Page 3 of The Twelve Days of Christian
Therearereasons to like Christian. The first is, of course, he’s cliché rock star material—dangerously good-looking.
Second, he’s my brother’s bandmate and friend. In looks and personality, Christian and Ollie are like two sides of the same coin, dark and light, shadow and sunlight. Their music shows the same contrast; my brother writes the swoony lyrics and more upbeat melodies; Christian provides the counterpoint with his angsty words and melancholy chords interspersed with aggressive guitar riffs. What they print in the press tells a similar tale—implying if life were a movie, Ollie would be the romantic lead, all-round nice guy and hero of the hour; and Christian would be his evil twin.
But I know Ollie. While people inevitably gravitate to him, and he’s always friendly in return, he only lets a few into his inner circle, and of those, he considers only a couple true friends; Christian is one of them. Ollie is a good judge of character, so despite Christian’s thundercloud demeanour, his reputation for breaking hearts and guitars, and some ugly rumours that have swirled around him, there has to be something good underneath.
It looks like I’m about to find out now his brooding presence has invaded my house. He drapes his large, beautiful body across my couch. Tully and Mularkey, the traitors, lick at his face like he’s some delicious new toy.
What the hell is he doing here? I’m bewildered, because he shouldn’t be. The main reason I was prepared to give Christian Steele the benefit of the doubt that he really is a likeable andgood-hearted person was him popping up on my TV screen two nights ago in the opening episode ofWild For The Win. It’s one of those reality TV shows, where celebrities try to outplay each other. The winner claims a hundred thousand pounds for their nominated charity. Christian’s choice of charity is the Canine Haven Dog Rescue Trust, my employer, and a worthy organisation, which just so happens to need money desperately right now.
I was so impressed when he revealed it with a cocky ‘I’m going to win this thing’ grin. I’m not so impressed now, because, right this moment, he should be in Scotland filming.
“Christian.”
I try to keep my voice neutral, despite the crushing realisation if he’s here in my living room, then the chances of the shelter dogs receiving this much-needed cash are now toast—along with my job. My last little Christmas candle-flame of hope sputters and dies. Snuffed out by something he’s done. This man who’s ignoring me.
“Christian,” I bark out. The need to know why he’s torn away the last shreds of possibility of a merry Christmas and a happy New Year for all of us overcomes my normal timidity. He whips his head towards me, but makes no attempt to fend off the probing dog tongues.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Chapter 2
Day One
This is the thingI love about dogs: they don’t give a shit. They don’t care if you’re the rock star getting paid the big bucks or the guy driving a delivery van around Dagenham for minimum wage.
The fact I stink from layers of grime and sweat is of no concern to them. I may as well have just leapt out of the shower, newly-washed and bearing a splash of the expensive aftershave I’m a brand ambassador for (apparently dark and brooding is considered edgy). They sniff at my bare wrists so hard they practically bruise me. Their long tongues taste me like I’m Christmas candy.
The dogs don’t give my tattooed hands a second glance any more than they notice the small neat ones planted firmly on Haley Templeton’s hips as she glares at me—well, as much as Haley can give adeath stare, although she’s doing well enough. It unnerves me to see that expression on the face of an angel.
After the fucking nightmare of the last two days of my life, I need the blind adoration and total lack of judgment these two crazy old dogs offer me in a generous yelping, licking, nose-nudging whirl of unconditional canine love. Buried beneath them, I’m safe to ignore the question she’s thrown at me.
What am I doing here? It’s a long story and not one I’m free to tell. Not unless I want my arse sued for an amount of money sufficient to make a dent in even my obscenely healthy bank balance, and I can’t afford that to happen, not with my responsibilities.
“Tully. Mularkey.”
Her voice is firm, and the dogs respond automatically. Weird names, but kind of cool. In an instant, they are sitting, bums planted on the floor, one on either side of her, eyes bright, tongues still lolling, but completely in her thrall. I can relate to that. I’ve only met up with Haley a few times in the last year, but I still know how easy it is to submit to her charms. I’m already falling, falling, drowning in the quiet magic she weaves simply by her presence.
Back when I first met Ollie Templeton three years ago, the pair of us battling it out with thirty others trying to make it to the final ofStar Power, I noticed his sister straight away. With a curtain of mahogany hair, surprising gold-flecked green eyes framed with determined dark brows and luscious full lips begging to be kissed—especially when she worries at them with her teeth, like she’s doing this minute, undecided about her next move—she’s always going to stand out.
Tiny but perfectly formed, her doll-like figure draws my eyes. I jerk them back towards her face.Keep it together Christian. Don’tpiss her off any more than you’ve already done. Obvious perving will definitely do that.
Faced with her mouth, even turned downwards in disapproval, I barely suppress the urge to leap to my feet, close the gap between us and kiss her senseless.
It’s nothing new.
Haley would have been about twenty-two back when we first met, I think, but looked younger; like some sweet kid fresh out of high school, not yet tarnished by the woes of the world, all bright and shiny and hopeful. Hopeful for Ollie, and then as she saw his friendship with me grow, even a little hopeful for me, too. Her shy wishes of good luck before I went on stage, and slightly less restrained congratulations when the results kept me in for another week alongside her brother, became an addiction.
She even hugged me once or twice. I clearly remember the first time, although I tried not to make too much of it. It was a natural thing for our combined supporters to grab at Ollie and me in congratulations as we came offstage, after they’d announced who was going forward. I liked it. More than I should have. The memory of Haley’s velvety cheek against the bare v of my chest, and her perky breasts crushed against me, lingers now.
Back then, I couldn’t get her off my mind, try as I might. In frustration, I did what I always did and poured all my feelings into my music. You see, Haley Templeton is the sort of girl who inspires songs; for me anyway.
Ollie doesn’t know it, but ‘Untouchable’—the first song I wrote after the contest was over, the first thing I played trying to convince the other two guys in our fledgling band I had more to contributethan fancy guitar riffs—that song was about his sister. Although I could never tell him.
I was drawn to Haley like forbidden fruit, and I’m certain she’d taste sweet. But she’s still untouchable, unless I’m prepared to risk losing my only real friend in this fucked up world of fake smiles and false banter that cover up the true intentions of everyone who wants to ride on your coattails when you’re famous.
It’s soothing to travel in my mind back to before all that crap. Back to when I first laid eyes on her oozing honey sweetness and quiet decency, qualities I’ve rarely glimpsed in the endless parade of women who have thrown themselves at me since.
Like mine, Ollie’s family was there every day, waiting in the hotel lobby before we’d leave for the venue, nabbed for quick on-camera interviews like deer caught in the headlights. Later they’d follow us to the studio, sometimes allowed through to the side of the stage, and occasionally summoned forth on national television. The families are a welcome support in the pressure cooker environment of a talent show, but mostly encouraged to be there because they make good TV.
