White Hot Christmas: A Heart of Fame Christmas Story

by Lexxie Couper

Nick was getting out of here.

  The only place he wanted to spend Christmas Eve was with his wife.

  Clearing Customs

  Sydney International Airport, Australia

  There was a reason the guard hadn’t been distracted by Curtis’s sudden and vocal appearance in the middle of the Sydney International Airport customs area. He wasn’t a Curtis Clarkson fan. In fact, he wasn’t a cricket fan at all. Rare in Australia, especially given his gender, but not unheard of. What he was, Nick discovered the moment Nick approached him, was a massive Blackthorne fan.

  Massive enough to have an equally massive tattoo inked onto his chest of the band’s logo Nick’s very first record producer had designed eons ago.

  He’d tried to show Nick, eyes bulging with excitement, as Nick tried to ask him in a conspirator’s whisper if there was anyway of skipping the queue and getting through customs ASAP.

  Nick didn’t pull the celebrity card often, but with Curtis throwing himself under the bus to draw attention away from him, he felt it his duty to do so now.

  The guard, a man roughly twelve foot eight and built like a tank, almost gibbered when his expressionless eyes fell on Nick.

  The expressionless expression vanished in a heartbeat, in its place an excitement so frank and candid Nick almost felt guilty for the reason he was approaching the guy.

  “Oh my god,” the gaping behemoth gasped. “Oh my god, you’re—”

  “G’day,” Nick cut him off with a quick smile and enthusiastic shake of his hand. The guard dropped his stare to their hands as if he was watching a miracle take place. “Just call me Nick.”

  “Sure, Nick.” The guard beamed, once again looking at Nick. “I can’t believe your standing in front of me.”

  Nick put a finger to his lips. “I’m incognito,” he offered, hoping the guard would get the hint.

  He did. Straightening taller somewhat—if that was even possible—he shifted enough to put his enormous size between Nick and the majority of the crowd.

  “You’re not a Curtis Clarkson fan?” Nick asked, starting to get antsy even as he appreciated the effort. It wouldn’t take long for the distraction Curtis had caused to settle down. Nick wanted to be through customs by the time that happened.

  “Is that who that joker is?” the guard asked, throwing a nod over his shoulder to where Curtis was still being swamped by people.

  “Ex-captain of the Australian cricket team?” Nick said. “Rumoured to be given an Order of Australia next Australia Day?”

  The guard shook his head. “Never heard of him. But I’ve got every record you’ve ever released. On vinyl, CD and digital.”

  Nick smiled. Wow. Now that was a fan.

  “And a tattoo,” the guard went on, beginning to unbutton his shirt. “Wanna see?”

  He’d popped the first three buttons, flashing a glimpse of the iconic Blackthorne logo before Nick could stop him.

  “Whoa whoa, big guy.” Nick stilled his hands with a gentle grip on his wrist. “Don’t want to get you arrested for public indecency.”

  The guard chuckled. Nick was pretty certain the ground shook beneath the airport at the rumble.

  “Sorry,” the guard said.

  With a quick glance at his ID (Brannum Kelly), Nick waved a hand. “It’s all good, mate. All good. Listen, is there any chance I can get through—”

  Brannum didn’t let him finish. He unclipped the walkie-talkie on his hip, raised it to his mouth, depressed the speak button and said, “East, we’ve got a forty-two at sector three. I’m bringing him through now.”

  Nick puffed out an impressed laugh. And then another one when Brannum turned to him, suddenly one of the most intimidating examples of the human species Nick had ever met, and extended a hand in the direction of the customs exit. “This way, sir.”

  Hitching his bag higher on his shoulder, Nick dipped his head in a single nod of acknowledgement and gratitude. “Thanks, mate.”

  The two of them made their way through the crowd. People seemed to melt out of the path of the towering security guard. Nick hurried behind him, keeping his head down. A part of him wanted to chuckle at what they must look like: Nick was pretty bloody certain the only word to describe the way he currently moved was scurrying.

  They reached the exit gate without any hassles. There were a couple of perilous moments when Nick swore he heard his name being whispered, but every time he thought that was the case Curtis Clarkson would shout with jubilant glee Aussie Aussie Aussie and what sounded like every single Australian on the face of the planet (but was probably only those crowded into the area) would shout back Oi Oi Oi.

  Nick made a mental note to send Curtis a crate of his favourite beer ASAP. Hell, maybe a whole semi-trailer of the stuff.

  “Here’s our forty-two, East,” Brannum said as they came to a halt at a gate not in service.

  The dour man behind the counter flicked Nick an indifferent inspection. “Anything to declare?”

  Nick shook his head, handing over the appropriate forms that stated the same. He wasn’t bringing anything else into the country apart from his tired self and the few items of clothing and toiletries he’d flown out of the country with. And a burning desire to see his wife. To hold her, kiss her…

  “You’re good to go, Mr. Blackthorne,” the dour customs officer said, jerking Nick back from thoughts of Lauren.

  Nick smiled. “Thanks, mate.”

  The man’s indifferent expression didn’t alter. “You’re welcome. Tell your son to hurry the hell up with the next Synergy album. My daughter has been complaining for months now she hasn’t got anything new to listen to.”

  Nick blinked.

  Brannum laughed, clapping his hand on Nick’s shoulder. Normally Nick wasn’t a fan of people he didn’t know touching him, but the giant had saved him hours of waiting and possible detection in a crowded environment. At this point in time, Nick suspected he was a bigger fan of Brannum than Brannum was of him. “North is on the other side waiting for you, Mr. Blackthorne.”

  “North?”

  Brannum grinned. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

  With that, the guard turned and made his way back into the crowd.

  Nick tracked his progress for a second, and then caught sight of Curtis still surrounded by adoring fans.

  Yeah, definitely a semi-trailer loaded up with his favourite beer.

  Their eyes met across the throng of people for a split second. Curtis grinned. Nick nodded, and then, with another “thanks, mate” to the dour officer behind the counter, strode through the gate.

  Just on the other side, after the partition that concealed the crowded area from the next stage of arrivals, another guard waited for him.

  North.

  North was a woman who could have been a ballerina. Fine and willowy with almost whimsical features, she damn near floated up to him. If it weren’t for the steely strength in her eyes, Nick would have wondered just how much “security” she was capable of providing Australia.

  “Mr. Blackthorne,” she said, her voice as steely as her gaze and low enough for only his ears to hear. “This way please.”

  She pivoted on her heel with all the grace of a dancer and strode away, heading for a closed door marked No Entry.

  He followed.

  A few seconds later, as North swiped her security card through the electronic lock while Nick waited beside her, three guards stomped along the corridor escorting a swearing, bucking, writhing man.

  Holston.

  Before he could stop himself, Nick burst out laughing.

  Holston’s stare snapped to Nick’s face a second after the three guards—two gripping Holston’s arm, the third gripping the chain of the cuffs clamped around his wrists—passed them.

  “Blackthorne,” Holston screeched, twisting in the guards’ grip, his wild eyes locked on Nick. “I fucking knew you were somewhere on that flight from the UK. I knew it!”

  “Shut it,” the guard holding Holston’s right shoulder growled. Nic
k didn’t miss his knuckles whiten as his grip on the paparazzo tightened.

  “I knew you were on that plane,” Holston shouted again, squirming about to keep his stare fixed on Nick. “I’m gonna—”

  Whatever he was gonna do, Nick didn’t get to hear it. With a click, the No Entry door swung open and both he and North stepped through it into a room blanketed in hushed quiet.

  The door closed behind them with efficient speed, silencing Holston’s tirade.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Blackthorne,” North said without turning to look at him. She strode across the room with fluid rhythm, stopping at an uncluttered desk.

  Nick followed.

  “Passport?” she said, punching a few keys on the computer on the desk.

  He handed her his passport.

  She opened it, looked at his picture in it, looked at him, looked back at the picture, looked at him again. “Can you remove your hat and glasses please?”

  He did so, scuffing up his hair in an attempt to destroy what would definitely be a most awesome case of hat-hair.

  North studied him. Nothing about her expression revealed any hint of what she was thinking. His ego wondered if she even knew who he actually was. His muse started composing a song about her—steely strength and mysterious secrets.

  With an enigmatic grunt, she pressed his passport to a small scanner beside the computer, hit a key, and then handed it back to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blackthorne,” she said. “Welcome back to Australia.”

  A door beside the desk swung open automatically, beyond which Nick saw the main arrivals area of the airport. People streamed pass the door, pulling and/or hauling luggage with them.

  Returning his hat to his head and his glasses to his face, he smiled at North. “Thanks. Have a great Christmas.”

  She flashed him a smile in return; the kind of smile that would stop a man who wasn’t aching to get home to his wife more than anything dead in his tracks. “You too, sir.”

  Ten minutes later, head down, hat and glasses concealing his identity, Nick walked out of the airport into the scorching hot summer morning.

  “Thank freaking god for that,” he muttered, heading for the secure long-term parking level where—hopefully—his Range Rover waited for him.

  Pulling his mobile from his back pocket, his heart already beating faster at the thought of hearing Lauren’s voice, he dialed home.

  The phone rang out.

  “Crap.”

  Swiping his thumb over his phone’s screen, he brought up her mobile number and hit dial.

  It went straight to her voicemail.

  “Hey, this is Lauren. No, I don’t do interviews. Yes, I bake the best Lamingtons ever. Leave a message…now.”

  As always, Nick’s body reacted to the sound of his wife’s playful fun. He chuckled as the message service beeped and then, grinning, left his own message.

  “Hey, babe, I’m back.” Original. “About to drive home. Be prepared. You’ve got a horny husband headed your way. See you in sex hours. I mean, six hours. Love you.”

  Shaking his head at his own Freudian slip, he returned his phone to his pocket just as he reached his car. “Sex hours,” he chuckled under his breath. “I’m such a dirty old man.”

  He unlocked the driver’s door, threw his bag onto the passenger seat—traveling light had become an art form to him since starting the Children’s Smiles Foundation—and climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Home,” he muttered, pulling the door closed and then starting the 4WD’s powerful engine.

  The sounds of his old band and his son singing with them filled the cabin.

  Synergy’s most recent album, The Brink: soul-wrenching rock ballads and edgy political statements in the guise of hard rock anthems. The perfect soundtrack for driving home to Lauren.

  “Home,” he repeated as he put the Range Rover into first and pulled out of his parking spot.

  It took longer to get out of Sydney and onto the M1 heading north than he would have liked. Sydney traffic was a nightmare at the best of times, but lunchtime on December 24th, when everyone was in panic mode about whether or not they’d bought enough presents or food for Christmas only made it worse. Almost two hours later—during which he called Lauren three times more, only to be diverted to her message service each time, spent more minutes than he cared for sitting in traffic moving no faster than sludge, and tried to contact not only Josh but Chloe on the phone without any success—he reached the motorway.

  “Bout bloody time,” he grumbled to the empty car, dropping back a gear before flattening his foot to the accelerator.

  Synergy gave way to AC/DC.

  His focus fixed on the road, Nick began singing along with Brian Johnson about a certain highway and its hellish destination.

  He was halfway through the second verse when the memory of the first time he’d sung the song in public—during an end-of-year Christmas concert in high school when he’d been seventeen—floated into his consciousness.

  His cock stiffened: not at the thought of his far-from stellar performance on the stage of his old school’s sports hall-slash-theatre-slash-multi-purpose building, nor at how he’d ironically subverted the overtly religious tone of the concert with such a song choice, but at what had happened after he’d come off the stage.

  Lauren had met him at the bottom of the backstage stairs, her eyes dancing with happiness, and by met him he meant she threw herself into his arms, her long coltish legs wrapping around his hips, her arms wrapping around his neck, her lips claiming his.

  She’d kissed him so fiercely, so wildly, his knees had buckled and they’d both ended up on the floor.

  That hadn’t stopped her from kissing him however, nor him kissing her back. Hell, they’d been teenagers driven by hormones more powerful, more consuming, more potent than a nuclear bomb. His hand was under her shirt, cupping her right boob, his cock well and truly a rigid pole of impatient want, when the school principal broke them up.

  They’d both spent the rest of the week on lunchtime detention in separate buildings, but holy fuck, had it been worth it. For one, it declared loud and clear Lauren was his and he was hers to all the other students at the school (most of the boys lusted after her), and for another it showed him just how much she loved his singing.

  They’d finished what the performance had started later that night, in the back seat of his dad’s car—which meant he and Lauren both came screaming to mutual orgasms in the captain of the Murriundah police department’s cop car.

  Lauren had called it an early Christmas present. He’d called it perfect. Heaven.

  Stare fixed on the road even as the memory played with his senses, a grin stretched Nick’s lips. What were the odds he could convince the current Murriundah police captain to let them borrow his car for a—

  A high-pitched beeping filled the Range Rover’s cabin, barely a second before the 4WD’s engine spluttered, coughed and—with an ignoble gurgle hardly worthy of a car costing more than two hundred grand—died.

  Just like that.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Nick ground out, directing the car to the side of the road. The Range Rover coasted to a complete standstill as AC/DC boomed from the still working speakers.

  He sat behind the wheel, staring at the array of warning lights flashing at him from the dashboard; lights that meant little to him. He was a singer for Pete’s sake. What did he know about cars?

  “This,” he growled, watching those bright red lights flash, his hardening cock softening in his shorts, “is getting ridiculous.”

  Magic Mike

  M1 Motorway, Australia

  Perched on the bulbar, waiting for the arrival of the very affable Mike of Mike’s Mechanics (the only mechanical service he could convince to come out to his location at 1:35pm Christmas Eve), Nick glared at the cars zooming past him on their way north.

  Cars with functioning engines and charged batteries.

  Cars carrying their passengers where they
wanted to go.

  Cars that did what they were supposed to do.

  Damn it, when he got back home he was buying a Learjet. A fleet of them.

  Lowering his glare to his mobile phone in his hand, he bit back a curse. Nope, the thing was now as dead as his car.

  Flat battery. He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t charged it on the flight home. He should have. What was the point of flying First Class if not to make sure one’s electronic devices were fully charged at all times? No, he’d been too concerned with sleeping. Idiot.

  Of course, because the battery of his Range Rover had also died—or at least decided to play dead with such perfection he couldn’t even get a sad whrr on his numerous attempts to restart the car—he had no way of charging it now.

  Damn it.

  He had tried to call Lauren again before calling for a mechanic, but once again, it had diverted immediately to her message service.

  What the hell?

  It had taken five knock-backs from various mechanics, five battery-draining phone calls, five time-sucking rejections before he finally landed Mike. By then, his phone had 3% charge.

  “Sure,” Mike had said barely a minute into Nick’s plea for help. “I’ll be there in a tick.”

  Nick had disconnected the call, stared at the 3%, and then ground out a protracted fuck as it changed to 2%.

  It was then his mobile had burst into life, the sound of Blue Swede singing ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ emanating from its tiny speaker as an image of his beautiful, gorgeous wife filled its screen.

  Lauren. Lauren was calling him.

  Nick had swiped his thumb to accept the call. Rammed his phone to his ear.

  “Babe,” he damn near gushed.

  “Nick?” Lauren’s husky, sexy-as-sin voice teased his senses, tickled his ear. His heart slammed into his throat. His groin throbbed. His stomach tightened. “Are you okay? I didn’t realize my phone was on mute and I’ve just noticed all your missed calls. How far away from home are—”

  Silence had cut her off.

  Just like that, his phone’s charge had gone the way of the dodo.

  He’d let out a roar that was far from mature. Had thrown his dead phone as far into the scrub beside the motorway as he could.