Page 3 of Merry Little Christmas
I chose the former.
I wrenched out of Jesse’s grip, liquor burning my throat. “Bastard,” I muttered, wiping my mouth off.But Peyton was giggling, so I didn’t punish my best friend too severely—I only dared him to chug from the bottle.
He wasn’tmyresponsibility if he puked it all up.
As it turned out, that night was just what I needed. The drinks kept coming and with each pour, my head got lighter. A couple of hours in, we crowded around an open box of pizza on the table after I’d insisted that Peyton eat something. Even through my buzz, I could tell that something was wrong. They hadn’t taken a bite. If at all possible, they’d gotten even paler as the night wore on. They picked at their food, alternating between rubbing their belly and massaging their temples.
That was when I slowed my alcohol consumption. If Jesse was going to get blackout wasted, then Peyton needed someone to be coherent. Besides, knowing they were sick had the Daddy in me itching to break free.
The older we got, Jesse and I realized we had more in common than we thought. We were both Daddies and once I came to that realization, I could see that Peyton had “Little” written all over them. Jesse seemed not to know—not that I expected him to. I, however, had kept a close eye on them ever since.
They still hadn’t touched the rum and coke from earlier. They forced small bites of cheese down their throat, grimacing with each swallow.
Yeah, someone’s got a tummy ache. I rose from my seat, swiping their drink away and replacing the boozy beverage with some ginger ale that I kept in the fridge for this exact purpose.
Jesse was busy having a one-man dance party in the living room, so I knelt next to Peyton. “You don’t feel well, do you, sweetheart?”
They shook their head, and I swore I saw their lip tremble. “But I’ll be okay. It’s your birthday; I don’t want to ruin it.”
“I’d much rather you not throw up all over my kitchen table,” I joked. “Why don’t you go lie down?”
Peyton hesitated, which was as good as an agreement, but I waited for their response anyway. “You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
Peyton whispered a “thank you,” and took their ginger ale to bed. Jesse was so drunk that he barely registered their absence. I poured the rest of my whiskey away, trading it for a bottle of water and throwing myself onto the couch.
“You’re not even commenting on my singing!” Jesse slurred, falling into the cushions with his head on my lap.
“It’s like Lance Bass is in my living room!”
“Damn straight!”
I snickered. “Dude, there is nothing straight about any of this—including Lance.”
My best friend peered up at me with drunk, glossy brown eyes and booze-flushed cheeks. Those eyes clearly ran in the family, but Peyton’s held a certain tenderness that Jesse’s didn’t.
And his weren’t the ones I saw in my fantasies, as much as he might like them to be.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked.
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. I ruffled his hair. “Yeah, I’m having a good time.”
Disappointed, he glared at my choice of beverage. “You’ve hardly had anything to drink.”
“Becauseyou’vehad enough for the three of us.”
It was only then that he realized we were down a person. “Where is Peyton?”
“Hopefully asleep.” Jesse’s eyes slid shut, and he swallowed hard, as if he were fighting off nausea. “Maybe you should consider doing the same.”
“Pfft, amateurs.”
But he was well on his way to sleep. Gently, I wriggled my way from beneath him and tucked a pillow under his head. After making sure he had his own water and a trash can for good measure, I cleaned up the kitchen andturned off the TV.
There were three bedrooms down the hallway: mine, the guest room, and another that stayed locked most of the time.
I wasn’t ready to talk about that one.
