Page 3 of Silent Night

TWO

HAYLEY

Arrivingto an empty house on the night before Christmas Eve is a slap to the face. After Mom begged me over and over for the past three months to visit this year, I begrudgingly agreed, thinking—assuming—my idiotic fault apparently—that coming for the holidays would meanshe’d be here.Instead, only minutes before my flight took off, she left a voice mail that I only receivedafterdeboarding the plane and turning off airplane mode. She cancelled our plans last-minute so she and stepfather number two could fly off into the sun for some tropical vacation.

I would have hopped on the next flight out—if they weren’t completely booked up. Which makes sense, considering which day it is. The earliest available seat was on the twenty-seventh, which means I’m stuck in a house that isn’t mine, in a town I’m unfamiliar with, for the next five days.

I can’t even be surprised by this. Mom’s flightily, bitchy behaviour is typical; something I’ve lived with far too long. Last year, I remained in my dorms with all the other students who opted not to go home, or didn’t have a place to go home to, while she gallivanted around finding said second stepfather. Last year, I wanted a happy, peaceful,and quiet holiday for once, with only us two, but she insisted on needing a new man in her life, and this need just couldn’t wait a damn week.

“You wanted a nice holiday. I got us one,”was her main argument to get me to visit this year.

She totally missed the “only us” part of my request, which has become a mistake I’ll never make again.

The taxi pulls up to a house that reminds me of the one I grew up in, because once again, Mommy Dearest found herself a rich husband, the same as Dad. Ever since they divorced when I was eighteen, she’s basically tried to replace Dad with duller, older versions. Stepdad number one was a piece of work. At least the new guy, Dean, doesn’t slap her ass at the dinner table in front of a room full of guests.

I’d only been here once before, for her and Dean’s wedding, and it was one time too many.

I toss an entire stack of twenties onto the front seat of the cab because it’s Dean’s cash since he insisted on paying for all my travel expenses, so I gift it all away, and the driver helps me with my suitcase.

“Thanks, and Merry Christmas,” I tell the man, imagining him soon going home to his family. There’s a picture of himself, a woman, and three kids taped to his dash that he glanced at every red light.

“You too,” he replies in a tone cheerier than I can handle right now, but it’s not this stranger’s fault my mother turned yet another holiday to shit.

With my bag in tow, I turn toward the house, for once thankful that Dean gave me a key to the place and a room for when I visit, insisting I drop in whenever. Of course, Mom sent me an evil glare thatdaredme to disrupt her peaceful new life when he said that.

Dean isn’t a bad guy. He’s just not Dad.

Mind you, post-divorce Dad took off to Europe to “restart” and only checks in by phone every few months. The last time I heard from him was the start of November. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll get a call, or at the very least, a text.

I trudge up the stone walkway scattered with freshly fallen snow, trying to convince myself this is no different than if I remained alone in my apartment, since I no longer live on campus. The building would probably be quiet, since the majority of renters are students too, and most off to their families’ places.

With the key, I unlock the door and enter the dark house, flicking on the foyer’s light. It illuminates the open space; the oversized closet probably storing all Mom’s ridiculously overpriced jackets, a padded bench that screamsdecoration onlybecause if I know Mom, she expects guests to balance as they put on their shoes. Beside the front door is a shoe mat, a single pair of men’s boots on it. Likely Dean’s, and I’m shocked he got away with leaving his items in the open like this. Mom insists on hiding “mess.”

I kick off my snowy shoes, not bothering to place them on the mat. The snow will soon melt in the house’s heat and mixed with dirt from outside, it’ll turn to mud that’ll drip onto Mom’s shiny floors. Serves her right. She’ll come home to a mess.

At the base of the carpeted staircase, I abandon my suitcase and wander toward the kitchen, flicking on lights as I go. The kitchen is full of fancy, industrial appliances because Dean is a chef, and if I’m honest with myself, I was looking forward to his home-cooked Christmas dinner. I haven’t had one since before Mom and Dad divorced, and if Dean cooks as well as Mom claims, then it could have been a turkey to remember.

Chances are, a lot of takeout is getting ordered between now and my flight home, unless I figure out how to use the fancy stove with one too many knobs. Maybe I’ll try anyway, and if I burn the place down, oh well. Guess they should have been here.

It’s with those annoyed, grim thoughts, I enter the dim kitchen, stopped by the lone figure leaning against the counter, a glass in his hand, and a bottle of brandy—probably stupidly expensive—resting beside him. He turns, spotting me, and a pleased smirk spreads across his face.

Fuck.Now I wish I chose to hole up in the airport for the next few days because literally anywhere would be better than here, alone withhim. How the hell did I not even consider that he might be visiting this year too? I wonder if it’s too late to consider booking a hotel room for the week—even if the likelihood in finding availability is slim-to-none.

My stepbrother’s messy grin matches everything else about his demeanor. The rumpled suit, the wild hair, the evil glint in his eyes as the lights hanging over the island counter separating us catches on them. Right now, I love that granite island more than anything.

“Ha, this is too fuckin’ good!” One finger lifts from the hand gripping the glass and gestures toward me. “They fucked you over too.”

“Bentley.” It’s almost a gasp. A combination of shock and discomfort as I force my body still because he’s like a fox who’ll sniff out my fear, and the last thing I want is to become his prey.

My stepbrother tips his head in a mock greeting. From the very first meeting, I never liked him. First off, who names their son after a car? Secondly, despite the fact we were at a forced dinner with our parents as they tried to bring both sides together, he stared at me like we were alone. Leered would be more like it. It was chilling, sending prickles down my spine as he gawked at me, like he was hoping to makemehis dessert that night.

For that reason, I declined the offer to accompany our parents home and skipped out early.

The second time I interacted with him was at their wedding, months after that initial dinner. They had a “small”—Mom’s words—gathering of about two hundred people, but I ended up being grateful for every single one of them. Whenever Bentley tried to approach me, I’d run the opposite way, limiting our time together to when we had to walk down the aisle. Mom was pissed when I avoided the one and only dance I was technically mandated to share with him. The aisle involved enough touching for the year, thanks.

“Hayley,” Bentley greets back. “And here, Christmas just got better.”

“Yeah. Great.” It’s not great; it’s horrible, but my fake smile hopes to ease the tension.

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