“Promise,” Vale whispers, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth.
My eyes slide closed in ecstasy as Frost rests a hand on my belly and then drops it low, lower, finding his way to the wetness between my thighs. I open for him, feeling sated and happy in the warm glow of the fire, the cheerful twinkle of Christmas lights, and the arms of four men I've just met …
But that I like.
That I like very much.
After the members of Inked Pages … entertain me for most of the morning, I excuse myself to the sunroom to write and manage to get out several pages of deliciously naughty smut before I'm disturbed.
“Hey, sugar plum,” Crispin says, grabbing the chair next to me and spinning it around. He drops into it and folds his arms over the back, raising his brows at me. “You want to take a quick break and come join us in the dining room? Your family wants to have a game night.”
I sigh and close the lid of my laptop carefully, the wild winds outside howling against the window, making it seem like our house is the only livable place left in the entire world, that the entire outside is a dystopian nightmare. I figure, even if there were snow zombies or Krampus' evil minions out there, my mother would still find some way to get the hell out of here so she could go back to suing broke housewives for putting Michael Jackson music on YouTube videos of their babies dancing.
“Let me guess,” I say, turning to face Crispin and trying not to smile at his wavy blonde-brown hair, his magnanimous smile, and the twinkle in his brown eyes. I can still feel him moving inside of me the way he did last night, holding my hair as he drove his thick shaft into me from behind. “They invited you and then you decided to add me into the mix.”
“So you in or out?” he asks, avoiding my question.
That's okay: I already know the answer.
“Well, I've been in and out today,” he adds, leaning in close and kissing my ear. That small motion makes me shiver, crossing the arms of my red cable-knit sweater and biting my lower lip. I'm wearing black leggings, red boots, and a silver snowflake pin in my hair today. I'm sure my family will have some sort of commentary about my outfit, but games with the guys? That sounds fun.
“What are we playing?” I ask as Crispin pulls back and tosses me a huge grin, standing up and holding out a big, warm hand for me to take. His palm is dry and comforting, wrapped tightly around my own as he leads the way to the dining room and holds the door open for me.
Inside the, sixteen person table is completely full, save one seat.
My parents are there, my four siblings, my aunt and uncle, all four of my cousins, and the other three rocker boys from Inked Pages. Crispin takes the last seat and pulls me onto his lap. Good thing, that, because there isn't enough room for me in here anyway.
“We thought you might be busy clattering away at the keys,” my mother says, giving me her best business smile, a twist of lips with absolutely zero feeling behind it. She looks beautiful though, her brunette hair twisted up in a chignon, a sprig of real holly stuck through it. She's wearing the diamond and gold Christmas tree pendant again with matching earrings, Louboutin heels, and a red dress that accentuates all her curves.
My father looks just as polished, sitting next to her in a burgundy cashmere sweater, khakis, expensive loafers with embossed snowflakes tooled into the leather, and his gold glasses. The rest of my family is dressed similarly—uncle, aunt, and cousins included—but at least the Inked Pages guys are more casual, like me.
“Shall we get started?” my mother asks, sighing dramatically. “There're a few too many people in here for us to all play together …” She glances at the four band members … and then me, as if we've disrupted all her fun. My father seems stoic, but I know him too fucking well: he's totally feeling like a fanboy with the band in his dining room.
At least it's pretty in here. The long, wood table is polished to a shine, a white and gold runner down the center and several opulent displays made of live flowers and candles, their tiny orange flames a small mimicry of the large fireplace behind Frost, the wood crackling and popping. Crimson stockings hang in a row, and the black wood of the mantle is covered in glittery white reindeer, Santa Claus figurines dressed in red and green velvet, and a large glass sleigh filled with a mix of holiday nuts.
Christmas lights and real garland—never the fake stuff with my father—hangs in swags near the ceiling. All the chairs are covered with gold and white cushions, and the drapes have been changed out to match. In the corner, one of the largest trees in the house (there are fifteen total) towers above us, glittering with lights and ornaments, perfuming the air with the sweet scent of evergreen, its branches the same color as Frost's eyes.
“Let's split into groups, play to win and then the winners can play a final game to determine the champion,” my mother says, because nobody in this goddamn family can play a game just for fucking fun.She passes out four Scrabble boards and then rings a bell to get everyone's attention. “Double points for all holiday words,” she calls out as Aspen opens the game and gets it set up on the table. Looking at him now, from my position in Crispin's lap, it's hard to believe we fucked last night … and this morning.
It's still such a surreal experience, like a dream.
“Where's Donner and …” I pause because I have no idea what the driver's or manager's names are. “Magda,” I add, because I at least know their assistant's name, the one who supposedly clogged the toilet.
“Working on a plan to get us out of here,” Frost says with a snort, running his fingers through his dark hair. “Your mom does know Scrabble is a four player game,” he says, loudly enough that his voice echoes in the tall ceilinged room. “There are sixteen of us here.”
Frost pushes one of the tile stands over to me, but I shake my head.
“Crispin and I can be on a team,” I say and Frost narrows his eyes.
“Aspen and I can be on a team,” he retorts, standing up and literally plopping down in the lead singer's lap. Aspen sighs and rolls his eyes, but gestures for me to take the empty seat.
“Once he's made up his mind about something, you can just forget about trying to change it,” he tells me as I sit down and try my best to hold back a smile. It shouldn't mean shit that some guy gave me his Scrabble tiles and his seat, but … the way my life is, it means a whole hell of a lot.
“Like I've made up my mind about you, for example,” Frost smirks, ignoring the inquisitive looks of my family as he sets up his tiles and then draws one extra from the bag. “We got an A,” he says, tossing the bag to me. “We go first.”
I pick my tiles and then draw the extra, landing a blank square.
“Nope,” I say as I hold it up and Vale grins from my left. “I go first actually.”
I wait for both Crispin and Vale to do the same and then lay out a doozy of a word on my first go.
“WREATH,” I tell them, sitting back with a smug smile and crossing my arms over my chest. “First word and holiday themed. Do you guys want to throw in the towel already and call it quits?”
Crispin just tosses his head back and laughs while Vale and Aspen smile and Frost narrows his eyes.
“I don't like losing, Cyan,” he says, watching me for a long, quiet moment. I feel like the rest of the room is watching us, trying to figure out what the hell is going on between me and these four guys. Frankly, I don't give a fuck. They only seem to care about me when it's in reference to me fucking up … or having some crazy flirtatious vibes with an entire band.
I ignore Frost's comment and move the game along, outscoring the boys with little effort. Either they're not trying, or they're too distracted by the torrid heat between us to pay much attention to the game.
When I win though, I decide against the 'championship game' with my mother, sister, and cousin, and instead, invite the boys upstairs to have hot cocoa and watch A Christmas Story.
We sit on the bed together with a platter of the ginger cookies, brownies, and cake slices, a pile of can
dy canes, and several bottles of champagne we fished from the fridge—after we drink our red and green hot cocoa first, of course.
For several hours, I manage to balance the conversation with the sharp sense of need in the air. But when it gets dark outside, and the winds pick up, when the champagne is gone, the bottles empty and lying on the floor … I find it impossible to resist.
The four men strip me down in the glow of firelight and white Christmas bulbs, and pleasure me in every way imaginable, until the sun rises and I force us all to take a break and get some sleep. It's Christmas Eve, after all, and I don't want to slog through it tired and sex addled … Okay, I don't want to slog through it tired—I'll take the sex addled part.
Lying there next to them all, I feel a fuck of a lot less lonely.
What do you think, Grandma? I ask, staring up at the ceiling and wishing this was one of those moments that could last forever. Do you think I should do it?
These guys … would it really be so bad getting to know them? Even if they did dump me down the line—or vice versa—isn't it at least worth the try?
Maybe I will take them up on their offer to date?
Even if it sounds too good to be true … this is Christmas … and anything is possible when you wish upon a Christmas star.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christmas Eve day startsoff loud and noisy, as usual, with my younger cousins running around the house like demons and my nieces and nephews screaming and wailing while my brothers and sisters try to juggle them all.
The drapes in my room are closed when I pick up my computer, tuck it under my arm, and leave the sleeping pile of boys to write in the sunroom again. I figure if I can't own a bookstore, then maybe … just maybe … I can write a book.Because I know in my heart of hearts that to be happy in this world, I need to be involved with reading on a regular basis. I just have to be.
But as soon as I get downstairs … I feel my heart drop into my stomach, shattering like a chunk of ice … melting like the snow outside the open front door.
As I stand there gaping, Tina moves past me, dragging her eight year old son by the hand while he screams. I figure he's probably shouting because he's dressed in the most hideous Christmas outfit I've ever seen, decked out in a neon green sweater with a maniacal Santa Claus on the front (he looks like a goddamn serial killer), red pants with snowflakes, and boots with giant puff balls that jiggle as he walks.
One look at it and I know—it's all Gucci.
Designer name … but still ugly.
“What happened?” I ask, holding my computer close and trying not to feel sick.
“While you were sleeping in …” Tina groans, yanking the child to the door and pushing him outside into the rapidly melting snow. His father intercepts and takes him the rest of the way down the freshly shoveled walk to the waiting minivan. “Sorry,” Tina says, pulling her brunette hair into a ponytail, “but we're taking the older kids to pick out gifts for the younger ones.” She rolls her beautiful green eyes like this is the worst possible hardship, taking your kids out to buy presents for your other kids. “It was their idea, but now that it's time to leave, the fit throwing starts.”
“While I was sleeping in …” I prompt, waving my tattooed hand for her to continue. “What?”
“I don't know weather,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “but some kind of … warm front or something came in and voilà, we're free to go about our business. Oh, Mom already left to put in some time at the office, but she'll be back later.” Tina pauses and then moves over to the door, screaming outside at her husband.
She forgets we're even having a conversation and storms out, slamming the door behind her.
“Oh.” That one, simple syllable, dripping with sex, but somehow soft and sweet at the same time, draws my attention around and I find Vale standing on the stairs, one tattooed hand on the banister, his golden eyes watching me. “The storm's stopped.”
“Yes, the storm's stopped,” Donner says, parading into the room in the worst Christmas sweater of all time. This one has a giant felted wreath on the front with actual ornaments dangling off of it, swaying with her movements as she comes into the foyer and gives me a raised eyebrow before flicking her attention to Vale. “I went to wake you up, but you weren't in your room. Guess I know why now,” she mutters under her breath and I glare at her.
“It's Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake. Are a you a bitch everyday of the year?”
“Everyday except Mother's day,” she quips, giving me a fake, bitchy smile and ruffling up the frosted spikes of her white-blonde hair. “Go wake the other boys up; we need to get on the road if we want to make it before it gets dark. There's a chance the storm could start up again.”
That icy feeling in my chest … intensifies.
Seriously?! Fucking seriously? I finally find some friends … fuck buddies, oh whatever the hell you want to call them … and the goddamn storm can't last just a day or two more? That's all I wanted. I never expected this to last forever.
“Are you okay?” Vale asks, but my throat is tight and I'm decidedly not okay. I don't want them to go, not yet. You could always go with them, I tell myself, but it's Christmas and even if my family is made up of rude assholes that ignore the shit out of me … I need to stay. I know my grandma would've wanted me to.
“I'm fine,” I tell him, moving into the living room and staring up at the twenty foot Christmas tree soaring above us. It's decorated not with fun, eclectic ornaments collected over years, but with a very specific set of themed bulbs in my father's color choices for this year—gold and white. Boring. I can see Vale moving up behind me in the reflection of a shiny gold bulb.
“It's the mass thing?” he asks, and I keep my attention on the tree for a long moment before I turn to face him. “We promised,” he adds, as if I'm doubting that they'd go now that there's a chance to make their concert.
I am, obviously, but it's an irrelevant point because if even if they would stay, I wouldn't want them to. One of the biggest holiday concerts in the United States? Or going to some tiny non-denominational church to sing songs and eat a potluck dinner?
Easy choice.
“You guys should go,” I tell him, and Vale's lips purse. “Seriously. Your concert is about a million times more important than one random church thing. I'm not even religious, so it's not like it matters.”
“Why don't you come with us then?” Vale asks, raising an eyebrow and ruffling up his silver-blonde-blue hair. “You can watch the concert from backstage, go to New York with us for a few days, and then we can take you back to San Francisco.”
“I should stay with my family,” I say, and I know I'm making this purposely difficult for myself. I should just go with these guys. Honestly, I'd probably be a hell of a lot happier that way. But my family's always walking out on me and I don't want to do the same to them. If I can't keep my commitments and promises, then how can I expect anyone else to? Besides, keeping the family together was one of the most important things to my grandma. Those last few years in San Francisco, I think they just about killed her, being separated from my mother like that.
But I know why she did it.
It's easier to move away and be forgotten than sit around and become a ghost in your own home.
Still, if my mom hadn't flown back to DC already, then that was a good sign; I needed to stay.
“Call me when you get back to San Francisco,” I say, knowing that later, after the holidays are over, if they do call … I'll go. Just not right now. I smile and hold my arm out to give Vale a one-armed hug.
He gives me a look.
“Let me just talk this out with the boys,” he says, giving me the hug and burying his face in my neck for a moment. When he pulls away, I smile and wait as he moves up the stairs and disappears into my room.
I follow after him, but instead of going into my room, I slip into Tina's and borrow one of her Dad-supplied Christmas dresses. My sister's a bit curvier than me, but I find a gorgeous white an
d red sleeveless dress with a deep-V neckline that fits me well. The slip portion of the dress is tight-fitting and ends at the knee, while the gauzy and beaded outer layer flares out from the hips, an ombre of white to red, ending in a near crimson layer at the bottom.
Tina and I might not share many physical attributes, but at least we're the same shoe size.
I find a box of gold heels with Wear with Red/White Dress scribbled on the top. Aaand, that would be my father, micromanaging our clothing the same way he micromanaged every degree my siblings ever earned, the careers they chose, their spouses.
I'm the only one that ever voices dissent.
After I'm dressed, I take my computer, head downstairs and slip into a black wool coat.
I tell myself I'm not running away, that I'm just being realistic. The guys should go to their concert and call me later, when they get to San Francisco. That makes sense. But at the same time, I can't even imagine that scenario happening. As soon as they leave here, they'll forget me. Why shouldn't they? Everybody else does.
Without even asking, I take my father's keys, borrow his black SUV, and drive myself to the church.
I'm early, hours early, but it doesn't matter. The interior of the non-denominational church I found online is decked out in lights, garlands, wreaths. They even have their own tree in the front left corner. It's a peaceful place for me to sit and write, my MacBook balanced on gauzy knees, light from the stained glass windows coloring my hands all sorts of different colors as I try to explain what I'm feeling inside.
Er, what my character is feeling inside. Because she … she isn't me. I write her the way I wish I were, with the strength and self-confidence that I know I'm lacking.
You're torturing yourself, punishing yourself on purpose, but the question is why? You don't have anything you need to make reparations for, silly.
Billionaires, Boarders, and Bastards: A Limited-Time Collection of Reverse Harem Romance Novellas Page 10
