Wreck the Halls

A couple of minutes later, he walked into a pitch-black party room.

The lights came on and a sea of smiling faces appeared, shouting, “Surprise!”

And even though his skin was as cold as ice beneath his suit, he staggered back with a dazed grin, laughing the way everyone would expect. Accepting hugs, backslaps, handshakes, and kisses on the cheeks.

Nothing is wrong.

I have it all under control.

Beat struggled through the inundation of stress and attempted to appreciate the good around him. The room full of people who had gathered in his honor. He owed them that after all the effort they’d clearly put in. One of the benefits of being born in December was Christmas-themed birthdays, and his friends had laid it on thick. White twinkling lights were wrapped around fresh garland and hanging from the rafters of the restaurant’s banquet room. Poinsettias sprung from glowing vases. The scent of cinnamon and pine was heavy in the air and a fireplace roared in the far corner of the space. His friends, colleagues, and a smattering of cousins wore Santa hats.

As far as themes went, Christmas was the clear winner, and he couldn’t complain. As far back as he could remember, it had been his favorite holiday. The time of year when he could sit still and wear pajamas all day and let his head clear. His family always kept it about the three of them, no outsiders, so he didn’t have to be on. He could just be.

One of Beat’s college buddies from NYU wrestled him into a playful headlock and he endured it, knowing the guy meant well. God, they all did. His friends weren’t aware of the kind of strain he was under. If they did, they would probably try to help. But he couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t allow a single person to know the delicate reason why he was being blackmailed.

Or who was behind it.

Beat noticed everyone around him was laughing and he joined in, pretending he’d heard the joke, but his brain was working through furious rounds of math. Presenting and discarding solutions. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Double what he’d paid this man last time. Where would he come up with it? And what about next time? Would they venture into the millions?

“You didn’t think we’d let your thirtieth pass without an obnoxious celebration, did you?” Vance said, elbowing him in the ribs. “You know us better than that.”

“You’re damn right I do.” A glass of champagne appeared in Beat’s hand. “What time is the clown arriving to make balloon animals?”

The group erupted into a disbelieving roar. “How the hell—”

“You ruined the surprise!”

“Like you said”—Beat saluted them, smiling until they all dropped the indignation and grinned back—“I know you.”

They don’t know you, though. Do they?

His smile faltered slightly, but he covered it up with a gulp of champagne, setting the empty glass down on the closest table, noting the peppermints strewn among the confetti. The paper pieces were in the shape of little B’s. Pictures of Beat dotted the refreshment table in plastic holders. One of him jumping off a cliff in Costa Rica. Another one of him graduating in a cap and gown from business school. Yet another photo depicted him onstage introducing his mother, world-famous Octavia Dawkins, at a charity dinner he’d organized recently for her foundation. He was smiling in every single picture.

It was like looking at a stranger. He didn’t even know that guy.

When he jumped off that cliff in Central America, he’d been in the middle of procuring funds to pay off the blackmailer the first time. Back when he could manage the sum. Fifty thousand here or there. Sure, it meant a little shuffling of his assets, but nothing he couldn’t handle in the name of keeping his parents’ names from being dragged through the mud.

He couldn’t manage this much of a payoff alone. The foundation had more than enough money in its coffers, but it would be a cold day in hell before he stole from the charity he’d built with his mother. Not happening. That cash went to worthy causes. Well-deserved scholarships for performing arts students who couldn’t afford the costs associated with training, education, and living expenses. That money did not go to blackmail.

So where would he get the funds?

Maybe a quick call to his accountant would calm his nerves. He’d invested in a few start-ups last year. Maybe he could pull those investments now? There had to be something.

There isn’t, whispered a voice in the back of his head.

Feeling even more chilled than before, Beat forced a casual expression onto his face. “Excuse me for a few minutes, I just need to make a phone call.”

“To whom?” Vance asked. “Everyone you know is in this room.”

That was not true.

His parents weren’t here.

But that was not who his mind immediately landed on—and it was ridiculous that he should still be thinking about Melody Gallard fourteen years after meeting her one time. He could still recall that afternoon so vividly, though. Her smile, the way she whisper-talked, as if she wasn’t all that used to talking at all. The way she couldn’t seem to look him in the eye, then all of a sudden she couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. Neither had he.

And he’d hugged thousands of people in his life, but she was the only one he could still feel in his arms. They were meant to be friends. Unfortunately, he’d never called. She’d never used his number, either. Now it was too late. Still, when Vance said Everyone you know is in this room, Beat thought of her right away.

It felt like he knew Melody—and she wasn’t here.

She might know him the best out of everyone if he’d kept in touch.

“Maybe he needs to call a woman,” someone sang from the other side of the group. “We know how Beat likes to keep his relationships private.”

“When I find a woman who can survive my friends, I’ll bring her around.”

“Oh, come on.”

“We’d be on our best behavior.”

Beat raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t have a best behavior.”

Someone picked up a handful of B confetti and threw it at him. He flicked a piece off his shoulder without missing a beat, satisfied that he’d once again diverted their interest in his love life. He kept that private for good reason. “One phone call and I’ll be back. Don’t start the balloon animals without me. I’m going to see if the artist can create me a sense of privacy.” He gave them all a grin to let them know he was joking. “It means a lot that you organized this party for me. Thank you. It’s . . . everything a guy could hope for.”

That sappy moment earned him a chorus of boos and several more tosses of confetti until he had to duck and cover his way out of the room. But as soon as he was outside, his smile slid away. Back on the sidewalk like before, he stood for a full minute looking down at the phone in his hand. He could call his accountant. It would be a waste, though. After five years of having the blackmailer on his back like a parasite, he’d wrung himself dry. There simply wasn’t eight hundred thousand dollars to spare.