Wreck the Halls(62)
A Christmas tree decorated with big, vintage bulbs sat in one corner. Beyond that, there were only two lamps providing light to the downstairs space and their shades had been draped with colorful scarves, casting the room in a festive red and green glow. The pungent scent of marijuana hung in the atmosphere, but the house was so big and airy that it wasn’t cloying. Beat was relieved to find that, in keeping with the bizarre throwback hippie compound vibe, everyone seemed relaxed and welcoming. Not quite relieved enough to let Melody out of his sight, though. Not after how quickly things had shifted that afternoon.
Melody tapped his elbow and pointed across the living room to where Trina stood on an old trunk, a bottle of Southern Comfort in one hand, a lit joint in the other, dancing to Wilson Phillips. The four of them took a collective step in Trina’s direction when a man in ripped white jeans jumped up onto the trunk beside Melody’s mother, grabbed the back of her neck, and planted a kiss on her mouth.
Melody skidded to a halt, blinking several times. “That’s one way to meet my new dad.”
Trina noticed them out of the corner of her eye and broke the kiss with a laugh that momentarily drowned out the music. Then she hopped down from the trunk and signaled for White Jeans to do the same. Once he’d done so, Trina clasped his hand and guided him through a group of dancing housemates toward Beat, Melody, Danielle, and Joseph.
“Hey you!” Trina shouted to Melody over the music. “This is Buck. Buck, this is my daughter, Melody Anne.”
“So nice to meet you.” Melody held out her hand for a shake, but Buck released Trina’s hand and pulled Melody in for a shirtless hug instead, tensing every muscle in Beat’s body.
Trina watched Beat’s face the entire time, slowly sipping from the bottle in her hand.
Finally, Melody wiggled out of the young man’s embrace, giving Buck an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Buck, you seem to be about my age, so I’m not sure about fatherly hugs from you, okay?”
“God, I fucking love her,” Danielle growled, behind Beat.
Yeah. Beat was beginning to grow very familiar with the feeling.
“Have you been seeing my mother very long, Buck?” Melody asked.
Trina and Buck traded an amused glance. “In a manner of speaking,” replied Melody’s mother. “We don’t necessarily confine ourselves to relationships in this house.”
Melody was already nodding her understanding. “You know, halfway through my question, I got there. I put it together.”
Buck leaned in. “If it makes you feel better, Melody Anne, your mother is my favorite.”
“Oh, it does, Buck.” Another series of shoulder pats. “Thank you.”
Melody elbowed Beat in the ribs. “We should get a drink,” Beat suggested, recognizing her cry for help. “Trina? Buck? Would you like anything from the kitchen?”
“We’re good, thanks,” Trina said, tone overly sweet. “Do you know how to prepare your own drink, Beat Dawkins? Doesn’t the butler normally do that for you?”
It was a cheap jab, but it caught Beat in his sore spot, stiffening his shoulders.
“Mom, please,” Melody sighed.
“I make my own drinks, thank you.”
Trina snorted. “Maybe your mother wanted to raise a pampered child, but that’s not how I chose to raise mine.” She sent her daughter a pointed look. “You’re letting him make you soft, Melody Anne.”
An eruption was forming in the center of Beat’s chest. Trina was telling the truth about one thing—she definitely hadn’t raised a pampered child. She didn’t do any raising at all, because she was never there, leaving Melody to live through the torture inflicted on her by the press. Beat opened his mouth to tell Trina exactly what he thought of her parenting style, but he should have known that Melody didn’t need his help.
“Soft?” Melody breathed, her shoulders dipping and rising on a breath. “I stayed. I stayed in New York with all the cameras and scrutiny. You. Ran. You ran away because everyone was mean to you. Not me.” Beat had never been prouder of anything or anyone in his life than when Melody stepped into her mother’s personal space and lifted her chin. “If you ask me, you’re the soft one, up here hiding behind some juvenile blame game. Why don’t you write a song about that? Unless maybe you’re too afraid to get onstage and sing it.”
“Oh shit,” muttered Joseph.
“Oh shit is right,” Danielle said, reverently. “Did she throw down the reunion gauntlet by accident or is she an actual mastermind?”
Beat shook his head. He couldn’t take his eyes off Melody. Her display of courage was prying his ribs apart. “She’s not thinking about the reunion right now.”
Silence had encompassed the living room, the music having been lowered in deference to the obvious argument taking place between Trina and Melody. Beat breathed through the urge to carry Melody out of the house and take her somewhere far, far away. He quelled the impulse, stood at her back, and waited for the smallest sign that she needed him.
Buck, of all people, broke the uneasy silence. “Hell, Trina definitely isn’t afraid of being onstage. She sings for us all the time.”
“Wow.” Melody looked around. “Might as well be Madison Square Garden.”
Trina’s eye started to twitch.