by Cari Quinn
He was no dummy. Christmas lights made women feel romantic. It was practically a statistic.
And maybe he felt the need for a little extra Christmas cheer too.
After dragging it into his room, he realized he hadn’t bought extra ornaments.
“You didn’t remind me I’d need ornaments, dammit,” he called down the hall to Jazz, who made a sound equivalent to “too bad for you” right before the baby started to cry. Again.
So he went downstairs and borrowed a few from the main tree. And one of the strands of lights. The bald spots and lack of lighting in one section added character, as far as he was concerned.
Their tree had been too California-perfect before. This suited them more. Besides, he hadn’t borrowed any of the musical-themed ornaments, had he?
Well, minus one mini black-and-white Stratocaster that played actual music. Because that fucking rocked.
After he finished outfitting his new tree, he sprawled out on his bed and took a nap for a couple of hours. Shopping and shit was hard work and he still had to wrap the crap.
When he woke up, the house smelled freaking amazing and the sun was definitely a lot lower in the sky. He sat up and clutched his growling stomach, then eyed the pile of junk he’d bought with equal parts misery and disdain.
All this Christmas business was just a consumer racket. No one cared about the true meaning. Hell, most people probably didn’t even know the true meaning.
He wandered out into the hallway and headed toward Jazz and Gray’s room. The pluck of strings combined with Gray’s low, husky voice reached him just before he knocked.
“Simple Man” was one of his favorites. Gray appreciated classic Lynyrd Skynyrd just as much as he did.
He rapped his knuckles on the door, then opened it when Gray replied. He started to razz him about his playing when his gaze fell on the bed. Jazz and the baby were curled up asleep together, looking stupidly cute.
Something shifted inside him, and it wasn’t due to Jazz. He cared about her a lot, even loved her as a friend, but he didn’t see her as anything more than that now. No, it was more that her and the baby stirred feelings inside him he didn’t know what to do with. Didn’t know how to process.
He wasn’t the daddy type. He’d always known that about himself and hadn’t bothered thinking about it overmuch. But maybe the fact that babies were all around him now due to his bandmates settling down, or perhaps Lila’s obvious love of them had screwed up his head somehow because a part of him was starting to wonder.
What would that be like? Just to look at that little face and think “hey, I had a part in creating that”? There were fun aspects to being a parent too. You know, like getting to buy the kid a KISS costume to wear on Halloween and teaching him “Stairway to Heaven” to impress all his kindergarten buddies.
“You need to get the kid a guitar,” he told Gray, nodding to the bed.
“I think he has a little time yet,” Gray said drily, continuing to strum through the end of the song.
“Nah, man, you can’t wait on it. He’s already been exposed to all that prenatal drumming from Jazz. You’re going to lose him to the other side if you don’t start now.”
“The other side being drums?” Gray jerked a shoulder, his fingers moving without cease. “Eh, if he likes them better, fine. It’s his choice. He may not even want to do the music thing at all.”
Nick’s eyebrows lifted. “What the hell kind of father are you, saying crap like that?”
Gray shook his head, a faint smile playing around his mouth. “If you came in here to try to con her into wrapping your presents, you’re out of luck, dude. She’s wiped out.”
Nick scratched his chin. “Huh. Never thought of that. Would she have?”
“After she just put up with all your last minute shopping? Doubtful. And pay up, son. We’ve got a college education to start socking away for, not to mention house stuff.” Gray held out a hand.
“Oh yeah. Sorry. Forgot. One second.” Nick jogged down the hall to his room to take out the money from between his mattress and box spring, tucked beside his worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye.
He really needed a safe. This hiding money holdover from their days of living underneath the Fluff ‘n Fold Laundromat was getting old.
Also, maybe he needed to stop squirreling away so much money in the apartment, period. Ricki was doing better now. He didn’t need to have so much cash on hand to help bail her out anymore. His money guy was investing in the stock market for him, and maybe it was time he grew up a bit and actually used his money market account now and then.
He grabbed the cash and returned to Gray and Jazz’s bedroom. Jazz and the baby were still out cold. “Thanks, man,” he said, handing the wad to Gray.
Gray blinked. “Dude, ever heard of a check?”
“I have a checking account. But I have some cash here too, so why bother with all that?”
“Yeah, try a bank. They’re awesome.” Gray set aside his guitar and rose to go to the dresser. He grabbed his wallet and shoved the cash inside, then shook his head and grabbed an envelope off the desk. “So much it doesn’t even fit. Damn.”
“Can’t help it if I’m paid, son.”
Gray’s snort made him grin.
“You two are louder than a freight train. Stupid boys.” Jazz yawned and sat up, shifting her grip on her child so that he nestled into her side. “Is that our money?”
“No, that’s my donation to the ‘please buy more birth control’ fund.” Nick glanced at Gray. “Seriously, another one already? Why?”
“I told him we intended to try again later next year,” Jazz informed Gray, who regained a little of the color he’d lost at Nick’s question. “Possibly, if the band stuff works out.”
“What do you mean if it works out?” Nick demanded. “Of course it’s going to work out. The show…shows were just a blip. Simon’s working through it.”
In truth, he wasn’t sure what Simon was working through. His best friend had clammed up after the first botched concert and completely shut down after the second. It grated on Nick that he’d intended to goad Jazz into asking Simon and Margo to come over tonight, because he wasn’t entirely sure his friend would reply to his texts.
That fucking hurt, especially since he didn’t have a clue why.
“She didn’t mean what you’re thinking,” Gray said quietly. “She was referring to touring and album release schedules.”
Nick cleared his throat. He had a hair-trigger response to even the smallest suggestion that the band wouldn’t work out. Forget an actual infant, Oblivion was his baby. The band had started out with Simon as the lead singer and Deacon on bass and Snake—goddamn Snake—on drums, but he’d been the one who’d initially approached the others. He and Simon had played together practically every day in high school, but forming a band was different. It required a commitment beyond just what felt good and living in the moment.
Eventually Snake had been kicked out of the band due to his drug use, and they’d been down a drummer. Deacon had brought in Jazz to fill that role—over Nick’s strenuous objections—and Gray, in spite of Nick’s assertions that they didn’t need two guitarists.
But they did. Just as they needed Margo’s incredible work on the violin. This lineup was Oblivion. They’d soared higher and achieved more success than he’d ever imagined. He’d be damned if the dream slipped away.
Tonight, he wasn’t thinking about any of that. It was fucking Christmas. For once in his life, he was just going to enjoy his friends and his life. And Lila.
God, he hoped he’d get to enjoy her.
“Do you two always speak for each other now? Next you’ll be finishing each other’s sentences.” Nick shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I gotta wrap shit.”
Jazz lifted Dylan as he started to rouse, murmuring softly to him. “Aww, you’re hungry aren’t you, sweetiepie?” Then she reached for the top button of her shirt. “Sure you don’t want to stay for nursing time?”
>
There was no missing the gleam in her eyes. Evil woman.
Nick backed toward the door. “You’re lucky your husband doesn’t react the same way to you flipping out a boob,” he said before he escaped.
A pillow hit the door in his wake and he grinned. He seemed to draw that reaction a lot from his female bandmates.
He headed up the hall and faced down the pile of gifts in his bedroom with a heavy sigh. Might as well get to it. He’d be tangled up in tape and wrapping paper for a while.
Wrapping paper. Aw, fuck.
“Hey Jazz,” he called.
A few hours later, all his stuff was wrapped and bagged. Luckily Jazz had a stash of Christmas gift bags, so he’d started shoving things in those. She’d tried to convince him to use tissue paper, but eventually he’d run out so he’d grabbed that morning’s newspaper and started using that for bag filler.
C’mon, who didn’t love the comics? The political articles and obits probably wouldn’t garner any fans, but hey, he was reusing and recycling and that had to be a holiday-worthy endeavor.
He hauled all his packages and parcels downstairs to the collection under the tree. Holy shit, there was a ton of them. They’d be opening boxes all night.
And if Simon got him another gift certificate to the local drugstore with a memo “I recommend ribbed for her pleasure”, he was going to knee him in the nuts.
Nick scratched his chin. On second thought, he didn’t have any condoms left. He might just need that certificate tonight, if some freaking Christmas elves worked on his behalf to get him laid.
Not that he cared about the sex part as much as he cared about reconnecting with Lila. Chick term or not, he missed her. Just snuggling and laughing and kissing her enough that her light apple scent soaked into his skin would make his night.
Using those pearls in the dirty, deviant ways he’d devised would just be a bonus.
He could hear voices down the hall, carrying from their in-house studio. Deacon’s deeper tone mixed with Jazz’s light, happy laughter and the ubiquitous plucking of Gray’s guitar. The guy toted his instrument around even more than Nick did. After a second, he heard Simon and Margo’s laughter, and a sharp excited sound that probably belonged to Harper and Deacon’s daughter, Lexi. Unlike Dylan, she seemed to do more than cry and nurse. Not much more, but a little.
The heavenly smells from the kitchen meant Harper had been in residence for a while. His wrapping must’ve taken longer than he thought. Only one voice was missing. But he had to be sure.
To give himself a little distance, he drew out his iPhone and started recording just before he stepped into the studio. He’d take a few clips and upload to Periscope. That would serve a dual purpose. Lila tended to officiate everything—it was just her way—so he knew she hadn’t arrived yet. Having the phone in front of his face would hide his inevitable disappointment, the last thing he wanted his bandmates to see. They’d probably razz him, and he wasn’t in the mood.
Besides, back in the early days of the band’s success, he and Jazz had been Oblivion’s social media crew. They’d teased and tweeted and Facebooked the hell out of everything. Uploading a few short vids to Periscope of Oblivion’s fan-damn-tastic Christmas would prove to everyone that they might be dysfunctional, but at least they were a family.
The band wasn’t breaking up. It was never going to break up, if he had anything to say about it.
“Say cheese,” Nick as to the group of them as he moved into the studio doorway.
There was a bit of grumbling under their breaths, but in no time, the band was hamming it up for the camera while Nick narrated what he was witnessing. Mostly laughter and insults and the occasional air guitar, in Simon’s case. Turning on a camera was the surest way to make his best friend not act like a dick.
Maybe he should just start recording every conversation he tried to have with Simon. Then the bastard would be forced to stop freezing him out.
Dressing the babies in Christmas outfits was an inspired touch, Nick had to admit. Their female fans would eat that stuff up with a ladle. Dylan was wearing reindeer antlers and some green footie pajama thing while Gray nudged his rocking bassinette with his foot and played Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” on his guitar. He was singing to go with it, but no one seemed to care except Dylan, who stared owlishly up at his father as if he couldn’t understand why he was being subjected to such torture.
And during the holiday season, no less.
“Can’t you see you’re tormenting that child?” Nick said to Gray, who kept strumming and singing. “He’d rather hear me sing that, and that’d be painful.” He bent close to Dylan and smiled triumphantly as the baby’s eyes swiveled toward him. “See, you like me better than your old man, right, kid?”
Dylan screwed up his face and started to wail so violently he nearly dislodged one of his antlers.
Little fucker.
Gray started to laugh. “Your talents lay elsewhere. Like oh, in getting special piercings, maybe?” He waggled his brows.
Nick frowned and drew back, then shot an accusing glance at Jazz. “You know what they say about loose lips, Edwards.”
“Duffy now,” Jazz said in a singsong voice.
“Benedict Arnold Edwards-Duffy, spying on personal, private conversations, I might add.” Nick turned away, intending to aim his iPhone at the biggest camera hog of them all to get the spotlight off himself.
Simon didn’t bother waiting to be tagged, however. He just took over.
“Piercings, you say? This one wouldn’t even get his ear pierced in high school.” Simon jerked a thumb at Nick. “Highly doubt he can handle anything more intense.”
Nick narrowed his eyes and lifted his phone right up to Simon’s smirking face. “Not letting Tony Peterson pierce my ear with a stapler in high school showed my wisdom. I’m pretty sure he hit your brain when he did yours.”
“Wuss.” Simon tightened his arm around Margo’s shoulders. “So whatcha gonna get pierced, Nicky boy? Your nose? Your eyebrow? Your lip?” He leered. “Or maybe you’re gonna aim that needle farther south. Better be careful, you don’t have a lot of room to work with.”
“Here we go.” Margo poked Simon in the side. “Don’t start a pissing contest.”
“Don’t need to. He’ll never do it.” Simon’s boast made Nick frown. His best friend didn’t know what he would or wouldn’t do.
Sure, Nick wouldn’t even consider it, but Simon didn’t know that. Jackass.
“You didn’t hear him. He was teasing his girl—” Jazz broke off and cleared her throat before rushing toward Deacon to pry Lexi from his hip. “Gimme that baby. I just wanna squeeze her pretty cheeks.” She spun toward the camera and held out Deacon’s daughter, who was wearing a red-and-white onesie and a band with springy candy canes protruding from her head. “Look at her! She’s so precious.”
“Aww, that’s my little Lexi.” Simon plucked her out of Jazz’s hands, kissed her forehead and returned her to Deacon. “I wanna hear more about Nicky’s teasing. I know he wasn’t serious, because he can’t get a girl. Everyone knows that.”
Nick was reasonably sure Simon was trying to cover for Jazz’s slip, since Nick was in theory the only remaining single member of Oblivion. He was supposed to remain that way, if their management at Ripper Records had any say in the matter. He definitely wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with their rep at the record company.
But as things stood now, he wasn’t. He hadn’t touched Lila in a week and a half. He could count down hours if pressed. So Simon’s taunt burned more than usual, and he reacted with typical sense.
“I might not be able to get a girl, but I can get my dick pierced.”
The room went pin-silent, save for Gray’s strumming. Then that died too.
Simon grabbed Nick’s phone, his face gleeful. “Did you hear that, Oblivionites? You got the scoop first. Nick Crandall is getting his dick pierced for your pleasure!”
Nick couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Hell, he
might even have lost his resting pulse.
Dear God, what had he done?
“I will if you will,” Nick tossed back.
Simon brought the phone up close to his face. “Hmm. What do you think? Two pricks for the price of one?”
“Not the first time when it comes to you two,” Deacon said drily, lifting his daughter into the air far above his head.
The guy probably just wanted to show off his arms. What, was he trying out to be the next Avenger, for fuck’s sake? Add in a cute baby and Saint Deacon knew the fans would send in appreciative notes by the truckload.
Nick frowned. His Christmas spirit was disappearing fast. Time to get out of there and away from threats cast toward his person—and his defenseless penis.
At a loss for words, Nick snatched back his phone and booked out of the room while Simon howled with laughter.
The whole internet was probably laughing at him. And he was still filming. Great.
Since he was tired of being the center of attention, he followed his nose toward the kitchen. “Consider this a smell-gram,” he told the red dot on his phone. “Because Deacon’s goddess of a wife is making a feast worthy of a bunch of grungy rock stars—wait, scratch that. She’s making something delicious. Let’s see exactly what, shall we?”
He strolled into the kitchen and held the phone out toward Harper. “Say hello, Mrs. McCoy.”
Harper glanced up from whatever she was stirring on the stove and glared at his phone. “Crandall, you better not intend to get all up in my face right now. Cooking for a herd is serious business.”
Nick flipped the phone toward himself. “She appears to not want to say hello to all of you lovely people. But that can’t be so, right? So let’s try again. Say hello to the fans, Harper.”
Harper smiled brightly and lifted a dripping ladle in a semi-wave. “Hi y’all. Merry Christmas.”
“Damn, she’s got gravy. Look at all that.” He peered into the pot and was halfway to sticking a finger in to taste when she bopped him on the back of his hand with her giant spoon. “Ow. Okay then, guess I’ll just have to try that later.” He leaned over the open stove door at the glistening bird roasting in a pan of its own juices. “That smells fucking fabulous. Turducken?” he asked, mainly to goad Harper.
