KEEPING KRISTMAS © 2018 by Megyn Ward. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  FIRST EDITION 2018

  Book design by Megyn Ward

  Cover design by Megyn Ward

  Cover photo by Adobe Stock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  One

  Kristmas

  May, 2008

  It’s been a weird couple of years.

  It all started when I was thirteen and my mom knocked on my bedroom door and said, Hey, Krissy, can we talk for a minute?

  She calls me Krissy. That in itself is weird, considering she’s the one who insisted on naming me Kristmas in the first place.

  Kristmas Eve Cavanagh.

  I’ll give you three guesses when my birthday is. Don’t worry, you won’t need the first two.

  Anyway, back to the story.

  After knocking, she comes in and sits down on the edge of my bed and says, I’m seeing someone.

  My dad died when I was ten. He was hit by a car while out on his morning run. He pulled on his running shoes and kissed the top of my head and promised to make me French toast for breakfast when he got back. He was thirty-four.

  It took a long time for me to process it and to accept that he wasn’t coming back. That he was never going to see me do all the things he always told me I was capable of. It was hard. It’s still hard, but when my mom told me she was seeing someone, I told her I was okay with it. More than okay with it. Because that’s what my dad would want me to say. He would want me to encourage her to be happy. To let her move on without being an asshole about it.

  To be honest, I’d been expecting it. There’d been a lot of late night phone calls. A lot of I’m going to be home late from work. A lot of I’m going to dinner with a friend.

  Her next words were the shocker.

  It’s Mark McAllister.

  That was my WTF moment.

  Because Mr. McAllister is Maddox’s dad and Maddox is my best friend.

  Has been my best friend since we were six.

  We’ve been next-door neighbors since before that.

  Mad’s parents divorced two years after my dad died. His mom moved to a nearby town and remarried directly after the divorce, taking his two sisters with her. Mad stayed with his father.

  Instead of asking her if she’d been drinking, I just nodded my head and said, I like Mr. McAllister like a dummy.

  Seven months later my best friend became my step-brother.

  That’s when the trouble started.

  Until then, Mad and I were joined at the hip. Talked and texted constantly. We’ve fallen asleep with an open phone line between us more than once, only to wake up and continue the conversation like we didn’t just spend eight hours snoring in each other’s ears.

  We even had sleep-overs. Nights where one of us would come over to the other’s house and hang out, getting junk food wasted and watching horror movies before passing out next to each other. Granted, those nights decreased in frequency as we got older and Mad got more and more popular and I… didn’t. But we were still close. Still talked. Still told each other everything, even if he seemed a little distant at times. All of that came to a screeching halt when my mom and I moved in.

  Almost overnight, he became moody. Sometimes hostile. I’m pretty sure he’s pissed about the fact that our parents are married and I didn’t offer up a protest. Not the way he did. Mad has been against it from day one.

  This is fucking horse shit is uttered on the daily.

  I still try though. I’m still hoping that he’ll crack and let me in. Tell me what me what I did so I can fix it. Start feeling like I matter to him again because we’re graduating next week and he’s going away to college on a full-ride football scholarship, a three thousand miles away, and I’m not sure I can let him go without knowing that we’re okay again.

  That’s why I travel the hallway between our bedrooms instead of just letting myself in through the connecting bathroom. Why I knock on his bedroom door, while trying to forget that the knocking itself is a recent development. That before our parents got married I used to just walk in. Kick off my shoes and flop down next to him on his bed so I could stick my feet in his face and he could push them away with a laugh and tell me I’m gross.

  That doesn’t happen anymore.

  Now I knock.

  Request entry.

  Wait for my request to be granted or denied.

  Because the last time I barged in he yelled at me. Called me a goddamned nuisance.

  “Yeah?” his voice floats through the door. Short. Impatient.

  “Umm… it’s me. Kris,” I say, feeling an idiot. A desperate, desperate idiot. “Can I come in?”

  My request for entry is met with silence, which isn’t unusual. I’m turned away from his room and halfway to my own before I hear his answer.

  “Whatever.”

  Mad knows how to make a girl feel wanted.

  Before all of this started, I would’ve given him shit about it. Now, I just backtrack and push his door open, feeling grateful to be acknowledged and pretty pathetic about it.

  He’s sitting on his bed, back against the headboard. Remote in hand, staring at the television mounted on the wall above his dresser while he flips through channels. After a second or two he frowns at the rapid flicker across the screen. “You gonna come in or just stand there and stare?”

  Sometimes I can take his moody bitch routine.

  Sometimes I can’t.

  Tonight I can’t.

  Tonight I’m so completely over it that I’m through the door before I can blink or tell myself to stop. “What’s your problem?” I’m standing over him now. Glaring down at him while he keeps staring at the television. Keeps flipping channels.

  “You are.” He barely gets it out past the tight clench of his jaw, his glare flicking upward, landing on my face with the force of a punch.

  It’s like he did hit me. That’s how much it hurts.

  You are.

  I don’t even know why I’m so hurt. It’s par for the course with him these days. Sometimes he’s almost normal and other times it’s like he hates me. All I know is that it’s been three years and I’m done with letting him treat me like shit. I’m tired of walking on eggshells, letting him decide when he’s going to get over himself and tell me what I did to make him so angry at me for so long.

  Reaching down, I rip the remote out of his hand, “Go fuck yourself, Mad,” I bite back, jerking the remote away when he makes a fast grab for it.

  Suddenly he’s standing over me, face tipped down to glare at me. “Excuse me?” He growls it at me, his deep brown gaze practically skewered through mine. Hands clenched into fists. “What did you just say?”

  I’m tall. Big for a girl. Nothing dainty or petite about me. What my father used to call sturdy. I’ve never been afraid for my physical safety before. Certainly never afraid of Mad.

  Never.

  I am now.

  “You heard me,” I say, amazed that my voice isn’t shaking. That I’m not running for my life. Hiding under my bed. “We’re going to settle this, once and for all, because this has been going on for years and I’m sick and goddamned tired of you treating me like—”

  He steps into me, even closer. So close we’re practically glued together and I have to tip my own head back to maintain eye contact. So close that I can feel the press of him against my belly.

  Mad is hard.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, still glaring down at me. Still standing over me. Still hard. Still looks like he wants to hit me. “You were you saying something?”

  Suddenly, I can’t breathe.

  “I…” My skin starts to prickle, a warm tingle sweeping over me from head-to-toe and I have to breathe through my mouth to feed my oxygen-starved brain. “I’m not… you can’t…”

  Jesus, it’s like I’m concussed. I can’t think straight. I can’t—

  “Wash up for dinner.”

  My mom’s voice floats up the stairs and down the hall. You’d think that’d put an end to whatever the hell is happening here. That we’d both snap out of it. Jump away from each other like someone turned the hose on us.

  Nope.

  Still hard.

  Still standing here.

  Still staring at each other.

  Still looks like he wants to hit me.

  Only, it’s not hitting me he’s thinking about doing. The realization brings on a second flush. This one deeper. Hotter. Pulls a stuttering gasp out of my chest and pushes the air from my lungs. As soon as the sound comes out of my mouth, his rigid cock gives a hard jerk against my belly.

  His gaze drops to my mouth and he smirks at me. “Like I said, Kris,” he says, his hand suddenly closing over my wrist. His hands slide down, to cover mine, pulling the remote from my slackened grip. “You’re my problem.” He aims the remote over my shoulder and powers off the TV before tossing it on the bed.

  Then he slips around me and disappears, the bathroom door snapping closed behind me a few moments later.

  Two

  Maddox

  So, that

just happened.

  And even though I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, that Kris isn’t one to just roll over and take shit, I’m still pissed about it. I’m still angry that she forced the issue. Didn’t just let it lay. Let me keep being a gigantic dickbag without confronting me about the fact that I’ve been treating her like shit for years now without an explanation.

  Because what am I supposed to say?

  Why am I being a raging dickbag, you ask? Well, you’re never going to believe it, but I want to fuck you. I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since we were fifteen.

  I know, crazy right?

  Right.

  Because what just happened is so much better.

  Jesus.

  I just yelled in her face, poked her with my dick and told her she was the problem when clearly it’s me. I’m the problem here.

  The really fucked up part is I don’t know how to not be a problem. I’ve felt this way about her for so long that I don’t know how to stop. I don’t think I can stop.

  I had my first wet dream about her when we were thirteen. I felt like an asshole about it for weeks. I convinced myself it was normal. That Kris was a girl, so of course I was going to have those kinds of thoughts about her from time to time. That didn’t mean we couldn’t still be friends. Best friends even.

  So, I forgot about it. Walled if off. Pretended that I didn’t think about getting her naked. Kissing her. Kissing her while I was getting her naked. On the surface, I was her best friend. We talked and texted and slept over at each other’s houses.

  Under the surface I was a mess. I thought about her constantly and my thoughts were decidedly unfriendly. I tried separating myself from her. I applied myself in school. Made grades a priority. Went out for football and made starting offensive line. Joined student government and ran for class president. Let the wave of popularity that followed carry me away from her. Put space between us. But I still wanted her. Needed her. I couldn’t let go of her completely, so I kept pretending. Holding on to the delusion that everything was fine. That she was still my best friend.

  Basically, I was a dissociative mess.

  But I was dealing with it.

  Then my dad told me he was in love with her mom. That they were getting married and that Kris and her mom were going to move in with us.

  Isn’t that great, Mad? It’ll be like you and Kris are on one long, never-ending sleepover.

  No, Dad.

  Not. Great.

  Matter of fact, it’s a motherfucking disaster.

  Because I needed that space. I needed to hear her slam through the front door like she owns the place. I needed to hear her shout out, it’s just me! on her way past the living room and up the stairs to my room. I needed those fifteen seconds to get my dissociative ass in gear so I could be her best friend when she barged through the door unannounced and flopped down on my bed uninvited, instead of who I really am.

  The guy who yells at her.

  The guy who blames her.

  The guy who can’t stop thinking about her.

  The guy I am now.

  McAllister family dinners are semi-formal affairs. We’re expected to put on a clean shirt. Wash our hands. Comb our hair. Not come downstairs with raging hard-ons. I hit the shower, cranking on the cold water full blast and stand under the icy spray until my lips are blue and my dick crawls in on its self so far I start to worry that I might never see it again.

  When I slide into my chair, I do everything I can to ignore my father’s disapproving glare while I load my plate with double-scoops of everything on the table in front of me. I don’t even know what it is and I don’t care. I just need to power through the next thirty minutes so can go back upstairs and jerk off.

  A lot.

  I flick a glance in her direction. She’s sitting across from me, staring at her own plate, pushing food across it like her life depends on it. She looks up at me, her sharp, green gaze touching mine for a brief moment before jerking back to her plate. Her cheeks instantly flush. Her brow furrows. She’s thinking about what just happened and she’s confused about it. How it made her feel.

  The good news is that my dick isn’t broken.

  The bad news is that knowing that she’s thinking about it causes my dick to stiffen, so hard and fast I swear to Christ it just thumped its head on the underside of the dining room table.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The question, delivered by my dad, comes from the head of the table. For a second, I think Kris told them what happened. That I practically jumped her. Stuck my dick in her belly-button. Basically told her I want to fuck her.

  “I have a lot to say,” I tell him, looking him in the eye. “So you’re gonna have to be more specific about what.” If that’s what this is about, if Kris told them what happened upstairs, then so be it. Kris might be my step-sister now but she was my… everything else, long before my dad decided to marry her mother and I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize to him for it.

  If anyone is owed an apology, it’s Kris. As soon as we’re alone, I’ll apologize to her for behaving like a giant bag of dicks for the past three years, but I’m not apologizing to my dad because how I feel about Kris is none of his fucking business.

  “Burt Saunders stopped by the office this afternoon.” My dad stabs his chicken breast like he’s trying to kill it. “Said he saw you coming out of the recruitment office on Main.”

  Shit.

  One of the million things I hate about growing up in a small town—everyone knows everyone’s goddamned business. Not that I expected to keep it a secret for much longer but I’m not prepared to have this conversation. I’d rather talk about how I’ve been letching out on my step-sister for the past fucking forever.

  Before I can get my mouth open, Kris saves me.

  “You finally remembered, huh?” When I look at her, she’s looking right at me. Smiling at me like she used to. Like I haven’t been an asshole to her since she and her mom moved in. “I thought I was going to have to drag you down there and get you registered myself.” She shifts in her seat, aiming her gaze at her plate. Now she’s skewering green beans like she’s getting paid by the pound. “For the draft,” she says, right before shoving a forkful of veggies into her mouth.

  “The draft?” This from her mother, perched on her seat at the other end of the table. I never really understood how a woman like Anne Cavanagh gave birth to someone like Kris. She’s careful. Quiet. Pale blonde hair. Pale blue eyes. Delicate, bird-like bone structure. Wears matching sweater-sets. Never a hair out of place.

  In short, the exact opposite of her daughter.

  “Yeah,” Kris says around a mouthful of green beans. “They called last month. Said Mad hadn’t registered yet.” She cuts a piece of chicken and stuffs it into her mouth alongside her half-chewed green beans, flipping her gaze up from her plate to let it land squarely on mine. Chewing and swallowing enough to clear her mouth, she shrugs. “I’ve been pestering him about it ever since. Guess it finally paid off.”

  “Thanks.” I mean it. I’ve been an asshole to her for years now and she still saved me. Kris looks away, gives me a non-committal shrug and keeps chewing.

  I look at my dad. He’s watching us both. Finally he aims his gaze at his plate. “You told them you were leaving for USC in the fall?” He says it to his scalloped potatoes. Taking my cue from Kris, I stuff food in my mouth and nod while I chew, like a non-verbal lie is so much better than a verbal. Because the truth is I didn’t tell the recruiter about my college plans. I’ve been there several times over the last six months and I’ve never mentioned it. What I did was enlist. Call USC and refuse the scholarship. I leave for basic training three days after graduation. When my father finds out, he’ll disown me. I don’t give a shit about that. Not really.

  I guess I’m lucky Burt Saunders only saw me there once.

  “Hey,” I aim it across the table and Kris picks up her head and looks at me. “You wanna watch a movie tonight?” It’s something we used to do together all the time. Raid my parent's pantry for junk food. Sprawl out on either her bed or mine. Turn off all the lights and veg out together. We haven’t done it in ages. Not since she moved in. “Come on, Kriskross, it’ll be like old times.” I haven’t called her Kriskross in years. When I say it now, she blushes again. Gnaws on her bottom lips so hard I’m afraid she’s going to bite a hole through it.

 

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