Authors: Christi Barth
A pile of tinsel-y garland and wreaths caught Jack’s eye. He pointed at it. “See those decorations?”
“Yes. Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not. I’m taking a short-cut. Us award-winning directors are all about the visual cues.” Jack stabbed his finger at the mass of silver, gold and greenery again. “Decorations. Christmas. It’s all a façade. People pretend to be happy for a few weeks.”
“Geez, you’re channeling Scrooge right now. Are you saying you truly believe nobody’s happy at Christmas?”
“Nobody with responsibilities. Tell me you haven’t heard your friends bitching about making time to send out cards. Wasting hours at the mall. Fighting traffic to get there. Coming home with the start of a cold. Spending money they don’t have on presents, and racking up credit card bills that’ll weigh them down for months.”
“Those are the trappings of Christmas. Not the spirit of love and family that’s at the heart of the season.”
“Another façade,” Ty insisted. “Think about all those people who suck it up and pretend to love their relatives as long as they’re covered in tinsel. Then don’t bother to speak to any of them for another three hundred and sixty four days.”
She dipped her head. “I’ll concede that point. Only that one. And I still don’t see what your rant about Christmas has to do with Ty.”
“Christmas is a pretty whitewash of reality for twenty five days. Ty’s been faking it, putting on a good face, for a lot longer than that.” He’d take another swing at full disclosure. Tell her the ugly truth. Then see where all her freaking empathy stood. Because, damn it, nobody knew Jack’s side of the story. And he was tired of holding it all in. “I’m talking years.”
Becca gasped. “How do you know?” She grabbed Jack’s arm.
“This wasn’t his first go-round with drugs. Not by a long shot. I did everything I could to get him back on track each time. There’d always be a long weekend, holed up in some beach condo where I waited out withdrawal with him. After the fifth time, he pretended he’d gotten help. Pretended he was clean.” Damn it to hell, he’d believed him. Because he wanted to, mostly. Because he was sick of watching his best friend slowly destroy his life. Because he was sick of covering for him, of picking up the pieces.
“Just like he pretended, for years, that he’d never let me be dragged back to this town.” Jack looked down at Becca’s small, soft hand on his arm. Exactly the temptation he’d never wanted to face again. “Ty pretended that all along. Promised it every year on the anniversary of the day we left. Swore that I’d never have to look at you again.”
“Me?” Her hand whisked off his arm. She stepped backward until a wall of Herod’s castle stopped her. “How dare you say that? How can you be upset with me? We were friends right up until the day you left. I never did anything to you.”
“Exactly. You never did anything. No matter how much I wanted it. But since I’m back here, atoning for Tyler’s sins, I might as well get something for my trouble.” Frustrated, all his pent-up emotion boiled over. Jack shoved up against Becca. Pressed his lips against hers the way he’d always wanted.
At fifteen, when he’d walked into drama class and saw her striking a pose in a pink feather boa. At seventeen, full of want and desire and lust and need, all of it trampled beneath Ty’s eager feet. And every damn time Jack got into bed with a tall, beautiful blonde woman. It felt so wrong being with them and thinking of Becca that by the time he threw back his first legal drink, Jack made it a rule to never sleep with a blonde again.
So yeah, he kissed her. Tasted the heaven he’d dreamed about for so many years. Didn’t waste time being slow or sweet. No, Jack hungrily feasted on Becca’s soft, pliant lips. Her arms rose halfway. Jack wasn’t sure if it was in protest or desire. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Not before he’d sampled his fill.
He grabbed her wrists, anchored them to the painted castle stones and deepened the kiss. She opened to him with a moan that shot straight to his dick. And twined her tongue with his, pulling him in even deeper. Rubbed one leg up his calf, up the outside of his thigh, then coiled it around tighter than the stripes on an old-fashioned barber pole. Jack couldn’t believe his adorable Becca responded to him so...thoroughly. But he loved it. He craved more. Needed to feel all of her. So he pressed against her.
That was all it took to overbalance the painted canvas and particle board flat. Herod’s castle wall swayed, then fell over backward. Jack wrenched his back in an effort to keep them both from following it. Instead, he managed to twist them sideways into a deep pile of curtains. The minute they landed, Becca popped right back up.
Shock rounded her eyes and mouth. A deep pink blush stained her cheeks. Made Jack wonder what else he could do to make her blush. Christ. The kiss hadn’t turned out the way he’d planned. It hadn’t put anything to rest. Hadn’t begun to satisfy his desire. One taste of Becca had only stirred him up to a stratospheric level of need. Set off a burning in his blood. And that made him think of Tyler. His unquenchable addiction. How chasing that one thing fucked up the whole rest of his life.
No. Jack wouldn’t let that happen to him. Wouldn’t let a woman—not even the woman of his dreams—interfere with his plan to get in, get the show up and running, and get the hell out. So he stood and shoved his hands in his pockets. Kicked the painted muslin and plywood castle wall.
“See? Just a flimsy fake. No substance to it. Just like Christmas.” Then Jack stalked right out the door.
Chapter Three
Whoever said you can’t go home again had never been to the Minne-Apple Coffee Shop. Jack halted in the doorway, astounded by the complete lack of change to his favorite high school hangout. Blue-and-yellow striped walls (the same colors as the Swedish flag, which pissed off the Norwegian continent in the city to no end) repeated their scheme in the cheery café curtains at every window. The blue speckled Formica counter was packed with asses that hung over the seat edges day and night.
And lutefisk was still at the top of the specials chalkboard, even though nobody in their right mind would touch the disgusting gelatinous fish with a ten-foot pole. If Ty was here, he’d make some crack about being in a time loop or time vortex or some equally incomprehensible sci-fi term. But Jack needed to stop looking over his shoulder for his partner. Start getting used to life without the constant shadow of his best friend. Those days were over.
“You’re letting in Old Man Winter, son. Could ya shut the door?”
The polite request tugged a grin out of Jack as he came in all the way and shrugged off his coat. In New York, a chorus of curses would’ve rained down on him. Maybe there was just enough nostalgia here to turn his mood around. After all, he couldn’t count the number of hours he’d spent here with Ty and Becca, talking, laughing, dreaming of the future. And eating fried cheese curds as a midnight snack. He’d start with an order of those. Had to be better than the same-in-every-state room-service menu awaiting him at the hotel. Jack hung his coat on a peg and headed for the back booth where he fully expected to find their names still carved.
His butt barely hit plastic before a waitress came over holding two coffee pots. “Eggnog or gingerbread?”
“Just coffee.”
“That’s what I mean.” She thrust the pots at him, one at a time. “Eggnog or gingerbread coffee?”
No, damn it. Jack came here to get a break from all things Christmas. A chance to clear his head. For God’s sake, Thanksgiving was only two days ago! Back in his day, the Minne-Apple didn’t run to girly flavored coffee. Never a menu nod to the season’s changing except for the switch from cherry to apple pie. Guess some things had changed.
He’d expected it to be a safe haven. But now he looked past the familiar to take in the unmistakable pall of Christmas that hung over the place. Noticed the red garland draping the backs of every booth. A giant wreath over the window to the kitchen. And the idiotic dancing Santa figurine on his table between the ketchup and the salt.
“Just water.”
“You betcha. Now, our special today is cranberry brisket with a side of marshmallow sweet potatoes. Oh, and cranberry pie for dessert, of course.” The waitress swayed a little as she recited the specials. It made the sprig of holly tied around her ponytail bounce. The damn thing grated on his nerves like nails down a chalkboard.
“An order of cheese curds,” he barked out.
“You betcha.” She sashayed away in a rhythm that matched the blare of “Sleigh Bells” from the speakers in every corner. At least Jack could do something about that.
He jumped up and hurried over to the jukebox. He remembered that if he hip-checked the garish neon blue frame, it would skip to the most recent song added. So Jack fed it a dollar—looked like inflation hit even jukeboxes—and got ready to plug in a song. Except he couldn’t find one. Every single song choice was a Christmas carol. Some classic, some boy bands, but all carols. Great. He banged the side of the machine with his palm out of spite. It did jump ahead. “You’re a Mean One, Mister Grinch” started to play.
Jack couldn’t be bothered to snicker at the irony.
The eggnog coffee, cranberry everything and incessant carols rubbed salt in his emotional wounds. Reminded him over and over again that he didn’t belong here. That he’d be forced to fake enthusiasm for his least favorite time of year. That thanks to Ty’s epic cluster-fuck, he’d be dick-deep in all things holly and jolly for the next few weeks. Jack sank back into his booth. Dropped his head to his arms on the table. And pondered the many ways in which his best friend’s addiction had left him high and dry.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing your face back here.”
Jack jerked his head back up. Great. The next tinsel-covered episode of
This Is How Your Life Sucks
was about to begin. Because of the couple who stood at the end of his booth. Uber Swedish-looking. Both in corduroy jackets over sweaters, turtlenecks and matching scowls. The only difference was Edna’s strand of pearls. Edna and Chris Petersen. Ty’s parents. Who’d always hated him.
In the past, he’d tried to play nice, for Ty’s sake. But Jack didn’t feel that need anymore. Not after turning his whole life upside down to accommodate their son’s fuck-up. He thought about walking out. But he wouldn’t let their potential nitpicking run him off his turf, away from his table. He was Jack Whittaker, for God’s sake. That name meant something to a broad swath of the country. It commanded respect. So he’d stand his ground and act like a grown-up, even if they couldn’t.
“Mr. and Mrs. Petersen.” He gave a tight nod that was barely more than a neck spasm. “Trust me, I want to be here even less than you want me here.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Chris crossed his arms. Now he looked every bit the stern college professor that he was. “I doubt that very much, indeed.”
“I only came back to help Tyler.”
“We’ve had about enough of the so-called
help
—” Edna spat out the word as if it were soured milk, “—you’ve given our son. With friends like you, it’s amazing Ty is still in one piece.”
The Petersen’s disapproval of him had never been veiled. Minnesota Nice didn’t, in their book, stretch as far as being okay with their privileged son hanging out with the charity case son of the school janitor. One look at his second-hand, ill-fitting clothes and crooked, home-snipped haircut damned Jack forever in their eyes. They’d pegged him as a bad seed, a troublemaker. When Ty and Jack got caught cutting class, they decided—without bothering to learn the truth—to blame Jack. When Ty’s chemistry grade dipped, they accused Jack of “distracting” him. And when Ty dropped out of college to make movies, Jack had felt the icy chill of their anger clear across the country.
But today’s attack was baseless. Once the money and accolades started rolling in, the Petersen’s had stopped badmouthing Jack. When they walked the red carpet at the last few premieres, they hadn’t said anything, bad or good, to Jack. Which was fine by him. So this made no sense. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t watch out for Tyler,” accused Chris.
“I’m his best friend, not his damn bodyguard.”
The older man shook his head. “I should’ve expected you to be glib. To treat this whole disaster as nothing more than a joke.”
“You should’ve looked out for him.” Edna jabbed a finger at him with each sentence. “Kept him away from all those bad influences in your business. You should’ve stuck to him like glue. Protected him.”
Amazing how they twisted the facts to suit their purposes. To still, after all this time, knee-jerk into placing the blame squarely at Jack’s feet, without once considering Ty’s part in his own downfall.
“Funny. You two spent all of high school telling Ty not to hang out with me. To keep his distance from ‘that Whittaker boy.’ And now you’re saying we should’ve spent
more
time together? You don’t have a leg to stand on.”
That jab hit its mark. A bright red flush sprang up, spreading far beyond the minimal streak of rouge on Edna’s cheeks. “When he lived here, Ty was a good boy. He didn’t drink, didn’t do drugs. Then you dragged him off to—”
Jack made a chopping motion with his hand. “Just don’t. Don’t embarrass yourself by showing how little you really knew your son. Ty was no angel in high school. He drank at parties, smoked a little weed. Experimented just as much as everyone else. Hell, he started by sneaking beers from the secret stash you—” he glared at Chris, “—kept in the garage behind the snow plow. New York didn’t corrupt Ty. Hollywood didn’t corrupt him. Ty chose the path to self-destruction all by himself.”
The blood drained from Edna’s cheeks and lips. Flailing a little, she reached out for her husband’s arm. “You’re spouting filthy lies, Jack Whittaker. You should be ashamed of yourself. How dare you call yourself his friend?”
Interesting question. One Jack still hadn’t resolved in his own mind. “I’m not sure that I still do.”
Ty’s father put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “If I catch you repeating any of those accusations to the press, I’ll slap you with a slander suit so fast your head will spin.”
“It’s not libel if it’s the truth.”
They both quivered with rage. Opened and closed their mouths like guppies while they searched for a comeback. “You keep away from us,” Chris demanded. With a final glare, they turned to walk away.
“No problem,” Jack muttered. And though the words felt like sludge in his mouth, he added, “Merry Christmas.”
* * *
Becca slumped lower in her booth, dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe how rude the Petersens had been to Jack. The whole, ugly exchange had ripped at her heart. Even though she’d in no way fully absorbed the implications of that scorching kiss he’d planted on her, Becca knew she couldn’t leave him alone to stew. It was a no-brainer. Friendship didn’t come with an expiration date. So she tossed cash on the table and slid out of her booth, into Jack’s.
“You want me to organize a welcome home parade in your honor? I’m sure the whole city would turn out to see their hometown boy turned famous star. Or maybe just put you on a float in the Holidazzle parade?” She leaned across the table. In a stage whisper, she said, “It’d probably turn the Petersens apoplectic.”
The barest hint of an uptick at the corners of his mouth. “That’s almost enough incentive to make me do it.” He sighed, scrubbed his hands up and down his face as if trying to wipe away the whole ugly encounter.
A plate of cheese curds slammed onto the table. With a rattle of china, so did a coffee cup. “You just wave when you want that freshened,” said the waitress.
Jack shook his head, pushed at the saucer. “I didn’t order coffee.”
She pushed it back toward him. “It’s gingerbread coffee, with a little eggnog as creamer.” Her face softened, and she jerked her head toward the door closing behind the Petersens with a rattle of jingle bells. “You look like you need a pick-me-up.”
Before Jack could growl out more of his Grinch-like disdain for all things Christmas, Becca pulled the cup toward her. “Mmm. Smells great. Guaranteed to cheer him up. Thanks so much.” With a quick head bob, the waitress moved off.
“Glad you like the smell.” He flicked at the saucer with his fingers. “’Cause you’re the one who’ll be stuck drinking it.”
“Don’t think of it as eggnog. Think of it as the milk of human kindness. That waitress only wanted to make you feel better.” Jack’s shoulders twitched in a
so what
shrug. The small motion overloaded Becca’s tolerance. She’d endured just about enough of his holiday grouchiness. “It’s the gesture that matters, not that she didn’t manage to read your mind and bring you your favorite Sumatran dark roast blend. Don’t be an ungrateful douchebag.”
That
comment shot his eyebrows skyward, and surprised a laugh out of him. “Message received. Loud and clear.”
“Good.”
With great deliberation, he caught the eye of his waitress, lifted the cup in a silent toast and took a long slurp. “You’re right, by the way. I’ve got a permanent spruce tree up my ass about the month of December. But I shouldn’t take it out on the entire world.”
Finally. A tiny glimpse of the old Jack. The one who’d talk to her about anything and everything. There’d been no secrets between them. Including how hard the holidays had been for his family. The embarrassment when all the other kids showed off their new clothes and gifts in January—and he showed up in clothes they all recognized from their own closets, donated to Goodwill to make room for the new stuff. How the Whittakers never had enough spare cash to allow Jack to participate in Secret Santa exchanges in the drama club.
Becca remembered all too well that for teenagers, image was everything. It must’ve been incredibly painful for him to be teased about wearing second-hand trash....which led to the ensuing jokes about his janitor father taking home the trash at night. Kids were cruel. Except—Jack wasn’t a kid anymore. They were going to be living and breathing all things holly and jolly for the next few weeks. She had to get to the bottom of his holiday issues. Or the
Season of Celebration
would send the cast into a season of anti-depressants and ugly crying.
“I know the, uh—” Becca searched for the right word, “—commercialism of Christmas, the emphasis on gifts was hard on you growing up. But that was a long time ago. Why are you still so bitter?”
“Money, I guess.”
“Jack, I read the tabloids.” She held a finger to his lips to hold off his comments. “You can mock me later for that.”
“Oh, I will.” He popped a palmful of fried cheese curds into his mouth. Eyelids shut, he moaned with a look of bliss on his face. Bliss that could easily be interpreted as orgasmic. A jolt of awareness—eagerness?—shuddered through Becca. As if she’d slugged back a shot of sexual caffeine. Jack looked dark and dangerous these days. Just the kind of man a woman fantasized about at night. About having in between her flannel sheets. About not needing flannel sheets anymore. Not with a man like Jack to keep her warm on these long Minnesota nights. Becca grabbed the coffee cup and drained it, fast. Hoped it would explain the red flush she felt heating her cheeks.
“They’re as good as I remember. Maybe even better. Which is kind of amazing. Almost nothing lives up to your expectations after ten years.” A long, measured look across the table at Becca. “Almost...” Jack drew the word out slowly.
Was he hitting on her? In the middle of the Minne-Apple of all places? Or was Becca so wound up by his mere leather-clad presence that if he quoted tax code she’d interpret it as a come-on? One kiss, one accidental kiss didn’t mean anything. People kissed all the time without it leading to an actual date. Or sex. He’d never made a single move on her in high school, no matter how badly she wished for it to happen. Now Jack Whittaker, famous movie director, undoubtedly had his pick of models and actresses. Why would he bother hooking up with someone so decidedly unglamorous?