, Samkogel, and the highest of the glacier tops, the Sunnzeiger. It’s Tyrolean for “sun needle,” and the fiery ice peak really does look like it’s reaching into space.

  When we booked our trip to Austria a few weeks ago, I was convinced the pictures on the home page of the Ski and Snowboard Resort Fitsch 2000 had to be photoshopped. Turned out they’re not. All this gorgeousness is real.

  It was so the right decision to dig into my savings like I did for this trip.

  A wind has come up. Down in the valley, it’s probably nothing more than a light breeze, but up here at eight thousand feet, it has a nasty bite to it.

  Jay pulls his hood over his head.

  “It’s getting late. How about we go have a couple of hot chocolate shots in the lobby before dinner?”

  What he means is “how about I hit on a couple of hot girls in the lobby before dinner.”

  “Good idea. I’m starved,” Carl replies.

  Carl is always starved. He isn’t going to settle for a few hot chocolate shots before dinner, he’s going to have an Apfelstrudel or two as well, complete with cream topping. It’s a miracle the man doesn’t weigh a ton. But Carl is as thin as a herring when he loses his baggy boarder gear. It’s Jay the lady-killer who’s the chubby one.

  Both of them are so not interesting, physically, they could just as well be girls.

  Which is a great foundation for a friendship with het guys, and a vital factor when it comes to sharing a hotel suite.

  But even though Jay and Carl are the kind who wouldn’t dream of ever hitting the gym, they are quite fit on their snowboards. In fact, it’s really hard to outrace either of them.

  And that’s another thing I love about my friends.

  “Who’s first at the base station!” I cry.

  We are already hopping toward the next ledge to race each other downhill when Jay suddenly stops in his tracks.

  “Hey guys, look!”

  Behind us, at the top of the terrain park, a snowboarder has appeared in the sky. That isn’t a jump, that’s a flight, and it takes him right to the middle of the slope. Landing like in butter, he rides on at top speed, going straight for the giant monster ramp in the center of the park.

  The low sun illuminates the rider as if this were a movie set. But this isn’t a stuntman in an action film, this is simply a guy on the way home. His orange jacket and yellow trousers mark him as an instructor of the local ski and snowboarding school, Happy Powder.

  And he certainly knows how to ride a board. Everything about his posture screams pro. In spite of his breakneck speed, he looks completely relaxed. Just the slight twist to his shoulders and the way he’s angling his hips betray what’s going to come.

  And then he’s on his way up the improbably steep ramp. He reaches the knuckle and is launched into the air. Becoming a swirl of color against the blue of the sky, he keeps rotating for seconds on end before he touches down a
gain as smoothly as a bird.

  If birds could snowboard.

  “Was that a triple cork?” Jay asks next to me, sounding a little numb.

  “That was a quad backflip,” Carl corrects, still staring at the boarder, who is now doing a lazy front flip off a rainbow rail, like for a cooldown.

  When the guy zooms past us, he doesn’t spare us as much as a glance. Rolling his shoulders and languidly switching edges as he goes, he disappears down the slope.

  “What do you say, Justin?” Carl asks me. “What was that?”

  “That was Andi,” I say through clenched teeth. “That was Andi fucking Fankhauser.”

  “Andi who?” Carl asks.

  “Fankhauser,” I repeat.

  “What, like our hotel?”

  Carl is supposed to be the cleverest of us. He was a straight-A student in high school and already has a degree in comparative sociology. But sometimes he’s just really slow.

  “He’s the owner’s son, you muttonhead! He checked us into the hotel. Also he brought you your coffee and scrambled eggs this morning. And he’s also the guy who played the keyboard last night. He’s the leader of that combo, the Fitschtalers.”

  But most of all, he’s the man who stared at me like he’d been struck by lightning when I was lying belly-up at his feet, covered in honey paste. The man I haven’t stopped thinking of ever since.

  “How do you know all that?” Jay asks, looking at me from behind his bright orange snow goggles as if he were in total awe. “Seriously, dude! We’ve been in this place for less than twenty-four hours!”

  He was far too busy getting into the skimpy pants of a curvy brunette from the Netherlands at the après-ski party in the Fankhauser’s nightclub, The Funk House, last night to even notice there was a band playing, I guess.

  “Just a couple of questions I asked,” I say, shrugging inside my boarder hoodie.

  Jay and Carl roll their eyes first at me, then at each other.

  It has been less than twenty-four hours since I first set eyes on Andi Fankhauser, but yes, I have already done my research.