Santa, Baby

by Blair Babylon

  Peyton reviewed his plan in his head.

  As a paid contractor and not-quite-member of Killer Valentine, Peyton had done little publicity for the band over the years. When he’d done interviews or appearances, Xan’s publicity person and admin, Yvonne James, had handed Peyton an agenda, talking points, and death threats if he didn’t do it right.

  For this interview, he was on his own.

  And it was more important than ever that he say everything perfectly.

  The reporter, Aubrie Bone, touched her fluff of natural black hair. “So, Peyton, did you join Killer Valentine to stalk Georgiana Johnson, who is now lead singer Xan Valentine’s wife? And didn’t you have problems with them the whole time you were there?”

  Peyton breathed deeply and said, “Thank you, Aubrie, for this chance to set the record straight. When Georgie and I reconnected, I hadn’t seen her since we were seventeen, five years before. I stumbled over her and Xan Valentine in the hallway at Juilliard, quite literally. She was lying on the floor. She had tripped or something—KV’s wardrobe guy, Boris, always puts her in these stiletto high heels—and I went over to help, to make sure nothing wrong was going on with the guy standing over her. I didn’t recognize her until I was right there, right above her, making sure she was all right.”

  He continued, “They were at Juilliard because Killer Valentine needed to replace one of their musicians. I was feeling unsettled with the classical soloist positions that I had been offered. They hired me. Georgie and I have renewed our friendship over the years, but that’s all. Nothing more. Neither Xan nor I stole her from the other one. No one has a broken heart.

  “Also, KV and I initially had a three-month contract, and then we’ve signed one-year renewals after that. If I had been harassing Xan’s wife, I assume he would have terminated my contract at any one of those several easy opportunities. Instead, he offered me larger and larger signing bonuses and incentives each time. This is documented. It’s easy to prove. It’s also well known that Xan Valentine isn’t shy about throwing punches, so the fact that we haven’t put each other in the hospital also supports that I never harassed Georgie.”

  Peyton’s other answers also rolled off seamlessly.

  “Many of the other allegations from the magazine article a few days ago used to be true but aren’t anymore. Killer Valentine is a rock band, not a convent school. In the early days, especially before I joined, they worked hard and partied hard like many musicians. Rade Delcore’s heroin overdose and death caused a lot of changes. Grayson Jones is still in lockdown rehab. Cadell has been clean for three years. If his daughter needs another liver transplant, he will be a suitable donor again. Tryp’s wife is our pyrotechnics master. She would literally stash a bomb in Tryp’s drum kit if he got wasted.”

  The reporter chuckled. “Sounds like Tryp’s wife is keeping him in line.”

  Peyton nodded seriously, his eyes wide. “Everyone is very polite to Elfie. It must have been difficult for her when she first got hired by KV, being very young and a female roadie, so the occasional unorthodox application of high explosives probably worked well for her.”

  “And Xan Valentine? How about the allegations of steroids and other drug abuse?”

  Here, he didn’t answer the question she asked. He gave her the information that he wanted to be talked about. “Being a lead singer, especially with Killer Valentine’s punishing tour schedule, is physically demanding. Terribly physically demanding. Other frontmen don’t leave it all out on the stage the way Xan does, and they don’t tour as much or as extensively. Killer Valentine is devoted to their fans, and they give an all-out, total performance at every stop, and there are so many stops on the tours. Xan uses every anti-inflammatory agent he can get his hands on to survive it, including electro-stimulation, TENS therapy. It’s a medical device thing that he rubs on the outside of his throat. One of the reasons for the six-month sabbatical was to allow his cords to heal and regain equilibrium. It seemed to be working.”

  No answer about steroids. Information about Killer Valentine’s devotion to their fans and a legal medical device. That should work.

  More questions.

  More very personal questions.

  Some with some very nasty allegations.

  Peyton answered, firmly, “Dr. Raji Kannan, now Dr. Raji Kannan-Cabot, and I are married. We had a separation in our relationship due to professional complications. I was on the road with Killer Valentine. She is doing her residency in cardiothoracic surgery.” Yes, he pronounced it correctly. “These are both high-stress, high time-commitment professions. We’re figuring out how we can make it work. She’s committed to saving lives, as I am to music and performing. We’re in this for the long haul.

  “Raji was not the source for the Fame This Week interview. The source was someone very close to her, someone whom she confided in. That person was a false friend who betrayed her. If Fame This Week has any evidence that Raji was the source, they should publish it. It won’t be Raji’s voice on any tapes. It won’t be an email from her account nor from her ISP address. Raji didn’t betray me or Killer Valentine. I trusted her then, and I trust her now.” Peyton looked at the camera. “Go ahead, Fame This Week. Publish your raw source material. Let’s see your evidence. I know who it was, and she’s not a part of our lives anymore. You won’t be getting any more information from her.”

  At the next question, Peyton forced a grin onto his face even though jealousy flashed through him at the very thought. “I didn’t ask her because it’s none of my business, but as for me, no. Since I met Raji, there’s been no one for me but her. Yes, even when we were ‘on a break.’ She’s the only woman in the world for me.”

  An obvious question.

  Peyton tried to spin it because he had no answer. “I’m not entirely sure what my next step is. I know I’m not going back to Killer Valentine. That bridge has burned. For now, I’m getting to know our daughter and settling into life as a husband and father. It’s important to me to do this right. After that, who knows? I’ve been writing music for years, but it wasn’t right for KV. I played a few songs for Xan and Cadell a few months ago, and they agreed. My music is too soft, too gentle. It’s certainly not ‘Rock like Rome Is Burning’ by any stretch of the imagination. KV is Xan Valentine’s project. I need my own project for my music. I’ve learned a lot from watching and listening to Xan about how to run a band and run it right. In a few months, I’ll explore my options. I’m looking forward to it.”

  At the last question, Peyton grinned. “Gita Elizabeth Cabot. Gita is a traditional Indian name that means song or music in Sanskrit.”

  Back

  RAJI chanted to herself, I am a logical lizard person. I am a cold, emotionless, logical lizard person.

  Peyton told her, “She will be fine.”

  Gita lay in her crib, sleeping. Pink lace surrounded her like she was a cherub in a very pink cloud. Her tiny face, not much bigger than Raji’s fist, was beginning to fill out as she was finally gaining weight.

  Raji sobbed, “No, she won’t, and if she’s not, she’ll know that I wasn’t there for her. She’ll know that her mother wasn’t there and she was alone!”

  Peyton said, “I have two baby nurses, a housekeeper, and Lupe here with me. Lupe pretty much raised me, and my growth sure wasn’t stunted or anything. We have hot and cold running staff members. We have a chef to make the organic formula. We have every emergency number possible on voice-activated speed dial. You can call in whenever you want. You can watch from the baby monitors stationed all over the house on your cell phone. It will be okay.”

  “I don’t want to leave her,” Raji said. “It feels wrong. I can’t do both. I can’t do this.”

  Raji’s mother had stayed with them for two weeks but had returned to New Jersey for work. Amma had fretted, insisting that Indian mothers were supposed to stay for six months to help with babies, but she didn’t want to lose her job. Her job was her security that she wouldn’t be taken advantage of ever again, eve
n though Peyton had handed her a credit card that went to their bills and told her to buy a reliable car and a house in a safe neighborhood.

  Peyton rested his heavy arm across her shoulders. “Georgie, Andy, and Elfie all said they felt like this. I think a lot of new mothers do.”

  Raji whispered, “No else is her mother. No one else can be there for her the way I can, the way I should be.”

  Peyton turned Raji away from the crib. “Come on. We don’t want to wake her. She needs her sleep.”

  Raji brushed stupid, non-lizardy wetness off her face and leaned against Peyton’s strong chest. Under her cheek, his heart beat calmly. “I shouldn’t go anywhere. I should stay right here.”

  Peyton’s low voice soothed her. “Walk away.”

  “Okay, but I shouldn’t do this. I should stay.”

  “And do what? Sleep on the floor of her room in case she wakes up when she’s had enough sleep? We’ve never done that. Keep walking.”

  Raji let him lead her through their new home, a small mansion in the hills. He had bought it, closed on it because they didn’t need a mortgage with Peyton’s trust fund, purchased the necessary furniture, and arranged the move while Raji had been recovering. One day, the three of them had left her apartment, eaten a languid lunch that Gita slept through, and then gone to their new house, where the essential bedroom and baby furniture had been packed up from her place and installed in the new house during the four hours they had been gone.

  He had also hired a driver to take Raji to and from work.

  She had fully intended to nap in the back seat during the commute.

  But now, how could she leave that poor, defenseless, tiny reptile larvae who obviously needed her mother? “I can’t!”

  “Come on.” He turned and looked Raji right in her eyes. His teal-blue eyes were serious, and his voice was low. “It’s time for you to go back to your residency.”

  “But what if—”

  “Stop.”

  Peyton glanced around them at the empty living room with the open doors that overlooked the gray, choppy Pacific ocean. The sea breeze blew through the doors, warm even though it was January.

  The baby nurses and helpers must be elsewhere in the house’s twenty thousand square feet because they were alone.

  One of his arms flashed around her waist, dragging her against his chest, and his other hand snared her wrists behind her back.

  She was caught, bound, and instantly submissive.

  He nuzzled her neck and growled in her ear, “Walk to the car, get in, and let Selena drive you to the hospital. I’ll take care of everything else.”

  Raji sagged against him. “All right.”

  He spanked her ass, and she giggled a little. “No more backtalk, or I’ll fuck your ass again. Go.”

  Raji got in the back seat of the car and laid her head against the headrest.

  She was asleep before the car hit the end of the long driveway.

  Hey, she had an infant in the house, even if Peyton and the baby nurses were doing the three o’clock feedings.

  At the hospital, the attendings nodded to her, pleased that she was back to work on time. Some noted that they were impressed by her rigor.

  Dr. Ellen Galweigh mentioned in passing that she’d had a difficult time on her first day back after birthing her child during her residency. Some surgeons didn’t make it back, but she was very pleased to see that Raji was measuring up.

  Beth was cordial when they ran into each other, and Raji was cordial to Beth, and that was all.

  Raji performed three surgeries that day and was invited to scrub in when a transplant became available for their patient who was at the top of the transplant list, a rare occurrence and a coveted opportunity.

  Dr. Raji Kannan was back.

  Dr. Raji Kannan-Cabot, but whatever.

  She was back.

  The next day, they did it all over again.

  But eventually, it got easier.

  The Heart of Music

  EIGHTEEN months later, Peyton Cabot debuted his first major concert at the Hollywood Bowl, the clamshell amphitheater carved into Bolton Canyon in Los Angeles.

  Peyton had been working on his music since Gita’s birth. Polishing songs in the large music room of their new house while tending to her had been easy. She liked the piano and when he sang to her, so his songs’ lyrics received a lot of work. Gita had pulled herself up to standing for the first time on the piano’s legs and cruised the furniture in the music room while he played.

  It was a good thing he had taken a few semesters of voice at Juilliard and been singing back-up with KV for nearly three years.

  Perhaps he had been subconsciously considering making a break for it his whole music career.

  When he’d played his music for some of his friends and instructors from Tanglewood and Juilliard, while they couldn’t countenance his decision to indulge in contemporary music, they had made some phone calls and introduced him to music critics for magazines and a few booking agents. Those introductions had led to MP3 files being shared with social media influencers, a few of whom decided that Peyton was the Next Big Thing.

  He began to perform in a few small clubs.

  Some Killer Valentine fans crossed over, interested in the ex-bassist who had gone solo. Many became an immediate, solid fan base.

  The small clubs had led to larger venues, and the larger venues had created that sought-after buzz that had translated into online streaming revenue.

  A lot of online streaming revenue, and shockingly fast.

  Killer Valentine had taken years to build a global following.

  Peyton had broken out in less than a year.

  When the Hollywood Bowl, usually booked years in advance, had a cancellation, they approached Peyton Cabot to give his first major concert.

  It was a dream, a psychedelic, impossible dream, a whirlwind of images and sounds.

  Like Killer Valentine, Peyton hadn’t signed with a music label. Watching Xan Valentine navigate that minefield had left him wary. He had hired Xan’s producer for his recordings and kept complete control.

  His music had turned out to be, as he had expected, lighter and sweeter than Killer Valentine’s and composed mostly of ballads and piano instrumentals.

  Killer Valentine’s publicity problem had, predictably, passed in a month or so. The supposedly jilted pregnant girlfriend was suddenly married to the musician who defended her at every turn. With no additional clickbait such as ODs or drug-fueled hooker binges from the Killer Valentine camp to feed the media beast, it just died down. The ravenous media had moved on to the next sordid story because, just like sharks, they needed to keep swimming forward or they would die.

  Peyton wouldn’t talk to Xan fucking Valentine, though. Fuck him and his PR machine.

  After a few months of growling at each other through intermediaries, Killer Valentine had stopped for a tour date in Los Angeles. Georgie had called up and asked Peyton and Raji to meet her for supper, and a part of Peyton still couldn’t refuse her.

  When he and Raji arrived in the private room at the rear of the French restaurant, Xan fucking Valentine was sitting at the table, too.

  Xan’s dark eyes widened in shock. “What the fucking hell?”

  Peyton had turned on his heel, preparing to walk the fuck out.

  Georgie and Raji had pounced on them both, insisting that they talk it out.

  Obviously, this was a coordinated attack on both fronts.

  There was nothing to do but surrender.

  After some snarling from both sides of the table, they crossed the distance between them and talked about music and the music business.

  Within an hour, Xan was offering terse, instructive critiques on Peyton’s lyrics, and Peyton listened. When one of the century’s geniuses is willing to give you notes, you should let them.

  Peyton offered Xan an introduction to a social media blogger whom he hadn’t been able to find an in with.

  Now, Peyton stood in the
dark of the Hollywood Bowl, listening to seventeen thousand, five hundred whispers wither and fall away.

  Night air gathered around him.

  Behind him, the orchestra settled, tuning their instruments one last time in a smooth cacophony.

  Over on the side of the clamshell in the wings of the stage, just visible in the backstage safety lighting, Raji stood with Xan Valentine, Georgie Johnson-Grimaldi, and the other members of Killer Valentine.

  Georgie’s arm was draped casually over Raji’s shoulders as they both grinned.

  Xan looked like he was restraining himself from walking onto the darkened stage. One of his hands firmly grasped the back of a chair.

  Tryp had wrapped his long arms around his sprite of a wife, Elfie, and was ruffling the brush at the end of her blond braid. Rumor had it that she was pregnant with their third child, but they hadn’t admitted it yet.

  The toddlers and kids were sequestered at Peyton and Raji’s house, corralled by a platoon of nannies and sitters. Play yards lined the large nursery-slash-play room, waiting for bedtime.

  Gita had been toddler-flirting with both Tryp’s son Neil, who was her age, and Xan’s son Adrien, staggering after them as they stumbled around the padded playroom. Peyton was pretty sure she was primarily after Adrien who was almost two years old, so she might have a thing for older men.

  At the Hollywood Bowl, out in the dark expanse that crawled up the hillsides of the canyon turned into an open-air theater, the lights dimmed. The crowd quieted in their seats and on the benches that striped the hills around the stage.

  Over seventeen thousand throats breathed out there. Seventeen and a half thousand hearts beat. Tree-covered hills in the Hollywood Heights funneled cool air and quiet into the valley, blocking out the traffic and blare of Los Angeles. The stars above glittered through the haze of light all around the tops of the mountains.

  Peyton’s parents were in the front row, mollified that their offspring was at least making his debut at the Hollywood Bowl, a stage renowned for its classical and jazz traditions and for being the summer home of the L.A. Philharmonic. The venue was a marginally suitable substitute since their progeny was too stubborn to make his entrance to musical society at Carnegie Hall like a proper musician.