by Gem Frost
Glancing at my smartwatch, I notice it’s almost eight o’clock. Time for the kids to get ready for bed. After all, if they’re anything like me and Madison were when we were little, they’ll be up at the asscrack of dawn and tearing into their packages from Santa.
“I guess I’d better get going,” I say to the room at large.
The kids set up a predictable chorus of, “Awwwww, do you have to?” but I stand up anyway.
“Thanks for having me, kiddos. You guys have a fun Christmas, all right?”
Char trots across the room on her stubby little legs, raising her arms to me. I lift her up, and she wraps her arms around my neck.
“Do you like Christmas Eve better now, Uncle Nick?”
“Sure,” I say with a complete lack of truthfulness. “Christmas Eve is awesome. Thanks for the terrific presents, hon.”
“You’re welcome.” She pauses, then added earnestly, “Just because something bad happened to you one time doesn’t mean you should hate Christmas.”
I see Syd’s eyes rivet on me, and a flush runs up my cheeks. Jesus, I’m blushing like a teenager. I try to cover it by burying my face in Char’s wavy, golden-brown hair and kissing the top of her head. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll remember that.”
I hug Connor and Madison, grab the overflowing bag of presents they gave me, then head for the door at warp speed. All of a sudden, I’ve realized I don’t want to wait around to see exactly what Syd had in mind when he whispered, I wanted to know if we could still be good together. I don’t want to revisit the Ghost of Christmas Past. It just isn’t worth the fucking pain.
I simply want to take my raw and aching heart home, curl up in bed, and forget this whole clusterfuck of an evening ever happened.
Madison lives in one of those old fifties-type houses, a brick ranch. It’s small and a little ratty, but the lot is huge, and it’s quite a walk down to the street to where I parked my truck. The front lawn is lit by an almost-full moon. Occasional small clouds drift past it without obscuring it, their edges limned with brilliant light. Every cloud has a silver lining, I think, and then wish I hadn’t. I don’t see the slightest hint of a silver lining in what happened tonight, damn it.
I crunch my way slowly down the long gravel driveway, climb into my enormous black F-150, and carefully put the bag full of presents in the back seat. The big engine roars to life, and more goddamn Perry Como blares from the radio. Ordinarily I listen to old classic rock, but earlier I unfortunately tuned it to Sirius’ holiday station in an attempt to feel more jolly as I drove to my sister’s house. This time Perry’s singing cheerfully about how it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
Fuck that shit. I slam a hand against the radio, and it cuts off.
I just want to go home. But as I look through the windshield, I see someone standing in front of the vehicle, outlined in the glare from the headlights. He’s standing in a stubborn, combative posture, his arms crossed and his legs braced.
Evidently Syd’s not letting me get away without a fight.
Goddamnit, I don’t want to deal with this right now. The two of us have fought enough already tonight, for Chrissake.
But unless I’m willing to grind Syd beneath the wheels of my Ford, it’s obvious I’m not going anywhere till I confront my past. I roll down the window, ignoring the blast of cold air that greets me, and stick my head out.
“Do you realize this truck could flatten you like a bug under a shoe?”
“That’s not a truck. It’s a tank.”
I force a grin, even though I’m not finding this situation to be particularly amusing. Hell, right now nothing is amusing. I just want to go home and cry like a baby. But I keep my voice light. “I like my vehicles big.”
“You like everything to be big. It’s like you’re compensating for something that’s too little.”
I bristle. Syd, of all people, knows well enough that I don’t have a damned thing to compensate for. Syd’s the one that was always self-conscious about the size of his equipment. Anyway, I need this goddamn truck for my business. There’s even a logo on the side: Brant Landscape Design. With a little picture of a bird behind the words, because a brant is a kind of goose.
The name suits me. I must be a birdbrain to be letting Syd lure me into another discussion, after the last one went so fucking well.
I answer in a surly growl. “What the hell do you want, anyway?”
Syd fails to be intimidated by my tone. He strides toward the window and glares up at me. “I want to talk.”
He’s wearing a long black woolen coat, but since he’s left it unbuttoned, I can see his compactly lean body encased in a dark green sweater and jeans. I want to look away, but God, I can’t. Syd’s still incredibly hot, and an unwanted stab of lust jolts me to the core.
I don’t like the fact that I still want him. I wish I could look at him and not be moved, but I can’t, and it sucks. I leer as nastily as I can, hoping he’ll be pissed and stalk off. “Earlier I got the impression you wanted to do more than just talk.”
Syd mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch over the roar of the big engine—although judging from the annoyed expression on his face, it probably involves me fucking myself. Not that prim and proper Syd would ever use such a crass word—he’d be much more likely to tell me that I should go engage in self-fornication, or something. He raises his voice. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”
Nope, I think. Still running around with a broken heart after three years. Aloud, I remind him, “You’re the one who said I’ll never grow up.”
Syd looks up at me. In the moon-silvered darkness, his face looks very pale and vulnerable. “I was hoping I was wrong.”
Damn it. Part of me wants to kiss him, and part of me wants to hit the gas and get the fuck out of here. I shut my eyes and count to ten, trying to avoid blurting out something I’ll regret. Finally, I say, “Look, it’s damned cold out. If you want to talk, why don’t you climb in for a couple of minutes?”
Syd hesitates for a long moment, and I think he’s probably trying to avoid doing something he’ll regret, too. But at last he nods. Slowly, he walks around to the passenger side, opens the door, and scrambles in. He closes the door behind him, shutting out the unwelcome cold.
The first thing I notice is the hauntingly familiar scent of his cologne. Some sort of citrusy fragrance. I remember it so clearly, and it brings back a quick flood of memories—quick flashbulb images of us making love, sitting together in front of the fireplace, arms around each other at the movie theater. The pictures in my head are so vivid that tears almost come to my eyes.
I blink hard, then lean back against the leather upholstery and let myself indulge in a long stare. Three years, and Syd hasn’t changed a bit, except maybe to get more gorgeous. By my calculations, he must be almost thirty-five now, but there are no lines on his round, youthful face, none of the scattered silver hairs I’ve begun finding on my own head. His curly hair is as reddish-gold as ever, and there’s no sign of a receding hairline.
But he’s a hell of a lot mouthier than I recall him being. I remember him as a gentle, sweet, almost meek man who put up with me acting like a jerk a lot more than he should have. Somewhere along the line he’s developed a scrappy, almost bitchy attitude.
I’m surprised to discover that I like it.
The silence stretches between us, broken only by the thrumming of the big engine, and I realize Syd is looking me over too. He has to pull off his glasses to do it, because it’s so cold outside that they’re fogging over as the truck warms up. But even without the glasses his moss-green eyes study me thoughtfully, like I’m some sort of weird-ass bug.
“Like what you see?” I challenge at last, finding the silence awkward. Even oppressive.
“You really haven’t changed,” he says with a sigh.
It’s the second time he’s said that, and it’s obviously not meant as a compliment. The sorrowful note in his voice makes that painfully clear
. This time I refuse to flinch. What Syd thinks of me doesn’t bother me in the least, damn it. We’re not dating, and I don’t need his goddamn approval. I flash another deliberately nasty grin.
“Damn straight. I like my life just the way it is.”
The moment the words leave my mouth I wish I could take them back. Why do I feel this stupidly childish need to bait Syd, to confirm his worst suspicions? But Syd doesn’t flinch, either.
“Full of empty sex with empty men and women?” he retorts.
Ow. Where on earth did this snarky, sharp-tongued side of Syd come from? Three years ago, he never would have made a remark like that.
Of course, three years ago Syd obviously didn’t let me know what he was thinking, deep down, or he wouldn’t have walked out the door and disappeared without the slightest bit of warning. I wonder if I ever truly knew Syd at all.
“Empty sex is the best kind,” I lie.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried it.”
I should shut the fuck up, but I can’t seem to control my mouth somehow. I cock an eyebrow. “Want to give it a shot?”
I mean to infuriate him, to make him angry enough that he’ll scramble out of the truck in a huff and stomp away. That’s really the only outcome I can imagine here, despite his earlier blather about wanting to see if it could still be good between us. I mean, it’s clear that things between us aren’t good. In fact, they’re about as bad as bad gets.
I’m shocked to the core when Syd looks at me thoughtfully, then nods.
“Sure,” he says. “Why the hell not?”
Chapter 4
Syd
I must be out of my mind to even think about having sex with Nixon Brant. Nick’s a horndog, a player, a faithless jerk who sleeps with a different person every week. A perpetual, hormone-crazed teenager who’ll never, ever settle down with one person.
And yet the thought of feeling those big hands on my body, sliding up my back, stroking my thighs, unzipping my jeans and pulling out my cock, sends an aching wave of longing through me. It’s been so long, so terribly long since we’ve been together.
God, I’ve missed it. I miss Nick. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. The man has commitment issues, obviously, but he’s unbearably sexy.
Truth is, I’m already hard, just from being in this small, enclosed space with Nick, just from breathing in his intoxicating evergreen scent, just from seeing his lopsided grin. I’m as hard as granite, and that realization does absolutely nothing to reassure me. Nick’s way too attractive—and he knows it. That makes him dangerous.
He looks momentarily taken aback by my response, but then that wicked bad-boy grin makes its appearance, showing his teeth in a predatory flash. It’s a grin that irritates me at the same time it turns me on, and I can’t help wondering how many other men and women have fallen prey to it over the years. Too damn many, probably.
“Sounds good to me,” he says. “My place or yours?”
The thought of taking Nick back to my condo, my haven, my refuge, doesn’t appeal. Even worse, though, is the thought of having sex in Nick’s house, which we virtually shared for three months. The whole time we were dating, we couldn’t stand to be away from each other for any longer than we had to be, and as a result, I spent almost every night there. I can’t think of his house without being assaulted by images of us wrapped around each other… and the image of myself walking out for the last time.
I don’t want to weight this night down with more memories than I already have swirling around in my brain. Anyway, back then making love to Nick had meant something. Now it’s just going to be…empty. Meaningless. That’s what we agreed on, and that’s how it’s going to be, damn it. Might as well have sex someplace just as meaningless.
“How about the truck?” I suggest.
Somewhat to my amusement, Nick’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “The truck?”
I can barely hold back a smile. Nick, I’m quite sure, has had sex in cars, trains, planes, and buses. Probably in Grand Central Station, too. So, his shock has to be at the fact that I suggested it, and that makes a certain amount of sense. I’ve always been a reserved kind of guy, maybe even a bit on the boring side—I mean, I am an orthodontist—and three years ago, I wouldn’t have suggested having sex anywhere more exotic than a bed. But tonight, I’m not following my usual patterns. A little semi-public sex sounds like exactly what I want. What I need.
“Sure, why not? This thing is the size of the Titanic, after all.”
“O…kay,” Nick says slowly. “But maybe we better find someplace more private than my sister’s driveway.”
“That’s fine,” I agree, because the last thing I want is Madison’s kids looking out the window in the hopes of spotting Santa and seeing us—no. Just no. I strap myself in for the ride. “You think Madison will mind if I leave my car here for a while?”
“Uh…probably not. Do me a favor and call her, let her know. So she doesn’t wonder why your car’s still here.”
The big Ford starts out of the driveway with a lurch, and I yank my cell phone out of my coat pocket and dial Madison. She picks up the phone on the second ring, sounding distracted and harassed. Obviously overexcited kids shriek in the background, and I cringe in sympathy. Being a mom on Christmas Eve has to be one of the toughest jobs in the world.
“What’s going on, Syd?”
“Hi, Madison. Listen, I was just wondering if I could leave my car at your place for a while.”
There’s a brief silence. “Oh, God, he got to you, didn’t he?”
I blink at the empty road, its dotted white line lit by the broad swath of the truck’s headlights. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. You and Nick. Are the two of you going off to…”
I can’t help it. Abruptly I see the absurdity of the situation, and I give a sharp crack of laughter. “To have meaningless, casual sex. Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
The truck swerves abruptly, as if Nick is so shocked that he almost ran off the road, but when I glance in his direction he looks cool and in complete control of the vehicle. Although…I study his face in the glow from the instruments, and his jaw does look tightly set. But maybe that’s just a trick of the light.
“What the hell is wrong with you?’ Madison demands. “How many times have we talked about his overactive sex life over the course of the past eight months?”
Irritation pricks me. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Madison, but earlier I got the very distinct impression you were trying to set us up.”
“I thought I was, but I’m starting to suspect you were the one doing the setting up. But I admit that I hoped you might, I don’t know, settle him down or something. I didn’t think you were the type to—to—”
Ugh. I did my best to “settle him down” three years ago, and it didn’t work. By now I know that’s a pipe dream. Nick’s just not the domestic type. But what Nick does to me is undeniable, and I can’t possibly bring myself to pass up this opportunity, no matter how crazy it is, no matter how bleakly certain it is that I’ll wake up miserable and heartbroken tomorrow.
“To have hot, meaningless sex on Christmas Eve?”
“Ewwww. This is my brother we’re talking about, Syd. Cut it out, or I’m going to have to find the brain bleach. Anyway, I didn’t say that, not exactly. I just meant...”
“I know what you meant. Call it my Christmas present to myself, Madison. All work and no play makes Syd a dull boy, you know?” I shoot a look at Nick and add, grinning, “Just for once in my life, I want to have fun. A whole lot of fun.”
This time I’m certain I see his big hands tighten on the steering wheel.
I say goodbye to Madison and hang up, then glance out at the inky night. We’re driving through a heavily forested section on the outskirts of the little town of Loblolly, and except for the headlights, it’s pitch black out there. “Where are we headed?”
“The park, I guess.”
Sounds good to me. Lobl
olly’s only park (consisting of a baseball diamond, swings and a climbing set, and a quarter-mile nature trail) closes at sunset, which was several hours ago. The parking lot there ought to be pretty safe, especially on Christmas Eve. It’ll be dark and empty…the perfect place for a hot, meaningless tryst.
I become aware that I’m shaking with anticipation, my body humming with eagerness. God, it’s been so freaking long since I’ve been with anyone. To have Nick to myself—well, it’s a whole lot more than I dared dream of when I set this evening up.
Nick pulls the big truck into a dark section of the city park’s lot, leaving the engine running but killing the lights, and turns to face me. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “You come here often?”
I recognize his characteristic effort at defusing an awkward situation with a feeble joke. I’ve always loved his stupid, corny sense of humor, but I’ll admit it used to irritate the hell out of me as well, because he never seemed able to take stuff seriously. Eventually I came to realize Nick simply wasn’t designed to take anything seriously.
I shrug out of my heavy woolen coat. I’m starting to sweat, and I have a feeling it isn’t due just to the truck’s heater. My glasses are fogged up too, and I don’t really need them for this sort of activity anyway, so I drop them on the dashboard.
“You know perfectly well this isn’t exactly the kind of thing I do on a regular basis,” I answer primly.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Leaning across the console, Nick puts his hand against my cheek and brushes his lips against mine. His hand feels warm and rough, a reminder that he does hard physical work for a living. He studied landscape architecture at Virginia Tech, and he designs fancy gardens, beautiful patios, and elaborately complex grounds for rich people’s houses. He has a crew to do a lot of the work, but he also does plenty of the planting and the hardscaping himself. At least he always used to, and judging from his calluses, that hasn’t changed.
