“Merry Christmas, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and hand her a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine for their collection.
“Oh, honey, you didn’t have to,” she gushes, but still scans the label to make sure I was successful since I did. Satisfied, she leads me into the less formal of the formal sitting rooms where my sister shrieks and throws herself into my arms.
“You came!”
“Of course.” I kiss her cheek too, but this one comes with affection. “And here.” Her face lights up at the large envelope. “Wait, is this…” She starts pulling out autographed swag and squeals at the personalized band photo of Limelight. I snicker remembering how frontman Jesse Everett and the gang were just as amazed my sister would go nuts for this crap. Limelight is only starting to gain traction, but Sophia always had a radar for up-and-coming talent. After touring with them for the last few months, I agree with her on this one. Plus, Jesse was a cool guy, talented, and one of the few bright spots on our last tour.
“Wesley.”
“Dad.”
His nod tells me that unlike Sophia, he’s not thrilled I showed. That makes two of us.
“Where’s Freddy?”
“Your brother had some things to finish up at the office. He’ll be here for dinner.”
My father has a special ability to turn any sentence into a criticism. This one: I should be half as dedicated as Frederick Jr. Got it.
“Sounds lame,” I say, popping some seared scallop contraption in my mouth.
“Perhaps if you spent more time working you’d have less time to date the likes of Miranda Rivenier.”
I force away a wince.
“Did you think we wouldn’t find out? Another of your attempts to get back at me?”
My pulse picks up, but I manage a shrug to go along with an inspection of the assorted cheeses. Guess Junior didn’t relay my message. “We’re not dating.”
“No? My PR team is lying to me?”
“I said we’re not dating, not that I didn’t know her.”
“Dammit, Wes! One scandal at a time isn’t enough for you?”
The cheese tray loses its power, and I tighten my fist. “I told you I wasn’t dating her.”
“Then why are there fucking pictures and headlines all over social media?”
“There are always fucking pictures and headlines all over social media about me.”
“So you weren’t at a Ballister Data party with her?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Ballister Data! You’re an Alton. How do you think that looks?”
“Like I don’t give a shit.”
He grips my arm and yanks me around. Hot breath fires centimeters from my face. I remember those eyes. They used to accompany spit-laced tirades. They smashed a guitar against a driveway and convinced a record label they were about to sign a huge mistake. I don’t know why I let his fingers cut into my biceps now. I could drop him with one punch, but that’s the one thing I’ve never done—fought back. I’m ten years old every time I face this man.
“You know what? It’s not complicated, Wes. It’s very simple. You are a self-centered screw-up who doesn’t give a damn about other people or the consequences of your actions. If you want to waste your life partying and sleeping with every piece of ass that throws itself at you, fine, but when your filth affects my life and the health of this family, we have a problem.”
I try to pull away, but his grip intensifies. “Let go of me.”
“Break it off with Miranda.”
“It’s none of your damn business who I date.”
“It’s my business when your shit affects me!”
“You have no idea what’s actually going on!”
“Oh, I know you and—”
I yank again, triggering a shove that sends me into an end table. He steps back to avoid my crash to the floor along with an heirloom lamp.
“Fuck!” I gape at the blood streaming from a deep gash below my elbow, hardly even hearing the resulting commotion around me. Pain sears up my arm, but no way in hell does this man get to know that.
My mother reaches for me as I push myself up, and I duck away. “Merry Christmas,” I mutter, stalking to the door.
“Wesley, wait.” Mom’s voice is strained like it is every time she tries to hide in her bubble. Tries to pretend her husband isn’t a demon and I’m not their only regret. “Don’t leave.”
“Pretty sure dinner is a no-go. Enjoy the wine.” Apparently that was the extent of her mothering instinct, and I’m relieved she doesn’t follow.
“Wes!” Sophia is harder to brush off. I let her stop me in the foyer and I stare at the eerily beautiful trail my blood carved on the pristine marble. Matches the décor, and I hold my arm steady to complete the design with a dark red pool at my feet.
“Oh my god.” Sophia must not be as impressed with my macabre artwork.
“Watch your shoes.”
“Wes—”
“I’m not going back in there.”
“I know.”
Tears shadow her eyes, and I have to clench my jaw to block the heaviness in my own chest.
“Are you okay? That looks bad.”
“Fine.”
Her fingers brush my hand, but I can’t look at her. I stare at the staircase instead, blinking, breathing, anything to keep my brain from allowing the previous scene to sink deeper. I will not give power to the pain. I will not give power to him.
“He’s never been fair to you. Never.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters to me. He’s wrong. He—”
“Sophia, I can’t. Not right now, okay? I have to go.”
“But your arm!”
“I’ll take care of it at home.”
“At least let me give you a ride. Here.”
I do accept the cloth napkin, but position her firmly in place when she tries to approach. “I’ll be fine. Merry Christmas, sis.”
Yep. Merry effing Christmas.
∞∞∞
The universe is not on my side when I enter my condo and discover it’s already been accessed. Maybe I regret giving Hannah a key. Yeah, definitely when her gaze darts to me and lands on the bloody mess.
“Oh my god! What happened?”
I kick the door shut as she charges toward me. “It’s nothing.”
“Were you mugged?”
“Kind of. Dad is a beast with a table lamp.”
“Your father did this?”
“How was the gift exchange?” I brush past her to reach the safety of my bar.
“Wes…”
“Merry Christmas, eh?”
I toss back a shot and pour another. She stops my hand. “Let me look at that.”
She turns my arm and cringes at the dark streak framed by a torn sleeve. “Crap. You need to get that fixed.”
“It’s just a cut.”
“You probably need stitches.”
“You learn that in law school?”
She swats my other arm before dragging me to the couch. “Be nice. Where are your supplies?”
“Hall closet.”
She returns with the first aid kit and examines my arm again. “Time to strip.”
“Really? Not even a glass of wine first?”
“Knock it off, hot shot.”
“I’m wrong?” All I can think about is her body pressed against mine in the kitchen. Her eyes as she soaked up what she did to me.
“No…” She releases the first button of my shirt. Deliberate, rebellious. Mission abandoned as I’m consumed by a different kind of fire. Sparks dance on my chest when her gaze scans my exposed tattoos. Another button. And another. Her hand slips in the gap, and I close my eyes.
“Hannah…”
“What?” Her mouth is right there, so close I can almost feel the brush of her lips on mine. Her pursuit moves down my abs, exploring, demanding.
The kiss isn’t optional. I suck her lip, my fingers tangling in her hair. She climb
s forward and rips at the rest of the buttons. The shirt is garbage anyway, stained with a past that shouldn’t allow a moment like this. She goes for my jeans next, a button, a zipper, and…
“Are you sure?” It comes out as a groan because she’s way ahead of me.
“So sure,” she breathes, and I free a clasp under her shirt. My fingers trail smooth skin, small curves that harden with my touch. Her breaths come harder with the pressure of my movements. Her hand clasps over mine, guiding, insisting.
Water caresses…
I can make her scream. I will too.
“Dammit!” I hiss, straightening. “Fuck!”
I stare at her in horror and grab my shirt to wrap my arm.
“What? What’s wrong?”
She follows my gaze and sighs at her bloody torso.
“Han, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. Go clean up. I got this.”
“Come with me?”
My eyes can’t stop scanning her gift, absorbing the beautiful flow of hair over pale skin. Then, blood. Streaks of violence where there should be beauty.
I’m not the kind of viper she needs.
“I want to, but I should really take care of this,” I say.
“Bullshit. You’re backing out.”
I shake my head, unable to face her disappointment. I pretend to sift through the first aid kit. It is a bad cut.
“Since when did Wes Alton have a conscience when it comes to having sex? Oh wait. It’s just me, I guess,” she snaps, moving toward the guest room.
I let her anger settle over me. I deserve it, but Hannah Drake is not a “fuck.” She’s right; I know women, and I know when they understand their hearts. Hers wants more than I can accept right now. Probably ever, because I’m not safe. I’m not the knight she thinks I am. I have blood on my hands and thorns in my soul. She came here for protection, and it kills me that I’m her biggest threat.
I’m still Christmas Day Night eleven years ago.
“Please, Mom. Please!”
Of course the soft snow had turned into painful stabs of sleet as I stood shivering at the security gate of my own house.
“You know I can’t, sweetheart.” Maybe she sounded sad. It was hard to read inflection over an intercom.
I’d already been locked out for two days and had nowhere to go. I’d been staying with Holland but they’d just left for Ottawa. None of that mattered to Frederick Alton who quickly took over the conversation and told me to “get the fuck off his property.”
And like a little dog I begged. Yeah, I did, fucking pleaded, but it made no difference. Probably just pissed him off more. The rest of the conversation was instructions for the security guard to get rid of me. I was eighteen and no longer his problem. If I gave Keith a hard time he had permission to involve the cops.
Maybe that’s my most vivid memory of the night. Security guard Keith’s look of genuine distress when the line clicked dead. He reached through the window of the guard shelter to show me his hands were tied. Even offered to “get me into the garage” which wasn’t as cold and would protect me from the sleet. And I considered it. I did because ice was pounding my face, the wind was beating my body while I absorbed how little I mattered.
I didn’t stay though. Somehow even that small mercy felt like a win for my father. I preferred to freeze to death.
∞∞∞
By the time I finish my own cleanup, Hannah is stationed on the couch again. I almost laugh at her appearance, the picture of regret in a loose tee and baggy sweatpants. We make quite the pair of repentant lovers.
“Nice outfit,” she says when I emerge from hiding.
“Thanks.” I grab a beer from the fridge and smile to myself as her eyes travel over my bare chest, down, down to the elastic of my own sweats resting precariously low on my hips. Her gaze lingers on the V there I know she likes.
“You have bruising on your ribs too.”
“Yeah, I noticed that in the shower.”
“Also from your dad?”
“Same fall. Same table.” I don’t need her thinking about that right now. “You still pissed?”
“Depends. Are you still pretending to be some self-righteous badass?”
“Self-righteous? That’s a first.” I drop to the other end of the couch.
“Not the badass?”
I smirk. “What are we watching?”
“Okay, so that dude with the bandana insists the other dude owes him four hundred dollars for an unpaid debt.”
“Oh yeah? What does the scary-ass judge say?”
“Don’t know yet. But the smaller dude kind of looks like Rice Harrison, don’t you think?”
“Wait, the scrawny kid who lived next to you in high school?”
Her expression lifts at the memory. “Remember when he tried to start the landscaping business and re-did my parents’ entire backyard without asking?”
“Oh my god. The pond?”
“So many dead fish.”
“A dead squirrel too, right?”
“I thought my dad was going to call the police,” she laughs.
“He should have. That design was criminal.”
“A clear felony.”
The scary-ass judge decides the debt is valid. Bandana dude is ecstatic.
“Aw, Rice Harrison lost,” I say.
“Good. That haircut alone deserves a lawsuit.”
I laugh, and Hannah shifts closer to present a fist. “Friends?”
I tap it with mine. “Always.”
9: WRITING
“So tell me about this year’s Drake Family Christmas.” I say over breakfast eggs the next day. “You heard all about mine.”
“Um, no I didn’t. You told me nothing, but I’ll go first because oh my gosh. Sylvie has a boyfriend.”
“Wait, what? And it’s not Casey Barrett?”
“Hilarious. Hold on, it gets better. He’s some road crew guy for The Thalias she met at that charity thing in the Bahamas. She went with Holland.”
“Wow. Sorry I missed that.” I chuckle at her reaction more than the story. Instalove is definitely a thing in our chaotic world that moves with zero patience—even if it’s not my thing. Then again, maybe it’s love that isn’t my thing.
“Oh, and his name is Shandor! He’s a Gypsy.”
“A Gypsy?” Now I know she’s lying.
“Dead serious,” she assures me.
“Huh. And your family is cool with this match?”
“Honestly, yes. Even Holland approves of the guy. I dunno. He seems cool. He’s obviously into Sylvie as much as she’s into him, so I’m a fan.”
“Musicians are trouble.”
“Tell me about it.”
We exchange a smile.
“What about your situation?”
A shadow drifts over her features. “Yeah. That came up too.”
“And?”
“I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.”
“Hannah…”
“What? I will. I’m just not ready yet. It’ll destroy them to know I’ve quit.”
“They’ll be more supportive than you think. They love you. They just want you to be healthy.”
“You of all people know it doesn’t work that way.”
I clench my jaw.
“Okay, your turn,” she continues, striking while I’m down. “Tell me what happened.”
“What do you want me to say? My dad picked a fight thirty seconds after I got there and shoved me into a table. I left. That was my Christmas.”
Shit, forgot the hot sauce.
“Wes, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not like I expected anything different.”
“Yeah, but it’s my fault.”
I lower my fork. “Huh? In what universe?”
“If not for me you wouldn’t have gone.”
“Oh please. Don’t start with that.”
“I’m serious! It’s because of my—”
“Hannah, stop. It was my idea. My drama. My father�
��s anger issues. You’re not even in the equation.”
“But—”
“I’m not letting your self-hatred speak for you.” I stare her down across the table and hold up my bandaged arm. “This. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”
“How is it anyway?”
“Fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“So?”
“Trying for badass points?”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, what are you doing today?” I ask, studying her until the self-conscious smile spreads across her lips.
“What?”
“You want to write with me?” I sound almost playful.
“Write what? Music?”
“I was thinking articles of incorporation, but whatever.”
“Shut up,” she laughs, then grows serious. “You want to write with me?”
“We used to do it all the time.”
“Yeah, with Holland! And before you two were a super-famous rock band!”
I shrug. “Okay. Well, Holland may not be here, but I’m also not in a rock band anymore, so I guess that’s balance in the universe, right?”
“Stop it. You and Holland will work things out.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
Her eyes are still orbs of skepticism, but eventually squint into acceptance. “If you’re serious…”
“I am.”
“Get your guitar.”
∞∞∞
I forgot how much I love Hannah’s voice. The slight rasp, the way she phrases lines in a way you never see coming—captivating. Perfect for my edgy song structures. I get that it’s hard to waste time on music when you grow up in the shadow of Holland Drake, but the creative universe has been robbed.
“Damn,” I say, biting down on my pick so I can scribble some notes.
“Was it bad?”
“Not even close,” I mumble through the plastic in my teeth. Pick back in hand, I turn to her. “That was sick. The run you did on ‘replay?’”
She’s clearly self-conscious so I’m not surprised when she deflects the attention back to me. “You’re not so bad yourself. I know Holland gets all the credit, but you could front your own band if you wanted to.”
Viper (NSB Book 3) Page 8
