Filthy Rich Santas

7. Lana

7

LANA

My mouth tastes vaguely like Christmas and regret when I wake up, and I shake my foggy head, trying to clear it and figure out why.

“Ow.” I wince when the motion only intensifies the throbbing at my temples.

I squint in the early morning light, rubbing the center of my forehead. I’m definitely a little bit hungover, and everything that happened last night suddenly comes back to me in a rush.

“Oh god,” I groan as I remember telling the guys that I basically went to Radiance looking for them .

True? Yes.

Embarrassing? Also yes.

But not nearly as embarrassing as the memory of the way all three of them just looked at me after I blurted it out, not saying a word.

Just thinking about it makes me flush with heat, and not the fun kind. It’s not that I’m shocked they don’t want me. I already know that their protective, attentive natures come from me being Caleb’s little sister, not from anything more personal. And despite the internal pep talk I used to get myself to show up at Radiance in the first place that night, I know that each one of them is out of my league too.

They’re like three different flavors of sex-on-a-stick, and I’m a work in progress who’s never lived up to anyone’s expectations. Not my parents’, not Wade’s, and certainly not whatever expectations Tristan, Beckett, and Ryder must have for the kind of women they’re actually interested in.

I sigh, then grimace as my head starts to throb a little harder now that I’m actually awake.

I throw an arm over my eyes, blocking out the morning light, and allow myself one more second of self-pity.

I can’t even imagine how awkward the rest of this trip is going to be now that I’ve admitted why I really went to the club that night. But I can’t hide forever, so I throw off the covers and head for the shower, berating myself the whole way for not stopping at just one drink last night.

I’m honestly a little shocked I actually got drunk. I’m not usually like that, even if letting loose the way I did felt like I was following through with my promise to reinvent myself at the time.

Unfortunately, in retrospect, it feels more like a mistake.

“Well, at least I can fix one part of that mistake,” I mumble under my breath when I reach the bathroom.

I fish a small bottle of painkillers out of my toiletries bag and swallow down two of them. It’s been a while since I’ve had a hangover, and the reminder of my overindulgence last night has me worrying about what other effects I might have to deal with.

I’ve never been a big drinker, so I have to admit I sort of glossed over it when my doctor told me I’d need to limit alcohol from now on, given my condition.

I stare at myself hard in the mirror, for once, not cataloging all my visible imperfections, but trying to see a little deeper. To find some evidence of the invisible one.

Lupus.

I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, shaking my head in denial. Pointless, but I can’t help it. It’s overwhelming. I honestly didn’t even know what the disease was before getting my diagnosis, and part of me wants to pretend I still don’t. I know it’s not smart, but I can’t deny that a huge part of me just wants to act like an ostrich and put my head in the sand, ignoring the whole thing.

And I guess, in a way, that’s exactly what I did last night when I ordered those cocktails against my doctor’s orders.

It’s just… it’s not fair .

“As if I need one more imperfection to add to my lifelong list,” I mumble, staring into my own eyes again. Then out of sheer habit, letting my eyes drift down over familiar territory.

Round face.

Rounder body.

I’m working hard on loving myself even if others don’t, but I still can’t erase all the voices in my head that love to remind me that, no matter what I do, I’m never quite pretty enough, or slim enough, or put together enough.

I’m never quite good enough.

And I’ll be damned if I’m going to give anyone more reasons to think so by telling others about this stupid lupus.

Especially after it already drove away the one person I shared the news with.

“Enough,” I tell myself firmly, turning away from the mirror. “I’m glad I don’t have to deal with Wade on top of this diagnosis.”

I flip the shower on, biting my lip as I adjust the water temperature. I have no doubt at all that my family will see lupus as just one more of my personal failings, just like Wade did, if I were to bring it up during this visit. So I won’t. Just like I obviously won’t bring up my interest in exploring kink, or admit that I still love to draw, or share any of the other things I’m learning about myself the more time I spend away from their oppressive, judgmental expectations, either.

I laugh wryly as I step under the spray of water. At this point, I’m keeping so many secrets from my family that there won’t be a lot I can talk with them about over Christmas… so I guess it’s lucky for me that my folks aren’t big on heartfelt conversations.

I hear my phone chime with an incoming text just as I’m stepping out of the shower, and as I go to check it, I take a cleansing breath.

The hangover, thankfully fading now, stole some of my natural optimism this morning, but it’s time to shake that off and remember who I actually want to be. And that’s definitely not a cynical Grinch.

The text is from my brother, and I grin at the screen. I may not be looking forward to this holiday visit, but I am looking forward to seeing him.

CALEB: Hey, sis! I hear the guys decided to drive out with you this year. I’m glad you’ll have the company. Can’t wait to see all four of you!

I smile, my heart already lighter as I type out a reply.

ME: I’m excited to see you too!

ME: Almost as excited as you looked when you scored that winning goal against the Bruins last weekend. I hope you know your victory shimmy is a trending meme now.

He sends back a row of laughing emojis, then a three-second video of him, which he must have just recorded, given the bad case of bedhead he has. He’s shaking his hips the way he did on the ice after that goal, and it makes me laugh out loud for real.

It’s not until I’m dressed and headed out of the hotel room to find the guys that it occurs to me they must have reached out to Caleb last night to tell him they’re on this road trip with me.

Oh shit. I hope like hell that’s all they told him.

I know all four of them are still really close, and I’d die of embarrassment if Caleb knew what I said to the three of them last night. Although I also can’t imagine a world in which they told Caleb and he didn’t lecture me about it instead of sending me a silly video, so maybe I’m safe.

The guys are all waiting for me near the hotel’s buffet-style breakfast offerings, and to my horror, I feel myself blushing all over again at the sight of them.

“Good morning, love,” Ryder says cheerily, as if I didn’t imply last night that I’d happily climb any one of them like a tree if given the chance.

I mumble an awkward reply, not sure what to say to get things back to normal.

The guys don’t help. Beckett is his usual gruff self, Tristan looks completely engrossed in waffles and coffee, and while Ryder has always been able to carry a conversation all on his own when needed, I can’t seem to shake the dread that they’re all secretly looking at me with pity now, knowing how badly I want them.

By the time we finally head out to the SUV, I can’t stand it. I have to say something .

“Thank you guys for coming to rescue me last night,” I blurt, my cheeks warming.

Beckett grunts something unintelligible and takes my suitcase from me, tossing it in the back, and Tristan gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Ryder is right next to me, keys jingling in his hand, and he tips my chin up so I have no choice but to look into his warm brown eyes.

They’ve got little flecks of gold in them, and when he smiles enough for them to crinkle at the corners, it takes him from gorgeous to unfairly attractive.

“We’ll always come rescue you,” he says softly, making it sound so sincere that it banishes some of my awkwardness.

“Thank you,” I say, letting out a little breath as the knots in my stomach unwind a little. Then, before he can react, I snatch the keys out of his hand and slip into the driver’s seat. “I’ll take the first leg of driving.”

Ryder leans in through the still-open driver’s door, shaking his head. “You don’t have to do that, love. We’ve got this.”

“No,” I insist. “I want to pull my weight.”

He almost looks like he’s going to argue again, but then Beckett slips into the passenger seat next to me and growls something under his breath that sounds like little menace , and Ryder laughs and backs off.

I press my lips together to hold off a smile as he slides in next to Tristan in the back and we hit the road. It’s nice to feel like Beckett has my back.

I mean, it’s also nice that Ryder wants to coddle me a little, but while I like the idea of being spoiled by hot men as much as any woman would, feeling competent—and like they know I’m competent, especially after the fool I made of myself last night—feels even better.

GPS guides me as I navigate away from the hotel, and just as I hit the freeway, Tristan chuckles from the back seat.

“Holy shit, Caleb’s a meme now!”

“What?” Ryder asks as Beckett huffs a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror and see Ryder reaching for Tristan’s phone.

We all roast my brother for a bit, and I show them the “live replay” he sent me this morning before the guys in the back both settle down with other distractions on their phones, and Beckett pulls out?—

“Is that yarn?” I blurt, not sure what I’m seeing.

He raises a single eyebrow at me, then produces a pair of knitting needles to go with it. “Yeah.”

That’s all he gives me before turning his attention to the long, fuzzy… scarf, maybe? It looks like it’s about half finished, and his large hands wield the knitting needles dexterously as he gets to work on it.

I press my lips together so hard my cheeks ache, but it does absolutely nothing to stop the charmed grin from spreading across my face. “I didn’t know you knit.”

He makes one of his trademark grunts but doesn’t pause the steady clacking rhythm of his needles. Or answer me.

I mean, I guess technically I didn’t ask a question, but he’s delusional if he thinks I’m going to let go of something as adorably sexy as a big, gruff man knitting a fuzzy red scarf with a white snowflake pattern worked through it.

“Where did you pick that skill up?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“Have you been knitting for long?”

He glances over at me, then back at the scarf-like thing magically growing beneath his huge hands.

“A while.”

“And is the scarf a Christmas gift? Who is it for? It looks so soft.”

“Scarf?” he says, actually pausing for a moment to give me a flat look. “This is gonna be a sweater. You can’t see that?”

He holds it up.

“I, um, oh?” I stutter, looking over again and seeing nothing but a long, thin… scarf. “It’s lovely,” I add quickly, not wanting to offend or discourage him from his hobby.

But honestly, I don’t see how he’s going to take that and make it into anything other than what it already looks like.

It’s already too long, for one thing, and for another ? —

Beckett chuckles, his handsome face breaking out into a grin that’s so sexy it should be illegal.

Realization dawns on me suddenly. “You were teasing me, you jerk.”

I smack his shoulder, which is like smacking a warm brick wall, and he shrugs unrepentantly before getting back to it.

“You’re the one who fell for it. Of course it’s a scarf.”

I reach over before I can help myself and run a hand over it, sighing happily. It really is as soft as it looks.

“Cashmere?”

He snorts. “No way. That shit is too expensive for this.”

I arch an eyebrow, unable to stop myself from fishing a little. “Are you saying she’s not worth it? Or whoever it’s for.”

He slants a look at me without breaking his knitting rhythm. “Of course they’re worth it. I donate them to the pediatric ward of the children’s hospital on Sunset. You know the one?”

I blink. “Oh. That’s kind of amazing.”

He makes another grumbly sound, shrugging off the compliment. “It’s nothing. Just something I do to help me relax and organize my thoughts. Tristan’s Grandma Meg taught me one summer when we all took turns looking out for her while she recovered from a broken hip.”

“I remember that. I didn’t realize you flew back to New Hampshire to help out, though. Weren’t you all out in Los Angeles by then?”

He nods, then shrugs again. “We all flew back.”

He must mean him, Ryder, and Tristan. I was away at school when it happened, and Caleb had already been drafted by the NHL, but I do remember hearing how Tristan had to fly home to care for his grandmother at the time.

I just didn’t realize that Ryder and Beckett went too.

They really are close.

I reach out and pet the scarf he’s making again, my heart fluttering a little at the knowledge that not only does this huge, tattooed man knit, he does it for the sweetest reason.

“This really is nice of you. Even if L.A. winters don’t get as cold as back home, I’m sure the kindness will be very much appreciated.”

“It doesn’t feel cold to you or me, maybe, but those kids feel the chill a little more what with all the crap they’re going through.”

I grin at the slightly defensive note in his voice. Sure, I’ve been crushing on him—on all three of them—for longer than I’d ever care to admit to, but there are layers there that I never knew about, and I’m instantly hungry for more.

We talk a little more about some of the projects he’s knit and the children he’s met through the pediatric hospital. The other two men chime in after a while, and the conversation switches to silly car games and random banter.

As the miles pass by, something inside me slowly relaxes, and I realize that I’m having a really good time.

Maybe, since none of them seem to feel as awkward as I do about last night, I can let it go too and enjoy this trip for what it is. Not the wicked fantasy of my dreams, but at least a chance to satisfy a different kind of yearning for these three men. I want to learn everything I can about them.

And when I see what’s waiting for us just off the next exit, I decide that the new, reinvented me isn’t going to shy away from letting them learn a little bit more about me, either. Even the ridiculous parts.

I flip on the blinker and move over into the right lane.

“Gotta pee, love?” Ryder asks from the backseat.

“No. Did you not see the sign?”

I’m practically bouncing in my seat as they all exchange a look.

Tristan is the one who answers me. “I think we all missed it. Snacks?”

I shake my head, grinning. “Better.”

“Ready to take a break from driving, little menace?” Beckett asks as he packs away his knitting.

“Maybe once we get there,” I say as I take the exit, pointing toward the gloriously tacky billboard guiding us in the right direction.

Beckett scoffs when he sees it, then folds his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Yes!”

“It’s… a dragon,” Tristan says hesitantly, like he’s not sure if he read the sign right. “Made of license plates?”

I smile at him through the rearview mirror. “Uh huh.”

“But why?”

“Why not?” Ryder answers him with a grin before I can speak. “What’s a road trip without roadside attractions?”

“Efficient,” Beckett grumbles.

“Bo-ring,” I correct him in a sing-song voice that makes Ryder snicker.

Tristan stays quiet, but he’s smiling gently, looking a little bemused. I take that as full endorsement from the backseat.

“Come on, Beckett,” I plead, even though I’ve got all the power since I’m at the wheel. “It will be fun, and it’s only a little detour.”

“It’s three point eight miles from the highway.”

“Exactly!”

He huffs again, but by the time we make it to the site where the dragon is located, park, then wander around until we find it, we’re all having fun.

“Aw, look,” I point out, reading a sign planted in the ground in front of it. “The artist named it ‘Dad.’”

“That’s weird,” Tristan says, pushing his glasses up when they slip as he leans down to read over my shoulder.

Ryder squeezes in for a selfie, dragging a still grumbling Beckett in so it’s all four of us. Then, at my insistence, Ryder helps me balance on one of the dragon’s knees so I can reach up and pretend I’m kissing its cheek while Tristan snaps another pic.

On my way back down, I wobble a little as a wave of dizziness overtakes me.

“You okay, love?” Ryder asks, stabilizing me when I tumble against him.

I nod. “I just slipped.”

He looks a little skeptical, but Beckett distracts him before he can push me about it, saying something about getting back on the road.

I don’t argue. I’m still dizzy, and a deep fatigue is starting to work its way through my bones, making the short trek back to the SUV feel daunting.

“Running out of steam?” Tristan asks with a quiet smile, giving me a friendly shoulder bump as we get there.

I reach for one of the rear doors. “Just ready for a break from driving.”

He nods, letting it go as he slips in beside me. This time, Beckett takes the wheel, but I tune out their banter as he steers us back toward the highway and the three of them start to debate the merits of roadside attractions.

Now that I’m seated, the dizziness seems to have settled down, but I’m still tired. Far too tired to blame it on not sleeping well last night.

This is the lupus. Thanks to my doctor, I know all about the effects it might have on me.

That it is having on me.

I look out the side window, blinking away the sting in my eyes as it starts to feel all too real.

Thankfully, before I can get too lost in my head about it, I doze off for a bit. When I wake up, I feel a little more refreshed, and the rest of that day’s drive passes quickly.

I opt for room service once we reach that night’s hotel, still a little emotionally unsteady even though the fatigue has passed, and as soon as I’m done eating, I wash my face and change into my pajamas, then go to bed, hoping my body will cooperate tomorrow and not try to ruin the fun I’ve been having with the guys.

But before I can make it that far, I’m sucked into a dream that has me waking up in the middle of the night with a gasp, my heart racing and the memory of it already fading even though the emotions remain lodged firmly in my chest.

It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare. One where I was following the signs for another roadside attraction, but not in the car. I was wandering down white, sterile corridors that twisted together like a maze. I could hear the guys laughing and having a good time, but could never find them, and every time I thought I’d reached the right room, I’d open it only to find it dark, empty, and barren. Filled only with the echo of my mother’s voice, criticizing the red dress I was wearing, the one I’d chosen for the Christmas party.

I felt inadequate. Like I had no control over the situation and couldn’t reach what I wanted, even though I was following all the signs.

I sit up and flick on the light, swallowing hard. I just need to see that I’m here, in this bland hotel room, not there. Except once I do, it’s still not good enough. It doesn’t slow my racing heart. I still feel just as alone and abandoned as I did in the dream.

So I don’t think; I just act.

I stumble out of bed, then out into the hall, knocking sharply on the door of the room next to mine without giving myself a chance to overthink it. I know the guys have the rooms on either side of me, and I think this one is Tristan’s.

I hope it is, because I need to not be alone. And even if these men don’t want me, I know they won’t let me down. Like Ryder said the other day, they’ll always be there to rescue me. And right now, I need that.

I need to be rescued from myself , and from this disease I don’t even want to admit to having, much less know how I’m going to handle living with for the rest of my life.