Page 38 of A Very Addicted Christmas

I can’t sleep.

I’m not even pretending.

It’s nearing midnight on Christmas Eve. Snowed-in for four days and counting. Nobody thought we’d be here for the holidays, so there was no tree, no decorations or gifts, just Christmas music from Quinn’s now dead phone. (Quinnie taking one for the team.)

Today was…eventful.

Holidays bring out the best and worst in people.

We were supposed to be keeping morale high for the famous ones, and that sank into quicksand around the time a fight broke out.

Most of us yelled at Tony and Thatcher (pretending to be Banks) to break apart, but no one stopped Thatcher. Toolbox vs. Tank—Tank is gonna win, no question. Thatcher is massive and too strong, and I’d take on a Tank, a Terminator, a Tsunami for a friend—but Tony isn’t anything to me.

Plus, what came out of his mouth tonight and how he squared up to Jane—if Thatcher didn’t punch him first, someone else would’ve.

The fight was one-sided since Tony couldn’t get the upper hand.

Oscar and I both audibly winced and flinched when Thatcher landed a final, brutal fist in Tony’s jaw. The Toolbox slumped down on the floorboards of the Scotland house. Unconscious.

He’s alright now. Shoulda woke up with a bruised ego, but I think he’s still looking for a fight to validate his manhood. For whatever reason, people see me as an easy punching bag, and so he’s risen on my list of people to avoid while we’re trapped here.

1. O’Malley

2. Tony the Toolbox

3. Beckett

I grind down, my jaw tensing.Beckett.A gnarled root is in my ribcage that I try to breathe out. Only list I thought he’d be on of mine isFriends to Protect.The fact that Jane and Charlie forced their brother here because of his drug use is another reason why I just want to forget and move on.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” I mutter to myself, leaning on the kitchen cupboards while I have this orange sweater on the counter. Candlelight flickers over a pinky-sized hole, and using a safety pin I found, I try to fish a thread through and create a knot.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

It’s just a hole.

With my wrist, I nudge my glasses further up my nose. If I can fix it, I wanna fix it. Luna knitted this sweater for me in exchange for sketching the galaxy design for a future tattoo. I made something for her, and she made something for me.

So it means something to me. I don’t want her to think I didn’t care enough about it—that I destroyed it.

“Come on, sweater,” I mutter. “Cooperate with me here.” I have no extra yarn or sewing thread. So I’m working with what already exists. I’m fiddling over the loose yarn around the hole for what feels like ten minutes before I hear footsteps.

I stay bent against the cupboards, elbow on the counter, and a guy on my To Avoid List suddenly enters the kitchen.

Beckett slows to a complete stop, his gaze slamming against mine. Yeah, he wasn’t expecting to see me any more than I thought it’d be him gliding through the doorway.

I tense, my muscles stretching in searing bands. Unmoving. What do I even say?

Merry Christmas Eve, why’d you get rid of me that easily?

Couldn’t even talk to me about it first?

Did I not deserve that?

It hasn’t even been two months off his detail.I hope years from now, it won’t hurt to see him. To be in his company. ‘Cause right now, it feels like walking over glass, and I’m not even moving a muscle.

Dark half-moons shadow his yellow-green eyes. He must not be sleeping well. The longer we’re trapped in Scotland, that’s another day without cocaine.Unless he brought some.

I try not to picture that.

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