Blizzards and Bastards, page 9
“Frost is doing an interview with some YouTuber.” Crispin shrugs a single, massive shoulder.
“I didn’t ask about Frost,” I respond coolly, looking over to find him way too close to me. His pants no longer have holes, but I’ve seen it enough to fantasize, that muscular thigh. “No luck in freeing the bus?”
“Seems like we’ll be bunking together for a little while.” Crispin doesn’t sound disappointed, nodding with his chin to indicate the pile of unwrapped gifts.
“Mind if I join you? It’s been years since I wrapped anything.”
I’m surprised, but I nod. He wants to help me wrap? For real?
He takes a seat opposite me, picks a gift up, and tries to suppress a smile. Crispin must find something funny because he looks up at me and turns the box around. It’s filled with anti-aging face creams, hair growth supplements, and some zinc oxide sunscreen.
“Who’s this one for?” he asks as I wish I hadn’t lost my phone in this pile of ribbons and paper. I need it to control the projector that’s playing the movie. The one onscreen is so hokey that I’m embarrassed to be caught watching it.
“Oh, I didn’t buy any of this stuff. My parents did.” I grab another box. It’s some VR thing for my nephew. “I think the one that you’re holding is for my twelve-year-old niece.” I point at the anti-aging cream and Crispin’s smile droops into a frown.
“You’re fuckin’ with me?” he asks, and I blurt out a laugh.
I’m trying not to freak out here, but my favorite musicians in the entire world are staying at my house. After that initial scare at the rest stop, it seems that more than just one of them is nice. More than just one of them is naughty, too.
“I am. She’s actually only eleven. She won’t be twelve for another two months.” I toss him a roll of tape and he catches it. The characters in the movie are kissing now, and my cheeks flush. Not sure why. Because I invited Vale into my bedroom? Because he offered to fuck me? Because I slept with Frost and he’s in my house and yet I still can’t talk to him?
“Do you really love wrapping other people’s gifts?” Crispin asks, but like he already suspects that’s not the case. He drags his fingers through his wavy hair, releases it and lets it flop gently against his forehead. I’ve seen him with a military cut in the past, but this is my favorite length he’s ever had. I will fight the fandom on that one.
“I do it every year, wrap all the gifts. When I was younger, I told everyone how much I loved it because I wanted to participate, to watch Christmas movies with them. Once I was old enough to do it myself, they all stopped wrapping with me.” I cut a new sheet of paper, wrapping it around the gift and doing my best to make it perfect. If I don’t, my dad will bitch at me.
Crispin doesn’t do a terrible job, but he wraps twice as fast as I do because he doesn’t smooth each crease ten times after he makes it. He doesn’t care if the tape crinkles when he presses it to the paper. Something about the way he’s doing it makes me want to shift gears, too. Why am I trying so hard at this? I start to forgive all the small mistakes I’m making and just wrap.
I tear the next sheet of paper while I’m tugging it around the edge of a large box. Normally, I’d toss the ruined paper aside and start fresh. Crispin leans forward and presses a piece of tape to it with his finger, sealing the hole with a murky Scotch stripe. Mr. Fallon would not approve.
“There. All fixed,” he says, and my breath catches. Imagine that, somebody helping me fix a mistake like it’s no big deal. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Crispin’s smile is knowing as he studies me, lifting a finger as if in warning. “Don’t do it, Sugar Plum. You’ve done enough. The kiddos will survive a little extra tape, don’t you think?”
I feel fucking liberated, diving into my wrapping with gusto as the characters on the movie confess their undying love to one another. And when that crappy movie ends, we pick another together.
Aspen finds us a few minutes into the next riveting piece of cinema, walking right up and taking a seat opposite the screen. We’re still wrapping gifts because my parents try to buy everyone’s affection with money. Except mine. I am immune to that one.
“I don’t want your family to hate me,” Aspen admits, picking an item at random and hitting the wrapping game hard. He’s wearing a red cardigan over some cream-colored pants. Bare feet for him. He has this boy-next-door vibe with just a dash of cocky bastard. It’s easy to see why I picked him as a favorite. “What are we watching?”
“Lord only knows. They’re in Scotland, and there are castles. Somebody will fall in love, they’ll break up near the end, but it’ll all finish in happily ever after.” Crispin slaps a tag on the next box, writes down the name I tell him with what could be Vale’s Sharpie.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Aspen is smiling as he selects a colorful paper, green with sparkly trees. The glitter dusts across his fingers as he handles it. “I watch these kinds of movies on my phone every Christmas. On the bus. Backstage. The only downside is how there’s no—”
He stops talking, and I look up, a pair of scissors in my hand.
“No sex?” I ask, smirking. Aspen grins, like he didn’t expect me to finish that sentence for him. “That’s what Christmas books are for.” I slide the scissors down the length of the paper, shearing off a proper-sized piece. “Sucks that you guys got stuck though, especially here.”
“Especially here?” Aspen echoes, staring at me with that green and red stripe in his hair spiked up in a tuft. “In your parents’ mansion with amazing food, comfortable beds, and beautiful decorations?”
“And a beautiful girl,” Crispin adds, and I blush again. Ladies’ man. I look up at him, but I don’t make it to his face. I end up staring at the bit of bare chest showing between the unzipped halves of his sweatshirt. Vale offered to fuck me, but he offers to fuck a lot of people. Crispin is flirting, but he flirts with a lot of people. Does it matter?
They’ll be here for like two days. That’s it. Why not enjoy myself?
Vale and Frost come in together, making things weird for me. The former has a word etched in black marker on his right cheek. Anticipate. Did he write that? Did Frost?
They take the pair of theater seats closest to us. Vale tucks his knees up and pulls his sweater over them, wearing a single earbud and writing lyrics on wrapping paper scraps. He watches me from the corner of his eye the whole time. Frost pretends to be engrossed in the wretched film.
Why did I ask about the napkin-number first? Why did I lead with that? I can only imagine how Frost interpreted what I said. He only looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice. I do anyway. How could I not?
“Hey Cyan, do you—” Frost begins, and then my sister, Tina, is in the doorway, bitching about how we’re late for dinner.
Thwarted, once again. Fuck! How do I find a minute alone with this guy? To talk. Or have sex. Maybe both. Hopefully both.
Dinner is stupid early, arranged by my father and supplied by trays of catered food from the industrial fridge in the kitchen. It’s all been perfectly reheated and plated with garnishes. Red taper candles burn in the magnificent centerpieces, surrounded by real garland (probably a fire hazard) and decorated with carved doves and shiny gold bulbs.
The band joins me, making the far end of the table feel a little less lonely than it usually does.
Everyone that’s trapped in the house is present, stretching the formal dining table to its limit.
Inked Pages, me, their manager, assistant, driver, and Donner. Ugh. My parents, of course, as well as my siblings and their spouses. An assortment of nieces and nephews (eight of them). A sprinkling of cousins.
It’s stilted and awkward, filled with complaints about the weather or blatant attempts to schmooze the band.
Afterward, I try to approach Frost as he stands up from the table, but his manager grabs his arm to show him something on her iPad. My mom is right there to distract from my end.
“So, Hunter Markham, the man I introduced you to?” she begins, and I nod, even though I’m not really listening. She takes me by the elbow and leads me away from the dining room and into the kitchen. I used to be afraid of the kitchen when I was little. Is it any wonder?
It’s only when my grandma started baking with me that I learned to love it again. Kitchens are not supposed to be this cold. They should be warm, cozy, full of good food and even better memories.
“What about him?” I ask finally, when it’s clear that Marisol isn’t going to let it go. Her lips are pursed, and it’s clear that I’ve upset her. I think the bright red lipstick she’s wearing is called Shark Attack. Seems appropriate.
“He’s staying next door. Tomorrow, take a pie or something over to him.”
I gape at her, but she’s dead serious.
“You … want me to walk out in the blizzard to deliver a pie?” I’m not sure how to process that suggestion. “It’s so dangerous out there that a world-famous music group has to bunk here with their own stalker.”
“Excuse me?” My mom doesn’t follow, waving her hand to dismiss my words without paying one iota of attention to them. When I moved to San Francisco with my grandma, I thought I was done with this shit forever. I cannot even believe that I had to come back here. “Hunter is what you need to turn your life around, Cyan. Give the man a chance. The house is right next door. It’s hardly a walk.”
She struts away without waiting for a reply.
I decide to see for myself, heading to the front door and peeling it open. My entire body goes rigid with the burst of extreme cold. It doesn’t look like the modern world out there right now, the road piled with several feet of snow. I can’t even see the house where Hunter is staying. Too windy. Too dangerous.
I slam the door and lock it, turning just in time to see Frost disappear into the office with the rest of Inked Pages and their team.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. Fuck Kris Kringle and the reindeer he rode in on!
Frost will be here another few nights, Cyan. You’ve got this.
I nod, curl my hands into fists, and head up the stairs to my room. No matter what happens, I am not walking through a blizzard to deliver a pie.
I’d rather screw a rockstar instead.
CYAN
On the third day of Christmas, I confront my bias
I keep my promise to Vale, rising with a yawn and a few grumbled, holiday-themed curses. We write together over coffee, encased in our very own snow globe. The wind buffets the glass, and I can’t see a goddamn thing outside, but it doesn’t matter.
Vale makes faces when he writes, frowning as he scribbles down a line on his wrist. Grinning as he jots another into his notebook. Laughing shamelessly as he types something on his laptop. He’s a treasure, always holding his coffee in one hand and making magic with the other.
I excuse myself around lunchtime, scouring the house for Frost and coming up empty-handed. Aspen and Crispin are in the office with their manager, doing some dance challenge thing for TikTok. Working even though they’re trapped by a blizzard. Hope the internet holds up for ‘em.
Is Frost hiding from me? I wonder, making a cup of hot cider and stirring it with a cinnamon stick. A splash of brandy wouldn’t hurt. I indulge myself, careful to put the bottle back so my parents don’t find out. My dad loves to day-drink, but both he and my mother will mock me relentlessly for doing the same thing.
“He’s in the garage, working out.”
I whip around to find Vale in the kitchen doorway, the swinging door propped open by his body, a knowing smile on his face. He gestures with a hand covered in writing, indicating the hallway that leads to the utility room and the garage beyond.
“I wasn’t—” I start, but I cut the words short. I was. Vale knows it, and so do I. “Want some cider? It’s spiked.” I hand the mug over before Vale can reply, and then I practically sprint in the direction of the garage.
This is my chance.
I burst into the room, unsure what I’m going to say now that I’ve finally got the chance to be alone with Frost.
What the actual fuck?
I nearly fall down the stairs and die on the squeaky clean epoxied floors.
Frost Manderach is shirtless, dressed in a pair of white joggers with a sprig of mistletoe embroidered on one pocket. He’s showering rapid blows down on a punching bag with Santa’s face on it. Guess he’s getting coal in his stocking.
“Look at you, working your way onto the naughty list,” I say, and Frost stumbles forward, snagging the punching bag to keep himself upright. He turns a shocked look over his shoulder and finds me standing there in a pair of pink fuzzy pajama pants with gingerbread men on them. Again, should’ve gotten properly dressed, huh?
“Cyan.” Just that, my name. He’s panting, voice hoarse from his workout, sweat running down the naked, inked planes of his chest. He tugs the boxing gloves off and tosses them aside. Frost looks around like he’s searching for something, snatching up a washcloth with Mrs. Claus’ face on it and using it to wipe himself down.
Mrs. Claus, you lucky bitch, I think as Frost swipes at his neck, drags the fabric over his taut nipples, and then chucks the rag onto a workout bench. He picks up a matching crewneck sweater and yanks it over his head. The neck is too wide, revealing more of his shoulder and left pectoral than I can properly handle.
“Your brother said I could use his equipment,” Frost begins, moving up to stand in front of me.
The garage floor is heated, warming my bare toes as I peer up at the man who hate-fucked me on his bus. But … we don’t really hate each other. I think we might have a bit of a thing. It sounds too good to be true, but I’d be an idiot not to pursue it while I have the chance. When will I ever have the opportunity to be alone in a room with this man?
“Yeah, he’s a bit of a Chad,” I say with a small smile and a laugh. “He sets all this up just to workout for a few days over Christmas break.” I hesitate, realizing my mistake too late. “Not that you’re a Chad for working out during Christmas break or anything. I know it’s your job and all that, so …” I sound ridiculous.
“Huh.” Frost combs his dark hair back from his sweaty face, evergreen eyes narrowed on me. “You’re not the easiest person to track down, Cyan.” His turn to pause. “Unless you’re Vale, that is. He seems to have no trouble getting your attention.” Frost narrows his eyes as I widen mine. Feels like I’m in trouble here. “Why did you hide behind that hideous plastic Santa and pretend to be asleep?”
He folds his arms, and I know for sure that I’m in trouble now.
“Oh, that?” I force a laugh, trying to ignore the way Frost smells. Like cinnamon rolls. Like the guilt of eating too many cinnamon rolls. Like fresh sweat and balsam fir. “I … was nervous, I guess.” My cheeks heat as I scratch at the back of my neck. “I’ve been trying to find a moment with you since yesterday, but you’re a busy man.”
“Hmm.” That’s it. I have no idea what he’s thinking. He certainly isn’t smiling, but he is standing awfully close. And again, he gave me his number. Asked for mine. All good signs. I wait, but Frost doesn’t elaborate. He does flex his hands which I find much more attractive than is probably normal.
“I know we don’t owe each other anything, but I felt like I needed to come and talk to you.” I drop my gaze when I feel it soften, so Frost doesn’t think I’m the parasocial stalker that he accused me of being. Really. I never would’ve seeked the band out or anything like that. Our meeting was a freak coincidence. “If you wanted to start talking, just getting to know each other, that’d be fun.”
“Talking?” he asks, arms still folded, stance completely standoffish. “That’s what you want to do with me?”
I look up suddenly, and there’s the tiniest gift of a smile flirting around his cranky Grinch mouth. Yes! I knew it.
I shift my weight forward, reaching up a single finger to pick at the excess white fabric of his sweater sleeve, just to see if he’ll let me. He does.
“Since you’re here and everything, we could do … other things. But after you leave, if you want to text—”
I stop talking when Frost moves away to pick up his phone from a worktable, tapping something out on the screen. My phone starts to ring, another one of Inked Page’s songs playing in my back pocket. I rip it out as quickly as I can, and answer Frost’s phone call.
“After I leave,” he begins, and his voice is almost a threat. Deep. Growly. Suggestive. “We can talk.”
I’m so excited that I can’t breathe. This is the only good thing that’s happened to me since … you know. I try and fail not to let the thrill of Frost being into me get to my head.
“Before we go any further, I should just tell you that I sort of, almost slept with Vale.” It’s not easy to say, but I have to get it out there. Frost’s entire body stiffens up, and I wonder how big of a deal this is going to be. Maybe a huge one. Ugh, why did I do that? Why did I invite Vale in when he wasn’t even asking? “It was a misunderstanding. I thought he was booty-calling me yesterday, and I yelled at him.” An awkward pause. “And then I decided, why not? I see now that was disrespectful to you.” Another shitty pause where Frost doesn’t move at all, his dark hair wet and stuck to the back of his neck. “Vale sort of gave me an open invitation to—”
“I don’t care who you fuck,” Frost snaps at me, but like he really does care. He turns around, throwing out what he thinks is a cocky smirk but looks more like a scowl. Aspen can pull those sneaky bastard looks off. Frost just appears angry. “Were you planning on sleeping with that other guy, too? The one that had you cornered the other night.”
“Huh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about, wracking my brain for some clue. It’s there in bits and snatches when I think really hard about it, Hunter getting up in my space. I assumed one of my brothers would come in and find us, maybe beat the shit out of him. They’re mean to me, but only they are allowed to be mean to me—according to them anyway. “I was drunk. I don’t know what he said or did, but I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him.”
“You should fuck Vale. He’s good in bed.” Frost waltzes past me, leaving the garage and giving me little choice but to follow. “Lots of practice.” He tosses that last bit over his shoulder before entering the kitchen, grabbing a cup like he lives here and filling it with water from the fridge.
