Love for the Holidays (five book Christmas bundle)

by Noelle Adams

She did cry then. A little bit.

  There weren’t very many people in the world she liked and trusted. Cyrus had been one of them. Until four and a half months ago.

  She didn’t let herself sulk, though. She took a shower and spent a long time blowing dry her long hair very straight. Then she added a purple streak in her hair because Doug had said he thought it looked cool when she’d had one last month when he’d seen her and Maria in the coffee shop. She put on more eye makeup than she normally did, trying to use enough liner to look as dramatic as Maria always did.

  Then came the big decision about her outfit. She sorted through her entire closet and then called Maria to ask for some advice. On hearing that Maria was going to wear jeans, Helen was vastly relieved. Sometimes Maria wore very short skirts, and Helen wasn’t sure her hips and thighs were skinny enough to pull off that look. So she wore the dark jeans that made her look the thinnest with her favorite boots, ones with heels high enough to make her look taller. She wore an ivory silk tank top that laced up the front and looked kind of vintage. She’d never been brave enough to wear the top before, since it showed a lot of cleavage, but she already had pretty good breasts so she figured she should show them off. She wore a cropped cardigan over the top since it was chilly and so she wouldn’t feel so self-conscious.

  She could take the sweater off later if she felt like it.

  She was pleased with her appearance—as pretty as she could look and quite fashionable, since she’d seen her boots and her top in magazines recently.

  At almost eight-thirty, she covered up her gorgeousness with her red coat, since it was cold outside, and peeked out of her bedroom. The hall was empty so she hurried toward the back stairs. She made it down and out of the house without encountering anyone.

  All she had to do was jog down the drive to where Maria was waiting in her car to pick her up.

  Helen had never had many friends. She always thought other kids were looking at her strangely, since she didn’t have any parents, was raised by a guardian, and was driven to school in a chauffeured car. The kids who were nice to her didn’t always seem sincere.

  She was mostly resigned to it, but she still dreamed of having friends and being popular. So, when she’d met Maria earlier that year, she’d been thrilled. Maria was two years older and really mature and fun to hang out with, and her father was rich so she didn’t have any ulterior motives with Helen. When she hung out with Maria, people didn’t look at Helen like she was quite so much of a freak.

  It was nice to have a real friend, and Helen was starting to hope that when she began high school next year, she might not be such an outsider.

  And maybe she could even find a boyfriend.

  ***

  Two hours later, Helen was feeling a little woozy.

  The music was too loud, and there were too many people in the Wilsons’ family room in the basement of the house. She’d been feeling good earlier, after one beer and some definite attention from Doug, so she’d smiled and laughed and taken off her cardigan to show off her top.

  But two beers later Helen wasn’t feeling quite so good.

  Plus, Doug was practically on top of her.

  She liked Doug. A lot. He had blond hair, brown eyes, and movie-star looks. He was nice to her and got good grades and was a football star. She’d had daydreams about being his girlfriend.

  But he was heavy and hot and smelled very strongly of beer, and Helen felt kind of helpless and nauseated sprawled out on the couch. She’d been excited when he first started to kiss her, but it wasn’t exactly like she’d thought.

  He was kind of sucking on her ear now, and he had one hand down her blouse, which felt kind of weird and gropey. She was embarrassed because there were so many people around, although most of them had coupled up and were making out too. She wondered if this was what normally happened at high school parties—just hanging out listening to music, drinking beers, and groping each other.

  It wasn’t really as exciting as she’d hoped.

  She shifted, trying to retrieve one of her arms. She wasn’t sure what to do with it, but she didn’t like it trapped under Doug’s chest.

  She wished she hadn’t drunk the beer. It hadn’t tasted good at all, and it felt like her mind was covered with a layer of fuzz.

  She really wanted Doug to get off her. She didn’t like it when he kissed her on the mouth again. His breath smelled really bad, and his tongue slobbered all over hers. She liked it even less when one of his hands slid between her thighs, over her jeans.

  She was going to tell him she wanted to get up. It would make a scene. He would think she was childish and silly. They all might laugh at her. But she didn’t want him on top of her anymore, and telling him was the only way to get him off.

  He was too heavy, too gropey. And she was too hot, too woozy, too uncomfortable.

  She was going to tell him to get off her. She visualized herself doing it. Maybe she could do it nicely. She could tell him she needed to go to the bathroom. That was what she should do. It was perfect.

  She could get up to go to the bathroom, and he wouldn’t have to know why. She pulled her mouth away from his and started to tell him. She really wanted him off her.

  “Get off her.” The inexplicably familiar voice bellowed out of nowhere, breaking through the din of music and chatter.

  The room fell silent as everyone turned to stare, and someone switched off the music at the discovery of an intruder in their midst.

  Both Helen and Doug had jerked their heads over toward the voice. Through the blur in her mind, it took a minute to realize that it was Cyrus—it was actually Cyrus—standing a few feet away from the couch. He was wearing the same dark trousers and jacket with the blue dress shirt he’d worn to dinner earlier, and he was glaring with icy contempt at Doug.

  Irrationally, her first reaction at the sight of him was intense relief.

  Since he had Doug’s attention, Cyrus’s voice wasn’t as loud as he repeated with clipped authority, “I said to get off her.”

  Doug blinked up at him, uncomprehending. He’d had a lot of beers. Helen wasn’t sure how many, but it had been many more than she’d had. Things finally started to click in his mind, though, and he slowly heaved himself off her.

  Helen scrambled off the couch too, pulling up one strap of her tank that had slid down her shoulder. Her cheeks started to burn as she realized what was happening. Everyone was staring at her. She wanted to sink into the carpet.

  “What are you doing here?” Doug asked, making a failed attempt to retrieve his mastery of the room. He must recognize Cyrus. Everyone in Clarksburg would recognize Cyrus Owen.

  Cyrus arched arrogant eyebrows. “I came to get Helen.”

  “What gives you the right? You aren’t her brother.” It wasn’t the brightest thing in the world to say, but Doug was still endeavoring to reclaim the advantage.

  “My father is her legal guardian. She’s fourteen years old, and we have men in our employ who have developed impressive expertise in breaking bones. Remember that, next time you’re tempted to touch her.”

  For the first time, Cyrus turned to look at Helen. “We’re leaving.”

  She gulped, frozen by confusion and embarrassment. “I came with Maria.”

  “You sure as hell aren’t leaving with Maria, since she looks like she’s about to pass out. We’re leaving now.” He turned away from her and scanned the room. “Since I called the cops when I got here, I’d suggest the rest of you consider leaving as well.

  She wanted to object to his bossiness, but she didn’t have the energy or mental acuity at the moment. She didn’t want to make any more of a scene, and she was suddenly afraid she was going to throw up. So she stepped over toward Cyrus, letting him grab her arm in an unyielding grip and drag her upstairs and then out of the house before anyone else could process his words.

  The cold air hit her like a fist when they got outside. Cyrus had picked up her coat, but she hadn’t put it on. Her bare skin tightened
into goosebumps, and she breathed in loud gasps.

  Cyrus’s car was double-parked in the street, since the driveway and curb were already full of cars. Without speaking, he pulled her down the driveway.

  She was dizzy with beer and confusion and anger, and she yanked her arm away from his hand.

  “Get moving, Helen. I’d like for us to be gone by the time the police come.”

  She glared up at him fuzzily, not able to see him very clearly. “Shut up.” Not the best comeback but the only one she could manage at the moment.

  “Helen,” he warned, reaching out for her arm again.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled, suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of nausea. She breathed deeply, trying to fight it down.

  Cyrus stood still and waited for a moment as she breathed. After a minute, he said, “Well, go ahead.” He sounded almost impatient.

  She glared at him again, snapping her teeth in her outrage, but the anger just intensified the nausea, and she felt her stomach heave.

  Gasping, she turned away from him and vomited on the grass. The second heave forced her to her knees, and by the fifth one she privately vowed never to drink another beer in her life.

  Cyrus had stepped over and reached down to hold back her hair—not gently or sympathetically, just with clinical efficiency. When she was finished, he lifted her to her feet again and kept pulling her toward the car.

  He put her in the passenger seat and walked briskly around to get in the driver side. He accelerated quickly, and they were turning the corner when she could see a police car pull up to the house from the opposite direction.

  She couldn’t say anything on the drive home. She felt too groggy and disoriented.

  By the time they reached the house, however, she’d realized a few important things.

  “Fuck you, Cyrus!” she snapped, glaring over at him by the light of the dashboard. He’d just put his car in park. “You had no right to do that.”

  He didn’t look remotely concerned by her defiance. “Someone had to. You know better than to be so stupid.”

  “You’re actually going to lecture me on drinking and partying? You?”

  His blue eyes met hers, and his eyebrows lifted. “Is your dramatic emphasis supposed to mean something? Drink a beer if you want to drink a beer. What the hell do I care? But never—never—let yourself get trapped in a situation where you no longer have the power to choose.”

  “I was choosing.”

  “No, you weren’t.” Cyrus got out of the car, still looking nothing but cool and controlled.

  Helen just stayed in her seat, stubbornly refusing to move. It didn’t do any good, of course, since Cyrus just walked around the car, opened her door, undid her seatbelt, and pulled her out of the car.

  “I choose all the time. I’ve already had sex, you know,” she spat out at him.

  Cyrus didn’t react. “No, you haven’t.” He took her arm and dragged her through the garage and into the house.

  He was right, but she didn’t know how he would have known it. He didn’t know her at all.

  He took her to her bedroom and told her to take off her shoes. She was still working on her boots when he came back in with a bottle of water, which he set beside her bed.

  He peered down at her closely. “How many beers did you have?”

  “Just three,” she said with a scowl, “But I didn’t even finish them. I’m not drunk.”

  “You’ll feel better if you drink water.”

  “Everyone is going to hate me now—since you ruined the best party of the year and called the cops on them.”

  “My remorse knows no bounds.”

  She gaped at him. He was rude and bossy and sarcastic and barged in where he wasn’t wanted. And he wasn’t even pretending to care about her feelings anymore.

  Just five months ago, he’d been her favorite person in the world. Then she’d discovered how little he cared about her. Now she could barely stand the sight of him.

  “I hate you,” she gritted out, as he was leaving the room.

  He looked at her for a moment before he said calmly, “I can live with that.”

  He shut the door behind him.

  ***

  Helen lay on her bed, on top of her covers, still wearing her clothes, for about a half hour. She felt groggy and a little sick, but her mind and emotions just wouldn’t turn off. She couldn’t go to sleep.

  Eventually, she was so thirsty she had to sit up and drink most of the bottle of water Cyrus had brought for her. Then she got up to go to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror as she was washing her hands afterwards.

  She looked awful. Her makeup was all smudged, and her eyes were red. Her top was wrinkled, and her lips were very pale.

  She splashed water on her face. She kind of wanted another bottle of water but didn’t want to go downstairs to get it, since she might have to run into Cyrus.

  Instead, she just filled her empty bottle from the faucet in the bathroom sink and took it with her back into the bedroom.

  She sat at her desk in front of her laptop and opened a browser window to pull up a website.

  Once the site came up, she saw they’d linked a new story, and she followed the link to an article on a blog that featured D.C. gossip. The story was about how Cyrus had been stopped by the police for reckless driving the night before, in the company of a gorgeous, nineteen-year-old model. No charges had been filed. No one—least of all Helen—was surprised. The story was run with a photograph of Cyrus, wearing all black and smirking arrogantly, with the model draped all over him.

  The girl was exotically beautiful—lithe, dark-haired, and wearing a dress that looked like lingerie.

  Helen was reading the caption under the picture, which called Cyrus a “notorious playboy,” when a tap on her bedroom door made her jerk in surprise.

  Before she could react, the door opened to reveal Cyrus, carrying another bottle of water and saying, “Helen? Are you all righ—”

  “Cyrus!” she wailed, breaking into his mild question. “You can’t barge into my room without knocking!”

  “I did knock.” He hadn’t yet stepped into the room.

  “But I didn’t answer!”

  “Sorry. I was just checking on you. How do you feel?’

  “I’m fine. Now leave me alone!” Helen turned back toward her laptop, feeling rattled and upset and still a little woozy. She also really wanted the bottle of water in Cyrus’s hand, but she wasn’t about to ask for it.

  “Did you need—“ He broke off his own question when he had evidently focused on her laptop screen, where his photo with the model was prominently displayed. “What are you reading?” he demanded, striding over to stand behind her and peer at the screen. “Damn it, Helen. Don’t read that!”

  “Why not?” she asked, staring at her laptop, sticking out her chin stubbornly, and feeling strangely vindicated. Let him lecture her on drinking and partying now.

  “Because you don’t need to be reading that.” He reached down and closed out the browser window, making the story and the picture disappear.

  But what appeared in its place was the site that had originally linked her to the story.

  He gasped audibly as he processed the website on her screen. “What are you doing? Why are you looking at that site?”

  “It’s interesting,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, although she was getting more and more upset by his obvious horror and outrage. “I check it out every day.”

  She’d stumbled on the website accidentally, when it was referenced in the comments of a news story she’d been reading about Cyrus at a club opening where several people had been arrested for drug possession. The site was called “Stalking Cyrus,” and it daily posted links on any story or reference to Cyrus on the web. There were also discussion boards where the members shared their thoughts about Cyrus and detailed any encounters they’d had personally with him.

  Helen had read lists of Cyrus’s top ten desira
ble qualities. She’d read elaborate daydreams rehearsing the most romantic first meeting with Cyrus the members could imagine. She’d read many, many irate rants about his heartlessness, from dozens of women who claimed to have slept with him only to be dumped the next morning.

  Cyrus had been leaning over her shoulder, scanning the front page of the website, featuring the links to the most recent stories and the first paragraph of a new blog post that speculated on the kind of woman it would take to finally “tame” him.

  “Damn it, Helen!” he gritted out, sounding as furious as she’d ever heard him. “Don’t you ever look at this site again.” He closed out the window and then snapped her laptop shut.

  She turned to face him, somehow pleased that she’d upset him. “Why not? Isn’t it true? Didn’t you almost crash your car last night? Don’t you screw girls once and then dump them? A lot of them have posted about it, you know.”

  Cyrus had gone a little pale, and his expression was openly appalled. “It’s all twisted, and you don’t need to be reading all that about me. Don’t go back there. Don’t ever go back.”

  “I’ll go back if I want,” she muttered, starting to feel less pleased and more guilty. She didn’t know why she should feel guilty though. He’d done all those things. She’d just read about them.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned toward her, his expression changing. “Is this why you’re so mad at me? Because of the twisted stuff you read there?”

  She took a shuddering breath, striving to sound cool and nonchalant. “Why should I care what you do?”

  He grabbed one of her hands, not in an affectionate gesture but as an urgent insistence on attention. “Seriously, Helen. Is that why you’re so mad at me?”

  She stared at him, her eyes burning and her throat starting to ache. He seemed so sincere and bewildered—like he had absolutely no idea what he could have done to upset her.

  He probably didn’t know. It wouldn’t be important to him the way it was to her.

  “Did someone on the site say I said something about you?” he asked, clearly thinking quickly and trying to put the pieces together. “Because, if they did, it’s a lie. You can’t believe what some random person writes online. You know that.”