A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  The reporter leans forward, furrowing her brow, which I'm certain is one of those "listening skills" they taught her to do in journalism school to appear thoughtful. "And who do we have to thank for this?"

  "It was a friend's idea," I say. "I mean, my stepbrother's. Hendrix's. He's a friend. And a veteran. I guess, well, you could say he orchestrated the entire thing." I'm babbling, nervous when I talk about Hendrix, and I have to force myself to stop and take a deep breath so I don't continue to babble and confess all my secrets on set. I can already feel the heat on my cheeks, the flush I get when I talk about Hendrix.

  She nods and smiles. "After the break, we'll hear more from the lovely Addison Stone, and she'll sing one of the songs from her upcoming album."

  * * *

  "No, mom." I'm on the phone with my mother, who says something snide about "sticking to the script," followed immediately by an indictment of my television wardrobe. Hendrix rolls his eyes when he hears me speak, able to tell immediately who it is, and I turn the other direction, but he follows, standing in front of me with a glint in his eye. When he mouths the words, "Hang up," I shake my head, and he smiles smugly before reaching out and sliding his hands underneath my skirt.

  When he discovers I'm not wearing any panties, he gives me a look, the look that tells me exactly what he wants from me. My mother is in the middle of a diatribe about the importance of my image, and I murmur "uh-huh" every few seconds, but what I'm really focused on is Hendrix and his magic fingers that are meandering lazily between my legs, stroking me, sending waves of pleasure rippling through my body.

  Hendrix whispers in my ear. "Hang up on her. I'm going to keep going."

  I shield the phone from him, trying to maintain my composure. "I can't," I mouth. Surely he understands the importance of playing along with my mother, my manager. And with the record studio. So I pretend to listen to her while I watch Hendrix shrug, and kneel at my feet, parting my legs with his hand. I don't make a pretense of resisting, because I want him more than anything.

  My mother's voice seems to get smaller and smaller, disappearing until it sounds like she's in a tunnel someplace far away, as Hendrix covers my pussy with his mouth, his tongue exploring me the same way his fingers were a moment ago. I exhale heavily, trying not to moan. "Yes, mom, I'm exercising. Yes. Hendrix has me on a new workout program."

  Hendrix pauses to look up at me, his lips shiny with my wetness, then reaches around me and slaps my ass cheek loudly.

  "It was nothing, mother," I say. "I think Hendrix dropped something." Meanwhile, Hendrix is eating me like I'm his last meal on earth, pulling my clit into his mouth with greater ferocity when he hears me speak to my mother. I clutch at him, intending to pull his head away but in reality pulling it closer.

  When he slides his fingers inside me, I do moan. Out loud. While on the phone with my fucking mother. I cough to cover it up, but she asks what's happening. "I – I think I'm going to be sick," I blurt out. "Nausea."

  She says something about vomiting being an acceptable form of dieting, but I hang up on her before Hendrix can do anything else, and throw the phone across the room. It bounces off the sofa and falls onto the floor with a clatter, and right now I don't care if it's broken into a thousand little pieces.

  Hendrix strokes me with his fingers. "About time," he says. "I was thinking I was going to have to bend you over and slide my cock inside that sweet pussy of yours in order to get you off the phone."

  No one has ever talked to me like this, just bandied around words like "cock" and "pussy". Of course, no one has fucked me the way Hendrix does either. And I do mean fucked. Hendrix fucks me the way I thought only happened in movies, passionate and rough and sweaty, hair-pulling, earth-shattering sex.

  "Now that I'm off the phone, what are you going to do?" I ask, and he looks up at me, his eyes clouded with desire.

  Then he does what I want him to do – he slides his fingers from between my legs, bends me over the sofa, and fucks me the way I want him to. He rides me hard and fast, jerking my head back as he pulls on my hair, and when I come, I scream his name before collapsing into a sweaty heap against the sofa.

  Afterward, he runs his hand down my back and over my hips. "Let's get the fuck out of here, Addy," he says.

  "Where?" I'm not sure if he's talking about today or permanently, and I'm not sure I care.

  "Road trip?"

  I grin. "You have the schedule. You're the boss. Can we?"

  "Say it again."

  "Say what?"

  "Say I'm the boss."

  I laugh and try to slap him from where I stand, but I can't reach him, bent over like this, and Hendrix chuckles. "I'm not saying it again. I think you misheard me the first time."

  "Come on," he says, slapping my ass. "Say it and I'll tell you the schedule."

  "Fine," I say, with a mock-exasperated sigh. "You're the boss. But only when it comes to the schedule."

  "What-the-fuck-ever," he says. "Screw everybody. We have a couple days before the awards show. Let's road trip."

  I agree, caught up in the afterglow of sex. I don't know if it's the sex, or it's being with Hendrix that's making me giddy and reckless, but I don't care about dropping everything and taking off with him.

  That fact alone should scare me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HENDRIX

  ONE YEAR AGO

  I stand in front of the door to the house, paralyzed by fear and sadness and guilt and rage and a thousand other emotions I can't possibly articulate, swirling around in my head. Fear grips my heart, worse even than it was when I was in that hellhole in Afghanistan.

  Why did I come here? What the hell am I going to say, to her of all people?

  Mandy opens the door. She looks older than she did in the photos Watson was always showing me, dark circles under her eyes. But I guess that's what a husband's death will do to you. She's holding a baby on her hip -- Amy. The baby is older now, too, and she stares at me with wide eyes like she doesn't know what the hell I'm doing here, either.

  Mandy's eyes take me in, the dress uniform I wear out of respect for what I'm doing here, even though it's not official. She's had this visit before, the official one, the one where they show up on your door with a flag. I should have been the one to do it, the only surviving member of my squad.

  I chicken-shitted out before.

  Now I'm making up for it.

  It's been three months. Three months before I could face this. Two weeks since I've been able to get behind the wheel of a fucking car at all. I drove to Kentucky, my fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel, my heart racing so fast I was sure I was near having a heart attack.

  And now I stand here, wearing the uniform, presenting her with a flag, my pathetic attempt to give her something that makes up for her loss. My pathetic attempt to assuage the guilt I feel for surviving the blast that should have killed me too.

  An older woman comes to the door behind her, and stops when she sees me, taking the baby wordlessly from Mandy's hands. Watson's wife reaches for the flag, her expression unchanging until she touches the fabric. Then she falls to her knees, her hands still on it, letting out a cry that rips me to my core.

  I touch her hand, intending to pull her to her feet, to say something meaningful that will take away the pain. But when I put my hand on hers, I lose it. A dam opens, and I can't stop the tears that stream down my face. So we stand there, her and I, sobbing together for the life of her husband, and the lives of my friends, that were lost.

  * * *

  PRESENT DAY

  "So where are we going?" Addy asks as she slides into the front seat and puts her bare feet on the dashboard of my shitty car.

  "Really? You're asking me that question? Where do you think we're going?"

  Addy smiles. "To the beach."

  Just like when she was sixteen.

  And it is, just like we're teenagers again, Addy laughing at something stupid I say and swatting my arm from the passenger seat a