Storming Love Blizzard Kimo & Mike by Neil S. Plakcy Read Free Book Online Page B

dark-rimmed glasses. His wife wore a long-sleeved purple dress, and her flowing dirty-blonde hair gave her a hippie look. “This is great!” Mike said. “We can all ride together.”
    “For three hours,” Jenny said. “As if we haven’t traveled long enough. I told you we should have gotten a flight direct to Vail.”
    “For a thousand dollars more,” Chris said.
    “You aren’t going to pick at every penny we spend, are you?” she asked. “Because that’s no vacation.”
    I looked at Mike. We were going to be sharing a condo with this couple from hell? He avoided looking back, which told me volumes.
    The clerk announced that our van was ready, and we walked outside. The sky was a bright blue dotted with puffy white clouds, and it was like stepping into the refrigerator case at the grocery. The cold reached out and slapped me on the face, and by the time we climbed into the van I was chilled through.
    Mike and Chris sat together in the middle seat, and Jenny and I climbed into the back. The guys launched into a conversation about old friends, and Jenny pointedly plugged in her earbuds and turned on what sounded like the Allman Brothers. Her earbuds were cheap ones, so the sound leaked out. After listening to tinny renditions of “Midnight Rider” and “Ramblin’ Man,” I gave in and put my own earbuds in and listened to some classic slack-key guitar.
    I must have dozed for a while, because when I woke we were approaching the outskirts of Beaver Creek, the ritzy suburb of Vail where we were staying. Jenny and Chris were arguing about their plans for the day; she wanted to nap, and he wanted to get right out on the slopes.
    “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting them. “But you’re not the only ones in this van, or on this vacation. You need to either stop arguing, or turn right around and go home, because this trip is important to Mike and I’m not going to let you screw it up.”
    “Kimo!” Mike said.
    Surprisingly, it was Jenny who came to my defense. “He’s right,” she said. “Christopher and I have no right to make the rest of you uncomfortable.” She turned to me. “You must be a teacher. You have that kind of voice.”
    “Police detective,” I said. “Same thing. It’s just I deal with adults rather than kids.”
    She laughed. “I’m an artist. Polar opposite. I don’t react well to organization or structure.”
    “You just have to look at our house to know that,” Chris said. He shifted suddenly to the right, and I realized Mike must have punched him in the arm. “What I mean is that our house is beautifully decorated. Jenny has a great eye.”
    Jenny curled her lip but didn’t respond, and she and I started to talk. She was a photographer and collage artist, and she was hoping to take a lot of pictures in Colorado.
    We passed a sign that said “Welcome to the Ironwood Lodge,” and the van pulled into a circular driveway in front of a five-story building of natural stone, double-paned glass, and copper piping turned green by the elements.
    The snow had been brushed from the sidewalk and was piled in big heaps alongside the building. We stopped beneath the porte-cochere, and a swarm of green-jacketed valets surrounded the vehicle, opening doors and beginning to unload luggage and gear.
    We trundled our bags inside and the concierge told us that Vinnie and Phil were already in the unit, and gave us each a key. When we got upstairs, I recognized them both right away. Vinnie was a lot like Mike, a big, hearty Italian-American guy with dark wavy hair and muscular forearms. His husband Phil was smaller and slimmer, a few years older than the rest of us, wearing a bright green sweater with a reindeer on it. After a brief reunion, Vinnie, Phil, Mike and Chris were ready to take off for the slopes.
    “You sure you don’t want to come, K-Man?” Mike asked.
    “I’ll hold off until tomorrow,” I said. “I didn’t sleep that well on the plane and I’d like to scope out the town