Filthy Rich Santas

36. Lana

36

LANA

The insistent buzz of my phone drags me from the depths of sleep. By the time I’m fully conscious, the ringing has stopped, leaving me in disorienting silence. I blink, taking in the unfamiliar hotel room as memories of the night before, at Eclipse, flood back, making me smile.

At least, until I realize I’m all alone in the bed.

I sit up, running my hands over the sheets. They’re cool, not a trace of body heat left on either side of me, so the guys have been up for a while.

A pang of disappointment hits me, and I silently curse myself—well, the lupus, at least—for robbing me of one last morning sandwiched between warm, muscular bodies. I’m tired of being so much more fatigued than normal.

But even worse is the thought that this is my new normal.

I sigh, then shake it off. It’s our last day on the road, and I want to savor every moment, so I might as well not waste any more time wallowing in my thoughts. Besides, I am grateful that they let me sleep. It’s just one more way they’ve gone out of their way to take care of me.

But we’re close to my hometown now. We’ll get in today for sure, since there’s no convenient bad weather to hold us up at this point, so I’ll have to tuck those feelings away like a treasured gift now. Whatever this is between us, and I don’t just mean the amazing sexual side of it, it’s about to be over.

Before I can wallow too deeply in that bittersweet thought, my phone starts buzzing again. Mom’s name flashes on the screen, and I brace myself before answering.

“Lana! Finally,” Mom says without any greeting. “Where are you? I can’t believe you’re still dilly dallying when you could have avoided all of this by booking a flight.”

I grit my teeth, but don’t say anything. She’s never going to care about how much I hate the idea of ever getting on a plane again, and that makes it feel a lot like she just doesn’t care about me .

It’s something I haven’t let myself think about quite so frankly before, but after spending all this time with three men who go out of their way to care for me, it’s a lot harder to pretend that’s not how it is.

“You were supposed to be here days ago!” Mom goes on, her voice shrill with stress, making me wince. “Are you ever going to make it?”

“Good morning to you too, Mom,” I say, trying to keep my tone light to keep the peace. “And yes, we’re close. We’ll be getting in today, I promise.”

She huffs, clearly not appeased. “It’s practically Christmas Eve already! There’s so much to do, and you’re gallivanting across the country.”

I bite back a sigh. I wish she was bringing up Christmas Eve because it was important to her to spend the holiday together as a family, and while that is important to her, it’s for appearances sake. God forbid I miss the party she sets so much store in throwing every year.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “We got delayed by weather, but we’re making good time now.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better late than never,” she says with a huff. Then her tone takes on that particular lilt that always makes my stomach clench. “Though it’s a shame you missed your sister’s party last night.”

And there it is.

“Vivian and Kyle really do host the most delightful gatherings,” she gushes. “The Morgans were there, and the Turners as well! Even that charming news anchor from channel five!” The wistfulness in her voice is palpable. “It was such a lovely opportunity to connect with influential people in town. Your father and I had a wonderful time.”

The unspoken comparison hangs heavy in the air. Vivian is their perfect daughter, hosting picture-perfect parties, rubbing shoulders with the kind of people my parents think matter thanks to marrying the son of the mayor, and fitting into the mold of everything that matters to them—a mold that’s always fit me poorly, like a too-tight pair of uncomfortable jeans that pinch at the waist.

Actually, no. More like a mold that just doesn’t fit me.

“Her party does sound nice,” I manage, hating how inauthentic I feel when I automatically slip back into my lifelong habit of trying appease her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“You could have enjoyed it too,” Mom says with a snap to her voice. “Or at least considered how much trouble your sister went through to organize the party when you made your travel plans.”

I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that, knowing Vivian, I’m sure she hired a party planner and caterers and couldn’t have cared less whether I attended or not.

Mom doesn’t notice my silence as she launches into more details about the party, each word feeling like another tiny needle pricking my self-esteem.

I make small noises of interest until she finally winds down. She finally ends the call when I manage to interject something about needing to get ready so we can get back on the road. As soon as we hang up, I sigh.

I toss my phone aside and flop back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The warm cocoon of contentment I woke up in has evaporated, replaced by an all-too-familiar weight of inadequacy. It’s not just the end of my arrangement with Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett that’s weighing on me now. Mom’s call was a reminder that returning home also means returning to all the expectations that come with it.

The bedroom door bursts open, startling me out of my thoughts.

“What?” I gasp, scrambling upright.

Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett all file in, each wearing a bright red Santa hat. The sight is so unexpected and ridiculous that I burst into laughter, the tension in my shoulders evaporating.

“Where on earth did you get those?” I ask, shaking my head in amusement.

Ryder grins, adjusting his hat with a flourish. “We have our ways.”

“What he means is, we have connections,” Beckett deadpans, making Tristan snort.

I grin. “Well, so far, I like what these ‘connections’ are hooking you up with.”

“We noticed that yesterday.” Tristan’s eyes gleam behind his glasses.

I blush but can’t help smiling. “I enjoyed it.”

His eyes soften. “I’m glad.”

Ryder chuckles. “Is ‘enjoying it’ what we’re calling all that sexy whining and begging you were doing on the road yesterday?”

He means when they were edging me to death, while I was wearing the butt plug. Which means…

“Wait. Did you buy those hats at a sex shop?” I burst out, half scandalized and half amused.

He waggles his brows. “A gentleman never reveals his secrets.”

“Good thing none of us are gentlemen,” Beckett mutters under his breath, his eyes heated as they roam over me.

I bite my lip. I couldn’t agree more.

But that doesn’t mean we have time to linger in bed this morning. Especially not with the three of them insisting I eat a proper breakfast and stay well-hydrated before we leave.

As much as I love the sex we’ve been having, I don’t even mind. The care they’re taking with me warms my heart in ways I wasn’t prepared for, and by the time we hit the road, they’re not the only ones in good spirits.

Once we’re on the highway, a festive energy takes over the car. We sing along—badly—to Christmas carols, swap embarrassing stories, and play ridiculous road trip games. Unlike the sexy edging from yesterday, it’s innocent fun.

But it’s also everything I could have hoped for on this last leg of our journey. I’ve gotten so much closer to all of them on this trip, and even if we can’t continue the carnal side of our relationship, it feels like a reminder that this, at least, is something that doesn’t have to go away.

Although the high-spirited banter is more than just a reminder. It’s something they’re doing on purpose, and I know it.

None of us want to dwell on the fact that in a few short hours, this magical bubble we’ve been living in will pop. I had enough wallowing in disappointment this morning, though. Right now, I want to soak up every last second of laughter, every casual touch, every inside joke before we have to part ways.

So much has changed in such a short period of time. These men used to be Caleb’s friends, people I knew in passing. Sure, I had huge crushes on them for years, but never with any hope of anything coming of it.

But now I know the taste of Ryder’s skin, the sound Tristan makes when he comes, the feeling of Beckett’s arms around me. I know their hopes and fears, their quirks and passions, and they know so many of mine.

I’ve got no doubt that they’ll stay in touch, but they’ll also be moving out of L.A. soon. They’ll be busy with their new club. They’ll think of me fondly—or at least, I hope they will—but it won’t be the same.

And I’m going to miss them so fucking much.

The realization crashes over me as we turn off the highway onto a quiet stretch of road. My parents’ house is maybe thirty minutes away now, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

“Ryder,” I say, my voice choked as I interrupt a funny story he’s telling. “Stop the car.”

He glances at me in the rearview mirror, concern etching his features. “You okay, love?”

“Please,” I whisper. “Just… stop the car.”

Without another word, he pulls over onto the shoulder. The second we’re stopped, I’m fumbling with my seat belt. I stumble out of the car, gulping in deep breaths of the crisp winter air.

“Lana?” Tristan’s voice is gentle as he approaches. “What’s wrong?”

I turn to face them, all three now out of the car and watching me with worried expressions. My heart clenches.

“I’m okay,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “Physically, I mean. This isn’t about my lupus. I just… I needed a moment.”

They exchange glances, clearly unconvinced, but give me space. I take a deep breath, gathering my courage for what I need to say.

“This trip,” I begin, my voice shaky. “It’s meant so much to me. More than I can possibly express. I know the three of you agreed to help me explore kink, but I feel like it turned into so much more than that. I feel like I’ve found a part of myself I didn’t even know was missing.”

Dragging in a deep breath, I look at each of them in turn.

“I just needed to thank you for that before we end this. To thank you for seeing me, for pushing me, for… everything. It’s honestly been one of the best Christmases of my life, and it’s not even Christmas yet.” I laugh a little self-consciously, biting my lip before I whisper, “I’ll never forget it.”

For a moment, nobody moves.

Then Ryder steps forward, cupping my face in his hands. His lips crash into mine, stealing my breath in a searing kiss.

When we part, his eyes are blazing. “You, Lana, are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise. These past days with you have been… fuck, they’ve been incredible.”

Before I can respond, Tristan is there, pulling me into his arms. His kiss is softer but no less intense, and when he pulls back and lifts my hand, deliberately pressing my palm against the scarred side of his face as he holds my gaze, my heart melts.

“It’s meant a lot to me too,” he says quietly, echoing my own words back. “Thank you, freckles.”

My eyes sting at the nickname he’s given me during this trip. Not just because it’s a sign of how much closer we’ve gotten, but because of what it says about how he sees me.

Something I grew up hiding, thinking was a flaw, being told was a flaw, he finds beautiful.

I give him a soft smile, overwhelmed by emotion. And then Beckett is there, his strong arms enveloping me. His kiss is fierce, almost desperate.

“If this trip changed you,” he rumbles against my lips, “it changed us too. It changed me . Don’t ever doubt that.”

We stand there for a long moment, his forehead resting against mine, sharing breaths. Part of me wants to beg them to keep going, to never stop. To ask if maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to make this work beyond our little bubble.

But the words stick in my throat.

What they each just said was so beautiful that I’ll never forget it—but I’m also intensely aware of what they didn’t say.

That they want more.

That they’ll miss this the way I already do, with an ache deep in my chest and a choking tightness in my throat.

That they don’t want it to end.

So, with a shaky breath and an even shakier smile, I finally step back. “Thank you for stopping. We should probably get going, though.”

I tell myself it’s a good thing none of them said any of those words, because even if they did want it, it’s still not really possible. Not for the four of us together. Who does that? Not with them moving away from L.A. soon. Not with…

Well, not with a lot of things. But listing out all the roadblocks to what I’ll never have anyway isn’t helping me let them go, so I stop and just focus as much as I can on enjoying these last few moments with them.

Half an hour later, we pull up to my parents’ house.

My stomach twists with a mix of emotions, and before I can decide if there are any last, private words I want to say to them while I still have a chance, the front door swings open, Caleb leading the way with a huge grin and my parents following him.

“Hey, you finally made it!” my brother exclaims as he reaches us, clapping Beckett on the back before moving to hug Tristan and Ryder in turn.

He turns to me last, ruffling my hair like he did when I was a kid before turning me in for a brief, tight hug. “Good to see you, sis.”

I barely have time to respond before he’s releasing me and turning back to the guys. “How was the drive?”

Reality comes crashing back with a vengeance as I watch them interact. These aren’t just the men I’ve spent the last week falling for. They’re Caleb’s best friends. Whatever fantasy my heart might be holding on to about somehow making something work with them is blown to pieces by the reminder of just how complicated it would all be.

No matter how much I want Tristan, Ryder, and Beckett, I’d hate to drive a wedge between them and my brother.

“Lana,” my father says gruffly, giving me a short nod which passes for a greeting. “Let’s get your bags out of the boys’ car so you don’t hold them up. Which ones are yours?”

I point them out, then my mother pulls me away, looking me up and down with a critical eye.

“We’re glad you finally made it, dear, but please tell me you’ve only let yourself go because of being on the road, and this isn’t some new trend from being out in California.”

“What?”

“You’re not wearing any makeup,” she says, reaching out to brush my cheek with a tut. “Your freckles are showing.”

I flinch internally, feeling about two inches tall. But before I can muster a response, Tristan speaks up.

“If you ask me,” he says, his voice firm, “those freckles are one of her best features. They bring out the sparkle in her eyes.”

My mother blinks, clearly taken aback by being contradicted.

I don’t think anyone else even heard, but the warmth blooming in my chest as we’re all ushered inside does a lot to heal over the sting of my mother’s constant criticism.

“Will you be staying to catch up with Caleb?” she asks the guys as we all enter the front room.

Before they can respond, my father speaks up. “We’ve only got one of the guest rooms free, Kate,” he says to Mom with a frown. “I’m sure these boys don’t want to all cram in there together.”

Caleb snorts. “They don’t give a shit about that.”

“Language, Caleb,” Mom says with no real bite to it.

He rolls his eyes, and Ryder smirks.

“We’ve got no problem sharing if you don’t mind having us, Mrs. Reeves.”

Even though he doesn’t look my way, the memory of just how very much they did not mind sharing—either a single bed, or me—has my cheeks heating.

“You’re always welcome here,” Mom says to him. “Of course we’d love to have you.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Tristan steps in smoothly. “We’d be happy to stay tonight. Thank you.”

Caleb heads back outside with them to grab some of their luggage and my father disappears deeper into the house. Before Mom can start in on me again about who knows what, my sister Vivian sweeps in, her perfect hair and immaculate outfit making me feel even more disheveled.

My nephew Oliver trails behind her, and I can’t believe how much he’s grown since I last saw him in person. With his blond hair, gap-toothed smile, and bright hazel eyes, he’s adorable.

“There you are!” Vivian exclaims when she sees me, air-kissing my cheek. “We were starting to wonder if you’d make it at all.”

I force a smile. She really is our mother’s daughter. “It’s good to see you, Vivian.”

The men come back inside, and Caleb immediately drops the bag he’s carrying and scoops up Oliver, dangling him upside down as he laughs and squirms.

Then Oliver catches sight of the other three men, and his eyes widen a bit as Caleb sets him down. It’s been a while since he’s seen them, and since he’s only five, he probably doesn’t remember them all that well.

He looks between all three of them, his attention lingering on Beckett, who towers over everyone else in the room.

“Whoa,” Oliver breathes. “You have so many pictures on you.”

Beckett blinks, clearly caught off guard by the boy’s fascination. He looks down at himself. “Uh, my tattoos?”

Vivian’s mouth purses in disapproval, and I fight not to roll my eyes at her judgmental attitude.

Oliver scrambles down from Caleb’s arms and cautiously approaches Beckett. “Can I see?”

“Oliver,” Vivian says sharply.

“Chill, sis,” Caleb laughs, rolling his eyes. “Beckett doesn’t bite.”

Technically, he does, a thought that has my face heating all over again. But those dirty thoughts are washed away by fond amusement as I watch Beckett shift awkwardly, clearly unsure how to handle this interest from a five-year-old. He clears his throat, then crouches down to Oliver’s level.

“Sure, buddy. Uh, take a look.”

Oliver steps closer, poking at the intricate designs on Beckett’s hands and arms, and chattering at him in a stream of consciousness about other “pictures” he thinks would look good on Beckett.

“I could help color them in for you if you want,” I hear him offer, blinking big hazel eyes up at Beckett. “You just got the outlines here.”

“Uh,” Beckett starts, glancing back down at the black linework like he has no idea what to say.

Luckily for him, Oliver moves right along, rambling about a million other things that tug at my heart to hear, just because they’re so sweetly innocent.

Beckett is so clearly a bit out of his depth, but he’s so patient with my nephew. It’s a side of the burly, gruff man that I never expected to see, and I can’t seem to draw my gaze away from the two of them.

After a moment, my mother’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Lana, dear, come help in the kitchen. We’ve got cookies to finish for tomorrow’s party.”

It’s not a request—it’s an order. But as she bustles me off toward the kitchen, I glance back at the guys with a twinge of longing. They’re being led in the opposite direction by Caleb, Oliver tagging along and still chattering, and they don’t look back.

Probably for the best. They’re not mine, and what we had is over. I just need to accept that.