Page 8 of Filthy Rich Santas

Beckett stares at me hard for another second as he considers my words. Benny, the manager in training that the three of us personally vetted, isn’t the type to get sloppy, and we all know it.

Finally, Beckett huffs out a breath and nods. “Yeah. On paper, she passes all our security checks. It’s understandable that she was allowed in.”

“But this isLana.” Tristan’s voice is still strained. “Did she… play with anyone while she was here?”

“No,” Beckett says, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

Tristan visibly relaxes, and I’m right there with him. Something obviously went down though, because Beckett still looks like he wants to take a flogger to someone without a safe word.

“What happened?” Tristan asks, idly rubbing at some of the ink on his left arm—a swirl of color that covers a few of the thicker scars from the accident that almost killed him years ago.

Beckett tells us about his encounter with Lana in short, precise sentences, his irritation with the whole thing bleeding through loud and clear.

I get why he’s so on edge about it. All three of us have always been protective of her. Maybe even more than her own brother.

My private opinion is that it’s because both Tristan and Beckett have always had a bit of a thing for her. Not that they could ever act on it, of course. Caleb would end them, for one thing. And besides, none of us can offer Lana the kinds of things she deserves, so it’s a moot point.

I’ve never asked either of my friends how they feel about her, and I’ve definitely never admitted my own attraction to her out loud. It’s better this way… even if ithasbeen low-key torture to see her shackled to the slimy, waspish piece of shit she started dating once she moved out here to L.A.

“Wade didn’t deserve her,” Tristan says, unknowingly echoing my thoughts.

“No fucking shit,” Beckett grits out. “But she also didn’t deserve to be dumped by him like he didn’t appreciate what he fucking had, either.”

“What did he do?” I demand.

Beckett looks murderous for a moment, then sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t know exactly how it went down, but it couldn’t have been pretty.”

My hands close into fists without me meaning to. I don’t know what exactly Beckett saw on Lana’s face when she told him about it, but I can imagine. She’s always felt things too deeply, wearing her heart on her sleeve for anyone to see who’s willing to look.

I’m pretty sure it’s part of the reason we all feel as protective as we do. She’s like a rare jewel, a ray of fucking sunshine, and she should be cherished and treasured at all costs.

None of which that Wade fucker ever seemed to understand.

“I never liked him,” I admit. “And if he fucking hurt her…”

“If he did, it’s no wonder she’s rebounding or rebelling or whatever it is that brought her here tonight,” Tristan finishes for me. “Isn’t that what people do when they get shit on by an ex?”

Probably, not that the three of us relationship-averse people would know. Still, while Tristan’s point is valid, it’s not really the directionmythoughts had gone.

Not that I don’t think they’re both right there with me when it comes to the lengths we’d go to when it comes to taking care of anyone who does Lana wrong.

And privately, I have to wonder if that’s part of why she kept it to herself.

All three of us have made it a point to keep tabs on her ever since she moved to the city. Keeping it low key, but making it clear to her that she’s not alone out here. That all three of us will always have her back. But just as low key has been her obvious desire to make it out here—away from the constant oversight of the parents who were always up in her business back east—on her own.

“I wish she’d fucking told us that the piece of shit had ended things with her sooner,” I grumble anyway. “I don’t like the idea of her…”

I flounder for a second. What, on her own?

Actually, I do like that idea. Much better than dating Wade Bradshaw.

Obviously, I don’t like the idea of her here at Radiance though, becoming the plaything of one of our members. None of us do, even though that’s literally why we created a safe place for people in the lifestyle to participate in consensual kink.

But Caleb’s little sister is different. And even if I’m not willing to look too deeply into why that is, I know something else the three of us can agree on.

“We should do something about this,” I say, meeting Tristan’s eyes, then Beckett’s.

“Deny her membership?” Tristan asks dryly.

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