Viper (NSB Book 3)
Page 7
My palms tingle from the heat. I lower the temperature and turn my face into the stream. Water pounds at my eyes and slips down my cheeks to my chest. I watch the rivers crisscross over black ink and contoured muscle. Down it flows, caressing me like the many hands that have traced that same pattern. How many have there been? How many that I can’t remember or wish I didn’t? And yet, none have ever left me hiding in a damn shower. None make me consider bullshit like the “caress of water.”
I curse and brace against the wall. It’s official. I’m trapped. Hannah Drake is a problem. A fucking disaster in my life that I don’t want to go away.
∞∞∞
The apartment is empty when I emerge from my suite. I see Hannah’s suitcase through the open door of the guestroom as I pass, and shudder at the relief that spreads through me. Then, I remember her appointment with Geoffrey. I never liked the guy, and it’s good I didn’t go along. Geoffrey would not have enjoyed a confrontation with me. I pick up my acoustic in an attempt to tame my hot blood.
Guitars are rigid, constructed from firm wood, so I always found it strange that this one feels soft in my hands. Some are rods of steel I have to wrestle into submission. Others beg to be handled but never satisfy. It’s only my old Martin that reads my soul, soothes my turbulence. She sings every time, the ancient frets molded to my fingers after years of forgiving my sins.
I’d always loved her but our bond became permanent after my father sabotaged my first record deal “for my own benefit.” She saved me from murder that night, transforming the rage into the song that finally hooked Holland Drake and launched our career together. My Martin also saved me from implosion when Holland decided we were better friends than lovers. The weathered curves even forgave me the day my feud with Luke Craven exploded into regret, and now here she is again. Infusing life into voids.
Hannah was wrong. I’m not alone. I’ll never be alone no matter how much life has forced failure down my throat.
“Fire of mine, ashes of regret
Redeem the manic truth.
Proving scars in vain effect
With no doubts left to lose.
Seven scars from timid youth—six I’ve left undone.
Since here I am unraveling
And it only took the one.”
I don’t know how long I write. It’s a haunting melody, so lonely without the intricate harmony of a female voice to twist around my lead. I stare at the vacuum on the other end of the couch where Holland should be, notebook in hand. Saying things like, “ashes of regret is too cliché. How about ashes of regard? Give the fire more power.”
She’d be right, of course. She’d also want to change the progression in the bridge. She hates when I do a 6-5-1 ending. “We’re building, not resolving.” But I was good for her music too. I brought an edge, kept her from falling into the pop princess abyss where she was headed with her perfect vibrato and sweet melodies. Her music is poetry. Mine bristles, and together we found perfection.
Now, I’m a repertoire of thorns.
My door clatters, then erupts into an anxious knock. Surprised, I set my guitar aside and move toward it.
“Wes, it’s me. Some guy let me in the lobby.”
I pull it open and find the most beautifully sad woman I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are wells of grief, too full to hold the tears that slip down her cheeks. I take the large box from her hands and set it inside the door. Then, I pull her against me.
Sobs escape from Hannah as her arms tighten around my back, and I send my fingers through her hair. It’s as soft as I imagined, warm when I cup her head and hold her to my chest.
“It’s not okay. I’m not okay,” she whispers.
I close my eyes and mumble the truth I’ve known since that first day back. “I know.”
∞∞∞
“Han, you awake?” I graze her door with my knuckles. “Freddy wants to meet up for drinks. You want to come?”
“Junior or Senior?”
“Would that make a difference?”
Pause. “No thanks.”
I poke my head in to find her curled up on the bed, down-comforter pulled up to her neck, eyes stabbing me through the dim light.
“You’re really going to make me face my brother alone?”
“So… it’s Freddy Junior?”
“Senior wouldn’t ask to meet up for drinks.”
“True. I’m too tired though.”
“You’ve been in bed all day.”
“I went to the washroom. Three times.”
I grip the door jam. “Okay, well, I’ll bring food back for you,” I say, pushing away with a decisive tap on the wall.
“Not hungry.”
“Don’t give a shit. See you in a few.”
∞∞∞
Frederick Alton, Jr. is the most intelligent and boring man I know. His sour face physically hurts to look at, probably a result of being the only person who buttons the top button even without a tie. He also never invites anyone out for leisure. Freddy Jr. doesn’t believe in leisure. Or laughter. Or ponies.
Truth be told I invited Hannah more for my own benefit than hers. Anything to tame (shorten) the stoic diatribe I’m about to receive. Why am I going? Because Freddy Jr. has our father’s trust and there’s something I need them both to hear.
“Hello, Wesley. Good to see you.”
My brother offers his hand because god forbid we risk a relationship beyond cordial. I give him my best Alton death-grip handshake and drop to the seat across from him. “Drinks” is something he does at a four-star restaurant over lobster and truffle butter.
“‘Sup, Prince Charming?”
His sour face scrunches into a downright rotted face. Not his favorite nickname for sure, but when you spent your formative years in the shadow of another Freddy (Prinze) Jr., well, you know.
“Don’t you think we’ve outgrown that?”
“How can I when it makes you light up the room with your smile?” I have to bury my face in the menu to hide my snicker. I’m already in trouble for something.
“So you’re back from your tour. How was it?”
“Great. So great,” I lie since his question was bullshit. “How’s being Dad’s manservant?”
Another Freddy bristle. “It’s an honor to represent our family.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
The server approaches and takes my order for a double whisky and grilled cheese.
Grilled cheese, you cretin? Says Junior’s face.
“I’m on a diet,” I explain. I can almost see the brain shards launching from his ears. Plus, four-star grilled cheese has to be epic, right?
“Is everything a joke to you?”
“Most things.”
“You’re almost thirty years old, Wesley. Don’t you think it’s time you start taking life seriously?”
“Hmm… I guess I could start a platinum-selling rock band that tours the world. How many magazine covers did you do last year again?”
His eyebrows knit in classic Freddy Senior exasperation. Do they practice their mannerisms together? God, I’d pay to see that.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Right, well, tell you what, when Dad spends all of his vast resources on trying to break you, then we can have this conversation. Until then, why am I here, Freddy?”
“Is that really how you see things?”
“How else would I see them?”
“He was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me? Are you fucking serious?”
“You were a dreamer.”
“I was a prodigy! I could have been something amazing and instead the bastard threw my guitar from the balcony just because he could. Do you have any idea what it was like to watch the one thing I valued shatter on the pavement? To stand there and be called a piece of trash just like the tangled splinters of the only thing I cared about?”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“I’m being a musician! God, why can’t you a
ll just accept that? I’m not a suit; I’m an artist. So what? I’ve walked away. I’ve done everything I can to remove the stain that I am from your lives, so why can’t you just accept that and leave me the fuck alone?”
Eyebrows, again. Language. One doesn’t use language in a four-star restaurant.
“What do you want, Freddy? Seriously, spill it or I’m gone. The only reason I’m here is to show you and Dad that you don’t control me anymore, and I don’t give a shit what you think. Feel free to quote me on that.”
He sips his wine to buy a few seconds of processing time. “Okay, well, if that’s your preference, I’ll get right down to it. We’re here because of Miranda Rivenier.”
And that was totally in my script for this meeting. “What about her?”
“Do you really not know who she is?”
“She’s a school teacher who trains service animals, right?”
He’s never been able to read my dry humor.
“No, Wesley. She’s lied to you. She’s the—”
“Relax, I’m kidding. Of course I know who she is. So what?”
“So you don’t think it’s inappropriate for the son of Alton Media’s CEO to date Ballister Data’s executive vice president?”
“Totally inappropriate, but only because the woman’s nuts. No one should date her.”
He buries himself in the $200 merlot again. He’ll be drunk soon if he doesn’t find a new defense mechanism for dealing with me.
“So you’re saying you’re not dating her?”
“I’m not.”
“Then how do you explain this?”
He scrolls through his phone to find the picture I’ve seen a hundred times in a hundred places. “Don’t bother. I went with her to a holiday party. Again, so what?”
“You willingly attended a Ballister Data function?”
“I wouldn’t say willingly.”
Another sentence he doesn’t know what to do with, and he has to refill his glass. Good thing he ordered the whole bottle. My whisky finally arrives, and I throw it back in three gulps to catch up to my wine-whore brother.
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t expect that you would.”
He waits for more. I shrug.
“Well, Dad is furious.”
“Not surprised.”
“He’s hurt, Wes.”
Okay, now I snort into my empty glass. Should have ordered two. “Hurt? Please.”
“He is. He feels like—”
“Like what? Like how it feels to be locked out of your own house for four days? To shiver humiliated on the street in the sleet and freezing rain while your parents tell you to fuck off through an intercom? But wait, that’s another thing you’ve never experienced. Christmas alone in someone else’s house because you were barred by security from your own.”
“You’re still upset about that? You shouldn’t have skipped the board dinner to play that stupid gig. You knew how important that dinner was to the family.”
I’m sure the Alton sour face has now spread to me as well. Downright contagious, that sour face. “And what about what was important to me? How do you think we got the studio time to record the demo that launched our career? We had to play that… You know what, forget it. If that’s all you’ve got, I’ll leave you to your lobster tail.”
I shove my chair back, and Freddy’s vinegar face transforms into a painful-looking compassion face. Well, his version of compassion. Looks more like a snail giving birth to a watermelon.
“Seriously, Freddy. Don’t hurt yourself trying to figure it out. All I want is freedom to do my own thing. Freedom from Alton.”
It’s then that I see he’s consumed all of glass two. Glass three passes the line of a proper pour, and I know my efforts have gained nothing.
“Tell Dad I said hi and to mind his own fucking business.”
I have the server box my grilled cheese for Hannah on the way out.
∞∞∞
“Oh my gosh. This—is amazing.”
I’d suffer another drink with my brother to watch Hannah Drake eat $30 grilled cheese. I reach across the table for the other half and steal a bite. Okay, so that meeting wasn’t a total disaster.
“How was Junior?” she mumbles through a mouthful of imported cheeses we can’t pronounce.
“How’s any meeting with Freddy?”
She tilts her head. “He still give you crap about your dad?”
“‘Crap’ has such a broad range of meaning.”
“Not when it comes to your family.” I can’t help the smile at her tone. She motions for the rest of the sandwich back, and I hand it over. “You okay?”
“Sure. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever. It’s not like I expected anything different.”
I think she believes my indifference as she works on her grilled cheese pile. When she looks up again, I’m met with no-nonsense Hannah. Viper Hannah. “Except for Sophia, your family sucks. You know that, right?”
I almost laugh. “Believe me, I know that.”
8: CHRISTMAS
Christmas comes every year. Which means every year I’m stuck with the bitter choice of confronting my parents’ wrath at their house or absorb a compounded version for not going. The Drake household, though? A full-on holiday movie.
“What do you mean you’re not spending Christmas with your family?” Maybe this makes me a hypocrite, but come on.
I’m talking to her cute butt because the rest is buried in the fridge. “I’m not up for it.”
“Yeah well, that gets you out of a lot, but not this.” She ducks out enough to throw me a glare. I leave no room for negotiation, though, so she returns to her furious search. “Han, I’m not letting you skip Christmas with your family. That’s a regret you don’t want and don’t need.”
She clearly disagrees as she shoves fridge contents around with way more force than required for creamer.
“I’ll just use milk,” she mutters, grabbing the pitcher.
“The creamer is in there. I picked some up yesterday.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t fucking see it.”
“It’s probably hiding from you.”
Her lips crack into the slightest of smiles as I grin and lean against the counter beside her.
“Sorry. I know I’m not the nicest person right now,” she huffs.
“Well, you’re in the right place. Prime Minister Asshole right here.”
Her eyes change when they turn on me. Soft, heavy with some emotion I can’t read. Petite arms slip around my waist, and I respond with an instinctive embrace. I can’t tell if there are tears this time, but there’s definitely a thunder of blood through my body at the contact. Hers too, I fear, when her hands slide up my back and grip my shoulders. She burrows into my chest and triggers every protective reflex in my DNA.
“You need to go home for Christmas,” I tell her hair. There’s no space between us now. No room to protect myself from how important this woman is to me. I draw in a deep breath. “Tell you what. I will if you do.”
She tilts her head back. “Seriously? With everything going on? You hate Christmas with your family.”
“Yeah, well, I hate the idea of you missing yours more.”
Her eyes. Dammit. It’s supposed to be a sweet moment, but my dick ruins that and forces me a step back. I clear my throat.
“All you have to do is send me a text and I’ll call to help you escape.”
She’s silent as her gaze touches every inch of my body. I feel it, burning from my chest to my arms to… It rests on the one place I can’t control, and my brain completely malfunctions.
“I’ll go,” she says. “If you promise to rescue me.”
∞∞∞
I get Hannah’s text while I’m preparing for my own trial. The Altons do evening celebrations—it’s better form—so Hannah had first dibs on drama. With the phone on speaker, I finish running a towel over my body.
“Shut up,” is Hannah’s greeting, and I grin.
“Not going well?”
“No. They’re sweet and concerned and all that crap.”
“Yeah, they’re the worst.”
“I hate you.”
“I know. Hey, seriously though, I get that it’s annoying right now, but just keep hearing ‘I love you’ every time they try. That’s what they’re really saying.”
“Ew. What’s wrong with you?”
“You, apparently,” I laugh.
“Jerk. Are you on your way to the castle yet?”
I suck in a hiss with the slide into my jeans. “Getting dressed.”
“Wait, are you naked right now?”
“Not anymore.”
“Damn.”
“Are you flirting with me, Hannah Drake?”
“Never.”
“Okay, good. Hey, Han? You got this. We’ll exchange war stories later.”
“First we have to survive the gift exchange. Emma made us stuff this year…”
“That’s adorable.”
“Have I mentioned I hate you?”
∞∞∞
My parents’ foyer is Christmas-ready with a spectacularly red flower arrangement and single strand of garland laced up the grand staircase. Probably made from baby peacock feathers or something. I have plenty of time to examine the two decorations as I wait for Alfred to inform the hosts that the black sheep has arrived. Funny how the place I spent most of my life seems foreign to me. Maybe it’s because my parents expect things like forcing their son to wait in the foyer.
“Wesley, we’re so glad you’ve joined us.” My mother glides—glides—across the marble floor. She’s full-blown Alton Holiday Chic in a shimmery silver dress and obscene diamond jewelry. I match perfectly with my jeans and rolled-sleeve plaid shirt. At least it’s red plaid.