Page 82 of Gates of Tartarus

Eyes still drifting over his massive arms and pecs, tightening under his shirt as he shakes off the tension of the day, I don’t answer.

“Reed. Dinner?” His amused voice pulls me out of my stupor.

“Thanks but no thanks, Smith. A) I don’t drink, and B) I’m on vacation time as of 5:00pm, and C) I wouldn't spend my incredibly rare vacation time with any of you. Except Tanaka, obviously. And Jonah. Of course. Walker, I mean Donovan, that... I couldn’t see that happening. But he’s not awful. Outside the office anyways. And you’re not terrible, I guess. You could be worse. You’re confusing as hell. But still. Spending time workingmorewhen I’m already at my limit sounds like glass-in-my-eyeballs-type fun. Soooo. Yeah. I’m just gonna take off now.”

What in the actual hell is happening to me? I mean: what in the actual hell, Kailani? What are you saying? Where is your bad bitch? And why are you babbling like a freaking schoolgirl?

“I’m ‘not terrible’?” he asks, openly laughing at this point. “Thanks, I guess?”

Oh my fat, golden Viking babies. This man’s laughter is dark and deep and pure seduction.

“Right,” I say firmly, trying desperately to take back control from the massive clusterfuck this conversation is fast becoming. “I’m off. See you next week.”

He nods, face still crinkled slightly with laughter, and, as I push past him, he lays one massive hand on my shoulder and squeezes softly.

“Have a good weekend, Reed.”

Nodding, I ignore the lightning bolts coursing through me from his touch and hop on my bike. Revving its engine slightly, I finally settle back into the hardass I know I am at its sweet sound. The bike's vibration runs through me, promising speed and freedom and the beautiful emptiness of silence once I hit the open road. Happiness floods me like a drug, and I grin, exhilarated, up at Smith for a moment before shoving my helmet on. Glancing up at him once more before taking off, I notice the amusement has fallen off his face and he’s standing stock still, staring at me in confusion. Not knowing what happened to cause the change in him but truly not caring, I spin my bike around with a squeal and take off, heading for my own personal version of Nirvana.

I race home, the commute seeming to take twice as long as normal. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for months. Gemm is away at an “inspiration retreat” for her gallery, and Lachy mentioned a couple of months ago that he would be traveling as well. That means I have a very rare weekend completely to myself. Finally, after what feels like forever, I pull into our driveway and leap off my bike. Doing a quick sweep to make sure no one is in the area, I run inside and close the door behind me. The instant I hear it click, I drop all of my shields and slide to the floor under the weight of the cool, sweet silence that rushes in. I push every part of my mind out as far as it will go, stretching it like a cat waking up from a long nap. Eyes closed, head back, cold darkness surrounding me, tears track down my face unbidden, as I relax completely for the first time in a year. Pure, untainted joy pools in me. It’s so hard to explain to anyone, but I’m surrounded day in and day out with other people’s emotions. They push in on my shields constantly, a layer of slick oil on water. It’s so commonplace to me at this point that I barely notice their presence. But they influence me all the time. I can never justfeel. I can never just have joy or sadness or pain, without that oil slick of mixing emotions coating my own. Even when Gemma muffles things, it’s more like noise-canceling headphones than natural silence. The pressure is still there, the noise still exists, it’s just through a thick, hazy layer of fog. I never have a chance to just feel. No oil slick, no fog, just me and emotions that I know are purely my own. It’s like looking at a welding fire without protective glasses, so bright and sharp the joy almost hurts. The feeling is so unfamiliar and unique, and I let myself sit on the floor in the dark for a long, long time before the cold from the floor begins to seep through my jeans.

Standing up, I reach for the light and flick it on. On the counter in front of me are two bottles of wine, an open red and a white nestled in a bowl of ice, two bags of peppermint bark, and a small, wrapped present that has a card attached which reads: “For your secret shame. Have a good weekend!” Laughing, I rip open the present and find a pair of red boy-shorts which say “Naughty” on the ass and a matching crop top which says “Nice” straight across the front. I grin, grab the red and take an enormous gulp, and go to change.

Half an hour and half a bottle of wine later, it looks like Christmas has exploded in our tiny house. I have nine, large, plastic totes of decorations open and spread around me in complete chaos. “Wonderful Christmas” is blasting from the speakers, my “Kai’s Angry Bitch Mix” at full volume. Only Gemma knows that every song on the three-hour playlist is a Christmas classic, everything from Paul McCartney to Bing Crosby. The first year we lived together, I had held off as long as I could before caving and letting Gemma in on my addiction. Christmas is my favorite time of year to an extreme degree. Ihadwarned her before we moved in together that I love the holidays, but even she was shocked by the extent of decorations. There is an enormous Christmas village, multiple trees, wreaths, garlands, elves, cookie jars, figurines... it reallyisa bit much, actually. But I love it. Every single tinseled, sparkling bit of our over-the-top Christmas. Gemma laughs her head off every year. The outside of the cabin is always decorated tastefully in several strings of colored lights, but once you open the door it’s like Christmas hit you in the face with a baseball bat.

Over the next hour, I set up the Christmas village, put out my collection of carved Santas, and work my way through the rest of the red wine.I hadn’t been lying to Smith when I said I didn’t drink. 99% of the time I didn’t touch a drop. Even with Gemma I rarely have more than half a glass because it’s too hard to maintain my shields when I’m tipsy. It’s a real bitch because coffee and alcohol are the two great loves of my life. Well, coffee, alcohol, and cake, I guess. Coffee, alcohol, cake, and ice cream. I have a harem of food as the great loves of my life. And having to keep one of them hidden on the shelf for most of the year sucks. But once a year, when Gemma goes on her retreat, I indulge with all the members of my food harem. For four days nothing is off the table.

Having said that, Iamsurprised at how well I’m handling the wine I’ve already put down. I’m not feeling it at all, despite my normally low tolerance. Grinning dreamily at the empty bottle, I tip it over my mouth, draining the last drops. It really had been delicious. Gemma always goes out of her way to get me something special since I so rarely have the chance to try any.And it was special,I think, tearing up slightly at the idea of Gemma trying to pick something I’d love. I pat the bottle gently, like a small puppy.You were a very good wine, even if you didn’t contain much alcohol. You really were.Picking up the bottle, I give it a little hug, then put it back down.

Wandering around the room, I snag the bottle of white from the ice and take a long, cool sip. I know most people like one or the other, but I want a bit of both. Looking happily around the room, I decide to dig into the bins of lights to start testing strands. I have two giant totes full of lights, one for outside the house and one for inside. Opening them up, I groan under my breath. Usually I put them away neatly, tying each strand with a twist-and-tie to keep them all separate. Last year, though, I had been in a foul mood from a case gone bad when I decided to take down Christmas, and the results are two enormous tangled nests of lights in the bins in front of me.

Right,I think, taking another swig of white.Right. I am a grown-ass woman. How hard can this be? Dumping both groups of lights together, I get to work.

Things go steadily downhill from there. First “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree” comes on the mix, and I decide to drape myself in lights whilst singing as loud as I can, shaking my ass and dancing around our gorgeous tree. Somehow a strand of lights gets tangled in my hair, but it doesn’t matter because the next song is “Please Come Home for Christmas”, and I end up lying down in the pile of lights, staring at the ceiling, singing sadly and crying. I’d plugged in as many strands as I could, thinking it would help me figure out how to untangle them, but got distracted by how pretty they were, so I turned out the lights and just watched them glow. So now here I am, drinking and singing and crying and sitting tangled up in Christmas lights in the middle of a dark room, when a soft knock sounds at the door.

“Gemma?” I call sadly. “Why didn’t the guy come home for Christmas? From the song?”

“Kailani?” rumbles a low voice with concern. I know that voice. Whose voice is that? Oh! It’s Lachy’s, but Lachy is gone. Shit!

“Whoever the hell you think you are who stole Lachy’s voice, you’re not fucking fooling me! He’s not here so his voice isn’t here, so get the hell out before I bop you!”

I am a fucking Amazonian goddess,I think in delight.I am a fierce warrior princess and I’ll fuck some shit up for stealing Lachy’s voice!I try to stand up carefully, but both legs have fallen asleep, and I face-plant, very, very slowly.

“Ah, Kai?” the voice comes again, and it sounds like it’s struggling to hold back laughter. “You definitely are an Amazonian goddess, and thanks for defending me, but I promise it's just me. Can I come in? Are you okay?”

Shiiiiiiit! It’s a freaking mind reader! There’s someone with Lachy’s voice who can read minds outside my door!Panicking, I try to get up. I’m definitely not drunk, so I’m pretty sure I can defend myself, but I’m trapped in lights and my legs aren't working.Oh Jesus god, this is bad. Oooo! “Little Drummer Boy”!

By this time the voice outside is outright laughing, though concern still laces his words when he says, “I swear to you I’m not a mind reader. It’s honestly just me. I’m coming in to check on you, Kai, okay?” And he very carefully opens the door.

Lachy stands in front of me, big and burly and warm and comforting, covered in a light dusting of snow. He surveys the room in surprise. Normally we don’t let him in between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, using any number of excuses to put him off. Lachy never comes over without an explicit invitation, though, so it isn't actually that hard to hide my Christmas obsession from him.

Blinking up at him blearily until my eyes focus on his kind face, a smile bursts from myheart when he comes into clarity, all unguarded sweetness and joy pouring out at the sight of him.

“Lachy!” I sing happily. “It’s almost Christmas!” Then my face falls as I remember my problem. “I’m stuck, Lachy,” I explain sadly, cheek still mooshed against the floor. “The lights trapped me, and my legs won’t work. And,” I say, voice getting more and more distraught with every word, “and the guy didn’t come hoooome for Christmas!” By this point I’m wailing softly, gulping back tears.

Lachy’s face suddenly appears beside mine.Like a freaking magician!And I stare up at his big, teddy-bear eyes, crinkling up at the corners.

“Shhh, Suge. Come on now. It’s okay. He came home for Christmas, I promise. Now, let’s get these lights untangled, hmmm?”

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