Chapter 17

CYAN

On the tenth day of Christmas, playing with knives

The next morning, I wake up surrounded by all four members of the band, arms and legs entangled with my own. The fire is roaring in the fireplace, and the curtains are open, showing off the snowy blaze of storm outside. White Christmas lights cast out the shadows in the room, and my phone lies on the nightstand, an early alarm set to play a soothing jazz version of Blue Christmas by Nikki Parrott.

Sitting up as best I can with the pile of hot men around me, I grab the phone and relax back into the pillows, naked and happy and smelling like flour and sugar. I can’t keep the smile off my face as I check to see if the Wi-Fi is working, and find myself relieved that we still don’t have any service at all.

Is it horrible that I don’t want these guys to leave yet? That I almost wish they’d have to miss their concert, so I could have them here with me? Even with my grandma around, Christmas Eve has always been the loneliest night of the year for me.

I imagine that if Inked Pages were to stay, it wouldn’t be so lonely after all.

“You’re awake,” Frost grumbles next to me, sliding a tattooed arm over my belly and scooting closer. He’s not such a terrible asshole when he’s half-asleep, right? “I figured after all that dick you took last night that you’d be out until noon—at least. ”

Hm. Never mind. He’s a week-old cinnamon roll, hard as a rock. You could kill someone with that desiccated pastry.

“Can’t sleep. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” I say, and I can’t even think about Christmas Day right now. If I’ll be here. If I’ll be on a bus. How it’s my first Christmas without her. How cute the store used to look when it was decorated.

My fingers itch to write, and I know without a single doubt that as soon as I get a hold of a keyboard, I’ll be jotting down a fictionalized version of what happened between me and these four men last night.

Damn, I guess Inked Pages really is my new muse? Not that I’ve ever really had a muse before.

“Yeah?” Frost asks, a genuine question. “You’re that excited for Christmas?”

“I still don’t have service on my phone,” I admit as Crispin yawns and stretches his arms over his head, running his fingers through his hair and sitting up. He has to push Vale off his stomach and toward me, but I don’t mind. When the blonde blinks and comes to, it’s with this adorable, knowing smile that gets my belly all twisted into knots. “I’m not excited, I’m worried. What if you guys miss your concert?”

“I think we all accepted a few days ago that we might not make it to the concert,” Aspen says, his voice warm and low, his eyes heavy and half-lidded and possessive. Not sure how I feel about that …

Okay, fine, I am sure how I feel—excited. Aroused. Wanted. Ugh. Maybe Aspen and I are both stalkers? We’re way too into each other for a ten-day fling.

I grab a handful of the gold sheets and tug them up toward my face to hide my naked body. Just having these guys look at me is starting to warm up the sore spot between my thighs. And I am sore. But in a good way, a way that reminds me with each subtle movement of my body that I was worshipped last night.

“ Heat the Frost has plenty of other acts.” Aspen pushes that little streak of red and green hair from his forehead as he glances down at me, the gold ring in his sapphire eyes drawing my attention. It’s like a little halo around his pupil, adding this depth to his gaze that’s both comforting and uncomfortable at the same time. It’s the right sort of discomfort though, the kind that challenges the onlooker to give him more. “They’ll get along just fine without us. We’ve done it for years, and this is nobody’s fault.”

I turn over, inadvertently putting my ass right up against Vale’s crotch and my face inches from Frost’s.

Clearing my throat, I try to act nonchalant, like I do this sort of thing all the time, hang out naked in bed with four different men. Strangers. Rockstars. My idols. My boyfriends.

They all know I’m full of it, but that doesn’t matter. It’s about decorum and grace. I’m so wet right now.

“Well, I hope the storm clears at least a little bit,” I hedge, trying to distract the boys from the precarious position I’ve put myself in. I’m not sure that it works because I can feel Vale’s hardness pressing against my cheeks. Fuck, I want him bare inside of me, but we have homework to do first.

“Why’s that?” Frost asks, sitting up, the sheets falling down to the tented bulge of his crotch. His abs are criminally gorgeous this close up, and without even realizing I’m doing it, I reach out and trace the lines of his tummy with a finger. His breath hisses out and he reaches down, grabbing my wrist. “You want to get rid of us?” he asks, green eyes flashing down at me.

“No, I want to go to mass,” I say and he raises his dark brows, letting go of me and crossing his arms, curling his fingers around his biceps. He appears confused, and he’s not the only one.

“No offense, Sugar Plum,” Crispin begins, drawing my attention back over to him. He’s still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, one knee propped up, a bit of sheet just barely covering his cock. “But you don’t really seem like the religious type to me.”

“I’m not.” I give a violent shake of my head. “But my grandmother was—a little. She liked to go to midnight mass every year, and I went with her. It’s sort of a tradition …” I start to say in my family, but then that’s not true. The only people that ever went to mass are Grandma, Grandpa (when he was still with us), and me. That’s it. It’s our tradition. “There’s a non-denominational church here that’s running their own version of midnight mass, and I wanted to go.” I pause. “Well, it’s not midnight mass because it starts at five o’clock, but it’ll be dark outside. Close enough.”

If only the storm cleared enough for us all to go, but not enough for y’all to leave. That’s my insane Christmas wish, one that I refuse to say aloud. It’s too much to ask for. These men have done enough. They deserve to make that concert, and I want to go with them.

After that, we’ll figure the rest of our relationship logistics out as we go.

I release a long, slow breath, focusing on the fire instead of any of the boys.

“We’ll go with you,” Vale offers, sitting up on my other side. I feel so short all of a sudden, these four giant dudes surrounding me in my bed. But I like it, too. Shh, don’t tell anyone. I wonder what Grandma would think about me dating multiple people at the same time? She’d probably shake her head and tsk at me, but she wouldn’t say a single disparaging word. She wasn’t like that. No, she was basically the opposite of my mother.

“You want to go mass with me?” I ask and Vale’s lazy cat-like smile stretches across his face.

“Not particularly interested in mass, but you, we’re definitely interested in.”

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” I warn them, because I’ve been let down enough in my life. I can make peace with going to church alone, but I can’t handle getting my hopes up and then being dropped flat on my ass again.

“Promise,” Aspen whispers, leaning over Frost to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth. I like the way he rests his palm on Frost’s belly, too.

“Cross my heart,” Crispin drawls, his voice like warm maple syrup. Vale scribbles his assent on his thigh (see, thigh fetish). He writes: it’s a deal.

My eyes slide closed in ecstasy as Frost mimics Aspen, his palm hot on my tummy. He drops it low, lower, finding his way to the wetness between my thighs. I open for him, feeling sated and happy in the warm glow of the fire and the cheerful twinkle of lights.

“You couldn’t chase me away with one of your dad’s knives,” is Frost’s response.

Hah.

After the members of Inked Pages entertain me for most of the morning, I excuse myself to the sunroom to write with Vale and manage to get out several pages of deliciously naughty smut before I’m disturbed.

“Hey, suga’,” Crispin says, grabbing the chair next to me and spinning it around. He drops into it and folds his arms over the back, raising his brows at me. “You want to take a quick break and come join us in the dining room? Your family wants to have a game night.”

I sigh and close the lid of my laptop carefully, the winds outside howling against the glass, making it seem like our house is the only livable place left in the world, that the outside is a dystopian nightmare. Even if there were snow zombies or Krampus’ evil minions out there, my mother would still find some way to get the hell out of here so she could go back to suing broke housewives for putting Michael Jackson music on YouTube videos of their babies dancing.

“Let me guess,” I say, turning to face Crispin and trying not to smile at the Santa hat on his sandy hair, his magnanimous smile, and the twinkle in his brown eyes. I can still feel him moving inside of me the way he did last night, holding my hair as he drove his thick shaft into me from behind. “They invited you and then you decided to add me into the mix.”

“You in or out?” he retorts, avoiding my question.

“I’m in,” I agree with a small sigh, biting my lip when Vale steals my wrist and writes music across my pulse.

“Good to hear. Me, personally, I’ve been in and out today.” Crispin grins, leaning in close and kissing my ear. That small motion makes me shiver, crossing the arms of my red cable-knit sweater over my chest. I’m wearing black leggings, red boots, and a silver snowflake pin in my hair today. I’m sure my family will have some sort of commentary about my outfit, but games with the guys? That sounds fun.

“What are we playing?” I ask as Crispin pulls back, standing and holding out his hand for me to take. His palm is dry and comforting, wrapped tightly around my own as he leads the way to the dining room and holds the door open for me. Vale strolls lazily behind us, hands in his pockets and a scarf around his neck that must be purely for decoration.

“No idea, honey. But I thought you’d want to play regardless.”

Inside the dining room, the table is completely full, save a handful of seats.

Most of my family is there (minus the youngest kids). Aspen. Frost. Crispin takes a seat and pulls me onto his lap, Vale sliding into the chair next to us.

“We thought you might be busy clattering away at the keys,” my mother says, giving me her best business smile, a twist of lips with absolutely zero feeling behind it. She looks beautiful though, her brunette hair twisted up in a chignon, a sprig of real holly stuck through it. She’s wearing the diamond and gold Christmas tree pendant again with matching earrings, Louboutin heels, and a red dress that accentuates all her curves.

My father looks just as polished, sitting next to her in a burgundy cashmere sweater, khakis, expensive loafers with embossed snowflakes tooled into the leather, and his gold glasses. The rest of my family is dressed similarly, but at least the Inked Pages guys are more casual, like me.

“Shall we get started?” Marisol asks, sighing dramatically. “There’re a few too many people in here for us to all play together.” She glances at the four band members and then me, as if we’ve disrupted all her fun. My father seems stoic, but I know him too fucking well: he’s pissed. His glasses are fogged. Tina must’ve said something about seeing me with Vale.

At least it’s pretty in here. The long, wood table is polished to a shine, a white and gold runner down the center and several opulent displays made of live flowers and candles, their tiny orange flames a small mimicry of the large fireplace behind Frost, the wood crackling and popping. Crimson stockings hang in a row, and the black wood of the mantle is covered in white reindeer, Santa Claus figurines dressed in red and green velvet, and a large glass sleigh filled with a mix of holiday nuts.

White lights and real garland—never the fake stuff with my father—hang in swags near the ceiling. All the chairs are covered with gold and white cushions, and the drapes have been changed out to match. In the corner, one of the largest trees in the house towers above us, glittering with lights and ornaments, perfuming the air with the sweet scent of evergreen, its branches the same color as Frost’s eyes.

“Let’s split into groups, and then the winners of each game can play a final round to determine the champion,” Mom says, because nobody in this goddamn family can play a game just for fun. She passes out four Scrabble boards and then rings a bell to get everyone’s attention. “Double points for all holiday words,” she calls out as Aspen opens the game and sets it up on the table. Looking at him now, from my position in Crispin’s lap, it’s hard to believe we all slept together last night … and this morning.

It’s still such a surreal experience, like a dream.

“This family,” Frost grumbles with a snort, running his fingers through his dark hair. “Your mom does know that Scrabble is a four- player game,” he says, loudly enough that his voice echoes in the tall-ceilinged room. “There are seventeen of us here and only four boards.”

Frost pushes one of the tile stands over to me, but I shake my head.

“Crispin and I can be on a team,” I say and Frost narrows his eyes.

“Aspen and I can be on a team,” he retorts, standing up and literally plopping down in the lead singer’s lap. Aspen is unfazed. “This is like the deal with the gingerbread kits. You deserve those tiles the most, Cyan.”

“Once Frost’s made up his mind about something, you can just forget about trying to change it,” Aspen tells me as I try my best to hold back a smile. It shouldn’t mean shit that some guy gave me his Scrabble tiles, but it means a lot.

“Like I’ve made up my mind about you, for example.” Frost smirks, ignoring the icy glares of my family as he sets up his tiles and then draws one extra from the bag. “We got an A, ” he says, tossing the bag to me. “We go first.”

“I got a Z ?” Vale says after drawing his own tile. “Bummer.”

Crispin ends up with an F, and we all know what that letter stands for.

I pick my tiles and then draw an extra, landing a blank square.

“Nope,” I say as I hold it up and Vale etches the number one onto the back of my hand with a green marker. “ I go first actually.”

I lay out a doozy of a word on my first go.

“ WREATH, ” I tell them, sitting back with a smug smile and crossing my arms. “First word and holiday themed. Do you guys want to throw in the towel already and call it quits?”

Crispin just nuzzles my throat and laughs while Aspen offers a warm smile.

“I’m not good at words, despite … this.” Vale shrugs as he gestures at the writing all over his arms. “I’m only playing so I can spend time with you.”

“Same.” This from Aspen.

“I’m here to piss your daddy off, won’t lie.” Crispin.

Err, uh. What? I put a hand over my mouth to hide my grin.

Frost narrows his eyes.

“I don’t like losing, Cyan,” he says, watching me for a long, quiet moment. I feel like the rest of the room is watching us, trying to figure out what the hell is going on between me and these guys. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck. They only seem to care about me when it’s in reference to me screwing up (as far as they’re concerned).

Frost isn’t talking about the game.

I ignore his comment and move the game along, outscoring the boys with little effort.

“So, Tina had something interesting to tell me the other night.” Dad places a tile on his own board and then picks up a huge kitchen knife, slicing a piece of fruitcake with a menacing glint in his eyes. A sheen of light catches on the end of the weapon. He points at Vale with the tip of the blade and then lets it swing over to Crispin, Frost, and finally Aspen. “Is there something going on here that I should know about?”

“Not that you should know about,” Aspen replies with a tight smile. Dad cuts another mean slice of fruitcake, slamming the knife into the platter with force as Tina, Adam, and Helen all get a good laugh out of the situation. Mom and Atticus are too focused on trying to destroy each other in-game.

Or else they just don’t care.

“Cyan, please try to wear one of the outfits I selected for you. You might be homeless, but there’s no reason to look it.” Dad sets the knife aside, and Frost gets up and grabs both it and the fruitcake, dragging them over to our end of the table before he sits back down in Aspen’s lap.

Aspen is the one to lift the knife, cutting his own huge piece of fruitcake. He lays the blade down beside his elbow and gives my dad a meaningful look.

“Cyan is beautiful, exactly as she is.”

And that’s that. Nobody talks to us again. We’re alone on our end of the table.

When I win the game, I decide against the ‘championship round’ with my mother, sister, and cousin, and instead invite the boys upstairs to Netflix and chill. I mean, to have snacks and watch Klaus.

We sit on the bed together with a platter of the ginger cookies, brownies, and cake slices, a pile of candy canes, and several bottles of champagne we stole from the cellar.

For several hours, I manage to balance the conversation with the sharp sense of need in the air. But when it gets dark outside, and the snowfall blots out the sky, when the champagne is gone, the bottles empty and lying on the floor … I find it impossible to resist.

The four men strip me down in the glow of firelight and white Christmas bulbs, and pleasure me in every way imaginable, until the sun rises and I force us all to take a break and get some sleep. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, and I don’t want to slog through it tired and sex-addled.

Okay, I don’t want to slog through it tired— I’ll take the sex-addled part.

Lying there next to them all, I feel content. Satisfied. Happy.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

But only until the next morning. Ice melts, remember?