Wreck the Halls

She’d know what it meant. She would understand.

He was convinced they would continue in this embrace for the rest of time, because he felt like their organs would tumble out without it, but Melody wedged a hand between them and broke their contact. She pushed until there was distance between them. But it was too much. Inches felt like miles and his hands were in fists to keep from drawing her back in, harder, permanently. She wanted to be held by him—her desperate gaze on his throat told him that loud and clear—but she was fighting the need.

“For God’s sake,” Trina muttered unevenly, behind Beat. “A song about them would write itself. I’d just be holding the pencil.”

“The camera doesn’t really do them justice, does it?” Octavia asked quietly. Then she snapped her fingers at the cameramen—Joseph and Ernie—hovering just inside the door beside a rapt Danielle. “All right. You’ve got your reunion, now we require some privacy.”

Danielle’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. The live stream crashed again, anyway.” Her phone started ringing and she gestured both cameramen out of the office. “Keep in mind that we should have it back up and running in ten.”

“Ten minutes is all I’ll be able to stand,” Trina said, circling one of the chairs facing Octavia’s desk and dropping into it unceremoniously. “Your son is being blackmailed, Oc.”

Beat had gone back to staring into Melody’s eyes when that pronouncement was made and he watched them go from yearning, but guarded . . . to apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan on telling her, telling anyone, but she was there when I figured out who it was. Your father.”

He lifted his hands to grasp her shoulders, but she stepped out of his reach, sending Beat’s stomach plummeting to the ground. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he managed. “I came here to tell Octavia everything.”

“You did?” Melody’s tone held a note of wistfulness. “That’s good, Beat. That’s great.”

“I’d already found out on my own, however,” Octavia said, followed by the sound of her sitting down again behind her desk. Beat closed his eyes when he heard the tapping of keys, knowing what would follow. Unsure if he should dread the recording being played out loud or if he welcomed having his actions out in the open.

Congratulations. She’s head over heels for you, man. I bet she’d do just about anything for you. For instance, pay me to keep your big secret. Yeah, that lovestruck way she looks at you? I guarantee she’d protect you at all costs. Could mean double the payday for me.

Leave her out of this, Beat’s voice returned. Or I will kill you.

Right there in front of him, Melody’s eyes developed a sheen.

Your own father?

It’s all for the cameras. Haven’t you heard of a scripted reality show? As soon as it’s over, I’ll probably never see her again.

“I was lying, Mel,” he said through his teeth.

“I know,” she whispered, nodding. “I know.”

Thank God. Thank God she knew. Why wasn’t she back in his arms yet?

Sorry if you thought this was some magical love story, but it’s not. You’re welcome to try and pump her for cash, but she’ll tell you to go to hell. And then she’ll be able to leverage that secret. It’ll lose its power and become her bargaining chip if she wants to sell the story. And you know offers are going to roll in. This thing is huge.

“He’s really selling that lie,” Trina remarked. “Like son, like mother, I guess.”

“Zip it, you smelly old relic,” Octavia fired back.

“That’s right, I have sweat glands, like a normal human. Did your Botox guy remove those for you, along with your sense of humor?”

I know what I saw. You two are the real deal, interrupted Fletcher’s voice on the recording, followed by footsteps in the background. Melody’s. Beat’s gut seized up. He couldn’t bear to look at her for this part, so he moved to the window and braced his hands on either side of the sill, staring out at the avenue but seeing nothing.

She wants me to teach her how to play bocce, too! We’re going to have a lady date after the holidays. That was where he’d refused the hand she’d offered. The memory was like a torpedo to the center of his stomach. Sorry. Did I interrupt?

Nah, honey. We’re just shooting the shit. You must have another big day of filming ahead. Where are you two jetting off to next?

We don’t really have any plans—

“Turn it off,” Beat demanded, pushing away from the window. “You’ve heard the part you needed to hear. Please, God, turn it off.”

Octavia tapped a key and the office went silent, except for Melody’s long, winded intake of breath. She wouldn’t look at him, though. What was she thinking?

Finally, Trina broke the silence. “I’m no mathematician, but what it sounds like, old pal, is you had yourself a little indiscretion in between tours.”

Not a single muscle shifted in the lead singer’s face. “Was there a paternity test, Beat?”

“Yes.” His voice was like gravel. “I wouldn’t give him a dime until I knew for sure. He’s my father. My biological one, anyway.”

Octavia’s head fell forward.

“Just to recap.” Trina raised a handful of fingers and started ticking them off. “He dated you. Lied to me, saying you were the one who broke it off with him. I started dating him—a move that, let’s face it, was the beginning of the end. The end of Steel Birds. Our creation. And then, after we booted him for another drummer, he still managed to wiggle back in and sleep with you one more time. Even after everything.”

“I was just . . . it was vanity and jealousy and . . . being twenty-three, goddammit. I wanted to hurt you back. We were already fighting constantly, ditching recording sessions, and blowing off label meetings. What would it matter if I screwed everything up a little more? And damn, I wanted to prove he still wanted me the most. It was stupid and it didn’t fix anything. If you want to hate me for it, fine, but I’m pretty sure I’m paying a steep enough price without adding your ridicule, Trina.” Octavia slammed a closed fist down on the desk. The only one who didn’t flinch was Trina. “He’s been blackmailing my son for five years!”

Trina reached out and knocked over a porcelain glass full of white pens. “There you are! I thought the woman who sang ‘Bitch on Wheels’ at the top of her lungs was dead and gone.”

“I want to fillet this motherfucker’s balls, grill them until they’re well-done, and dine on them with a bottle of wine,” Octavia growled.

Beat’s jaw dropped.

He’d seen countless hours of Steel Birds concert footage. He’d seen his mother unleash hell into a microphone. But in real life, she was his polished, routine-oriented mother. That was still true, but apparently the take-no-prisoners rock vocalist had been lurking inside of her this whole time.

He traded a look of bemused disbelief with Melody.