A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  "What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" I ask. Better for her to hate me than to get friendly with a fifteen-year-old girl.

  "I'm not stupid," she says.

  "Perfect little Addison has actually seen a real-life joint before?" I ask, my voice clipped. I'm edgy now that she's out here. Addison has this way of looking at me that makes me nervous, like she knows me better than she does. She looks at me as if she sees through me and all of my bullshit. I don't like it. "Color me fucking surprised."

  She rolls her eyes, which should make her more annoying, but somehow makes her hotter. "I've seen a joint before," she says. "I've also seen guys like you, too, with your misunderstood Emo crap. It's not that unique, you know."

  "Well, shit, you've got me," I say, an edge in my voice I don't try to hide. But it's not because I'm irritated. It's because I want to put my mouth on her and that's a bad idea. For a million reasons. And if there's one thing I've figured out in the past two months of being here, it's that Addison is something else. She doesn't screw around and she's not the kind of girl you just fuck around with. I hold out the joint. "Want a hit?"

  Addison shakes her head, and I can't help but get in another dig at her. "Yeah, I thought so."

  "Your father would probably have a heart attack if he caught you out here, you know," she says.

  My father. She brings him up as if his opinion matters to me more than anything. "Why do you think I'm out here by the horse stable?" I ask. "Why are you out here, anyway? Stalker, much?"

  Addison's cheeks flush red, and I note her embarrassment. She's easily embarrassed, but for some reason I don't find it annoying. I enjoy riling her up, which probably says something fucked up about me. "You're so full of yourself, Hendrix," she says. "I come out here sometimes, to get away. You're intruding on my space, jackass."

  "Jackass, huh?" I laugh. "I didn't think a good little girl like you cursed. What the hell does America's country music sweetheart have to get away from? The private chef didn't cook your eggs the way you like them this morning?" I'm joking, but the part about the private chef is totally true. They have a private chef in this place. Ri-fucking-diculous.

  She looks down at the ground and shrugs. "Nothing," she says. "Whatever. I have to get back to the house." She turns to look at me before she leaves, tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "We can be friends, you know. You don't have to be so mean. I know you're upset about moving here and stuff, but it would be cool to be friends."

  I look at her for a long time and take another drag on the joint. She looks so earnest and fucking...nice...that for a second, I almost tell her that it would be cool to hang out with her. Then I remember that my father is an asshole and that I never asked to move to Nashville Tennessee and live with America's country sweetheart in this Stepford mansion and this Stepford neighborhood.

  Still, I feel a pang of disgust with myself when I open my mouth to speak. "It would be cool if you sucked my dick, too, sweetheart."

  Addison's face flushes scarlet, and she opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

  "Exactly," I say. "So if you're not going to make yourself useful, then leave me the hell alone."

  A hurt look flits across her face, then she sets her jaw and narrows her eyes at me. "I'd suck your dick, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to find it."

  I'm going to retort that I'm happy to help her with that, but she's already spun around and I watch her retreat, her ponytail bouncing as she walks away. I chuckle. Maybe Little Miss Perfect has a little bit of an edge, after all. That's not what I expected. Perhaps there's more to her than I thought there was.

  * * *

  PRESENT DAY

  Addison is mostly ignoring me, her nose buried in that damn cell phone of hers, texting or checking her social media accounts or whatever the hell it is she's doing. I have no idea what the problem is with that girl, why there's a massive stick up her ass. Sure, I treated her like crap when we were teenagers. But she has to know that I was a normal jackass teenage boy. Blame it on hormones.

  It's been a week since I moved in and she's barely spoken a word to me, and when she does, it's terse, business-like. Appropriate. We talk about the schedule, where she needs to be and what she needs to do. Nothing else. I tell myself that's probably for the best, really.

  The problem is that when she walks around the house in these short-shorts and tank tops, I can barely fucking breathe. And when she passes me in the hallway, the smell of her shampoo makes me hard.

  Her damn shampoo.

  There might be something wrong with me.

  Her chilliness is good. She should keep hating me. I need her to keep hating me. It's what's best for her. It's what's best for me.

  There's a knock on the front door, and the doorknob jiggles. When I pull it open, Addy's sister Grace is bent over, tying a kid's shoe. She speaks without looking up. "Oh my God, Addison, why is the door locked? You always – "

  "Grace?"

  She turns around. "Hendrix!"

  "How are you, Grace?"

  "Hendrix, look at you!" she squeals, drawing me in for a hug. "You're all grown up! Mom said you were back helping Addison, but I didn't really expect you to be here. This is Brady."

  "Hey, Brady." I squat down, but he hides his face in Grace's leg. "He's what, three?"

  "In a couple of months," she says. "He's shy with strangers. Come on, baby, let's go see Auntie Addy."

  Addison is already behind me. "Where's my favorite nephew?" she asks, and Brady looks at her, timid at first, then breaks into a huge grin and runs headlong, crashing into her. She scoops him up in her arms, turning to walk past me without making eye contact, while she coos at the kid. "Guess what I have for you, baby doll? I was at the store the other day, and there was an awesome truck that had your name written all over it. Do you want to see it?"

  Grace is inside the door, a diaper bag on her shoulder, and she exhales heavily before tossing the bag on the sofa in the living room. "Hell, Hendrix, look at you."

  "Look at me?" I ask, grinning. "Look at you. You have a kid. Holy crap. When did you become an adult?"

  "I know," she says, laughing. "Did you ever think I'd be Mrs. Mom?"

  Brady bursts back into the living room, truck in hand, making "zoom" noises as he runs the truck across the arms of the sofa, then climbs onto it with his shoes on. Addison trails behind him. "You're a great mom, Gracie," she says.

  "Brady, shoes off." Grace is pulling off his shoes as Brady continues to stomp on the sofa, muddy footprints on the fabric, but Addison just laughs.

  "It's only dirt," she says. "Let him be."

  "He has to learn he can't totally destroy your house, Addison, even if he's a toddler," Grace says. "She's totally happy being the cool aunt who lets him run completely and utterly wild when he's here."

  Addison grins, and it's the first time in the past few days I've seen her look really happy. "That's part of being an aunt," she says. "I get to give him toys and sugar, and then send him back to you."

  Grace laughs. "See the crap I have to put up with?"

  Addison shrugs. "Free babysitting, Gracie," she says. "Are you going to your shoot?"

  Grace nods. "Is it bad that I'm totally nervous? I'm nervous. I haven't done a photo shoot in ages." She turns to me. "It's a modeling thing."

  "I was going to ask if you were a model now," I say, meaning it. Grace has always had that kind of look.

  "Hardee-har-har," Grace says. "I look like a hot mess. That's what being a mom does to you."

  "You're not supposed to show up at a shoot looking gorgeous. They'll redo you," Addison says.

  "I'm stupid for doing this," Grace says. "I'm too old. And I'm a mom. I totally have a mom pooch right here." She grabs at the flesh on her belly.

  "I'm not listening to you," Addison says, making a show of putting her fingers in her ears. "La la la la la. Now, get out of here or you're going to be late. Hendrix can drive you."

  "What? No. I've got GPS in the car. I