Page 13 of Sweet Poison

Christmas time.

Holiday cheer.

Festive shit.

It makes me sick.

Happy people make me fucking sick.

We roll up to one of my hotels in a sleek, black SUV, as the sun sets over the Brazilian coastline. The ocean breeze carries a faint scent of coconut and sea salt, but it’s drowned out by the cacophony of excited voices. Lincoln, my bodyguard, steps out of the SUV and pushes open my door and I step out, squinting against the glare as my hotel staff and guests swarm around me, their eyes wide with recognition and excitement.

“Oh-my-fucking-God. Is that Madden Hunt?” I hear someone whisper in disbelief. “Holy shit.”

“Holy fuck! Hi, Madden!” Another one screams.

“What is he doing here?” A girl that looks about fifteen whispers to her father.

I’m used to this chaos. Being in the public eye has never been an issue for me. Not really.

As I walk by I notice a few of the guests, with their smartphones in the air, snapping photos like crazy.

The fans? I don’t mind. It’s the sleazy and cheap reporters who make it their mission to report fake shit even if it means ruining someone’s reputation and livelihood that bother the fuck out of me. Those I really can’t fucking stand.

With Lincoln at my back, I step further inside the hotel. I can’t help but sneer as I take in the god-awful Christmas decorations that have been plastered over every available surface in the lobby. My eyes narrow at the sight before me.

I knew it was going to be bad but I didn’t think it would be this fucking bad.

Brightly colored Christmas lights strung haphazardly from the ceiling flickered against the palm fronds, casting a colorful glow over everything. A gigantic inflatable Santa—decked outin swim trunks and sunglasses—looms near the entrance, a surfboard tucked under one arm.

“It can’t get any more Christmassy than sunburned surfer Santa, right boss?” Lincoln laughs from behind me.

Ignoring his sarcastic observation, I carry on taking in the lobby. The sight of tinsel and oversized candy canes clashing with the tropical backdrop is as jarring as it is obnoxious.

What the fuck was I thinking?

The scent of coconut and sunscreen wafts through the air, mingling with the faint echo of holiday music, an off-key rendition of “Jingle Bells” set to a tropical beat.

“Mr. Hunt, welcome!” The hotel’s manager, whose face is as bright and glossy as the decorations, rushes up to me, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “We’ve been expecting you!”

I nod curtly, barely glancing in his direction.

The manager, Javier, continues to prattle on, oblivious to my sour mood. “We’ve got the penthouse suite ready for you, of course. And we’ve arranged a private dinner at your convenience. Anything you need?—”

“Just get me to my room,” I interrupt, my tone sharp. Javier’s smile falters for a split second before he recovers, leading the way. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as we move through the lobby, their eyes still glued to me as they whisper amongst themselves.

As we walk, I catch more glimpses of holiday-themed garlands and oversized inflatable reindeer decorating the open-air lounge. The whole scene is an assault on my senses. I grunt and shove my hands into my pockets, trying to ignore the overly cheery atmosphere that seems determined to get under my skin.

I hear murmurs and see fingers pointing. A group of teens nearby gapes, their phones pointed directly at me.

I’m surprised none of them have asked for an autograph or a selfie.

I spoke too soon.

As we make our way to the elevator, a little boy comes barreling toward me, his tiny feet barely keeping up with his eager spirit. The brat, no more than five, skids to a stop right in front of me, eyes wide in amazement.

“Excuse me, sir. Can I have your squiggly letters?” the boy exclaims, breathless, his curly brown hair bouncing with each animated word.

Squiggly letters?

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