Silent Night (Twisted Holidays)

2. Hayley

TWO

HAYLEY

Arriving to 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 mean she’d be here. Instead, only minutes before my flight took off, she left a voice mail that I only received after deboarding 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 that dared me 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 screams decoration only because 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 with him . 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 make me his 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.

Bentley turns and grabs another glass from the cabinet before pouring a large amount of liquor into it and sliding it across the island toward me. I take it, accepting his peace offering, but drink nothing more than a tiny sip, preferring to remain sober around him.

“So, what happened? How’d our parents fuck you over?”

“Mom convinced me to come this year. When I got off the plane, I got her voice mail saying she and your father are skipping the holidays to go down south ‘til the twenty-eighth. What’s your story?”

He scoffs and refills his own glass before taking another shot, and I wonder how many of those he’s already had. “Sounds like your mom. No offense, but she’s a piece of work.”

“None taken.”

“Dad basically played the same bullshit game with me. After denying him a dozen times, I finally agreed, and look...” His hands spread dramatically to the side. “I’m fuckin’ here, aren’t I? Arrived a couple hours ago to an empty house. Messaged him, and he said he and your mother took off for a last-minute vacation. At least your mother had the decency to give you a bit of a head’s up. I had to chase my father for answers.”

Dislike of Bentley aside, there’s relief in knowing we both got screwed over.

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “Well, I’m stuck here ‘til the twenty-seventh because it was the first flight I could get on, and they’ll be back the day after. By then, you’ll have to return to work.” I’m assuming that his job in finance is demanding because Mom claims he’s always too busy to come for dinner. “So you may as well head out now.” The plea in my tone must be unmissable. He lives about an hour away, so he can get home by bedtime.

Bentley grins around his glass. “See, when I showed up, that was the plan. I was going to drink myself stupid on Dad’s expensive shit, pass out ‘til morning, and then drive home tomorrow. But now...” His eyes rake me, settling on the low dip of my top. “I might stick around for a few days. Gotta protect baby sis and all that.”

Fuck. “Please.” Ideally my scoff hides the shakiness in my tone. “We’re basically the same age.”

“Still older,” he argues.

“I’m also not a child in need of protection, so I’ll be fine. Go home.” Please go home. Right now. Drive off. Leave me.

His eyes rake over me again, his salacious smirk making me want to curl up and die. “Nah, Christmas is looking up for the first time in years.” He drops his glass to the counter with a thud I feel through my entire form. “It’s cold out there, so we’ll remain warm and cozy in here. I’d be a dick to leave you alone on the holidays like our parents did.”

No, it’d be your greatest gift. “It’s fine,” I urge as a last stab. “I’ll be fine.”

He comes around the counter and I manage a tiny step back. Small enough, hopefully he doesn’t notice, but based on the way his gaze flicks to my feet and back, he did. He takes a larger step this time, his grin telling me he doesn’t care about my attempted escape.

“Bentley, I’m tired and not in the mood.”

He stops with only inches between us, looking down at me, the same way I picture he does his clients. “Who said you had to be in the mood?”

Why did that sound like a greater threat?

“Bentley,” I say in a firm warning tone.

His malicious stare breaks and he bops me on the nose as he continues by me. “Relax, lil’ sis. I’m just fuckin’ with you. Hungry? I’ll order us something.”

“Pizza’s fine,” I reply to his retreating back. Until he stops playing nice, or whatever his version of that is, I’ll be cordial at the very least. Enough to get past Christmas and get the hell out of here.

Bentley makes a sign with his hand to show me he’s heard me. Once he’s gone for a few minutes, I abandon the kitchen with a sigh to lug my bag upstairs. On my way to the foyer, I pass him seated in the luxurious living room on one of the couches that no one actually sits in, the massive tree in front of the even larger window, talking on the phone. This house is like something on TV, and yet, everything Mom for some reason chases.

Skipping by before he has a chance to say anything, I drag my heavy suitcase up the carpeted steps and to the room Dean assigned me last year. With a regretful stare at the door across from mine, I realize I’ll have to spend the night directly across from Bentley.

I shiver. Hopefully for everything he says, he actually is fucking with me. That his implied threats are simply that: threats, and he’ll stay on his side of the hallway.

I open the door to my room, praying to see a lock on the inside, but there’s unfortunately none. I drop my suitcase in the centre of the decently sized room, only equipped with minimal furniture, exactly as a guest room would be. A queen-sized bed covered in a red comforter is in the centre, a nightstand on either side. Across is a dresser I suspect to be empty, with a flatscreen TV on top. It’s like a hotel room, which is essentially what this place feels like.

I crouch down to unzip my suitcase, pulling out the first lounge clothing I find, ones that’ll cover me even more than what I’m presently wearing. I stand, pulling my shirt, gross from travelling, off and toss it to the floor when the slow clapping makes its way to me.

Shit, I forgot to close the door.

I spin, clutching my new shirt to my chest, finding Bentley leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, one foot over the other. He winks when I face him before pushing off the frame and entering my room, bearing down on me like the predator I suspect him to be.

“I came up to let you know pizza will be here in about twenty minutes, and certainly wasn’t expecting this.” He doesn’t hide the fact that his eyes graze every inch of me that is bare, and I try my best to spread my shirt to cover more of my skin, all without lifting my arms .

“Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Busy,” he repeats with a smirk. He finishes his agonizing study by glancing toward my suitcase. “ Please tell me these are your gifts to me.” He bends, retrieving a pair of red, silk panties from my bag, and dangles them in front of my face.

My face probably goes as red as the underwear for how warm it suddenly gets, partly from embarrassment but mostly from rage. I reach for them, but he’s quick to snap his arm up, avoiding my hand. It forces me to stretch, but I quickly back down after weighing the pros and cons of getting them back. Get them back and probably show him more of my chest in the process versus letting him win and being able to stay covered.

He brings them back down slowly, holding them slightly off to the side so he can quickly lift them away again if I go for them. “These. I want these for my present.”

“Keep them,” I grit my teeth. Anything to get him to leave.

“Nah, you’re missing an important element.” He bends slightly, lining his face up with mine so I’m forced to see the malice glinting playfully in his eyes. “I want these on you. I want to remove them myself.”

“Ugh.” I snap my hand toward the silk again, but this time, he lets me have it, laughing. I shove away from him, keeping the panties, which now feel violated, close to me. “You’re disgusting, Bentley.”

He shrugs. “What? We’re not actually related.”

“Bentley—”

“God, you’re so fun to fuck with. Easy too.” He rolls his eyes, spinning on his heel as he heads back for the door. “Anyway, pizza will be here soon, so dress. Or don’t. I don’t mind either way.”

He shuts the door before I find something to throw at him.