Eight Christmas Eves (5 page)

Doug blinked up
at him, uncomprehending. He’d had a lot of beers. Helen wasn’t sure how many,
but it had been many more than she’d had. Things finally started to click in
his mind, though, and he slowly heaved himself off her.

Helen scrambled
off the couch too, pulling up one strap of her tank that had slid down her
shoulder. Her cheeks started to burn as she realized what was happening.
Everyone was staring at her. She wanted to sink into the carpet.

“What are you
doing here?” Doug asked, making a failed attempt to retrieve his mastery of the
room. He must recognize Cyrus. Everyone in Clarksburg would recognize Cyrus
Owen.

Cyrus arched
arrogant eyebrows. “I came to get Helen.”

“What gives you
the right? You aren’t her brother.” It wasn’t the brightest thing in the world
to say, but Doug was still endeavoring to reclaim the advantage.

“My father is
her legal guardian. She’s fourteen years old, and we have men in our employ who
have developed impressive expertise in breaking bones. Remember that, next time
you’re tempted to touch her.”

For the first
time, Cyrus turned to look at Helen. “We’re leaving.”

She gulped,
frozen by confusion and embarrassment. “I came with Maria.”

“You sure as
hell aren’t leaving with Maria, since she looks like she’s about to pass out.
We’re leaving
now
.” He turned away from her and scanned the room. “Since
I called the cops when I got here, I’d suggest the rest of you consider leaving
as well.

She wanted to
object to his bossiness, but she didn’t have the energy or mental acuity at the
moment. She didn’t want to make any more of a scene, and she was suddenly
afraid she was going to throw up. So she stepped over toward Cyrus, letting him
grab her arm in an unyielding grip and drag her upstairs and then out of the
house before anyone else could process his words.

The cold air
hit her like a fist when they got outside. Cyrus had picked up her coat, but she
hadn’t put it on. Her bare skin tightened into goosebumps, and she breathed in
loud gasps.

Cyrus’s car was
double-parked in the street, since the driveway and curb were already full of
cars. Without speaking, he pulled her down the driveway.

She was dizzy
with beer and confusion and anger, and she yanked her arm away from his hand.

“Get moving,
Helen. I’d like for us to be gone by the time the police come.”

She glared up
at him fuzzily, not able to see him very clearly. “Shut up.” Not the best comeback
but the only one she could manage at the moment.

“Helen,” he
warned, reaching out for her arm again.

“I think I’m
going to be sick,” she mumbled, suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of nausea. She
breathed deeply, trying to fight it down.

Cyrus stood
still and waited for a moment as she breathed. After a minute, he said, “Well,
go ahead.” He sounded almost impatient.

She glared at
him again, snapping her teeth in her outrage, but the anger just intensified
the nausea, and she felt her stomach heave.

Gasping, she
turned away from him and vomited on the grass. The second heave forced her to
her knees, and by the fifth one she privately vowed never to drink another beer
in her life.

Cyrus had
stepped over and reached down to hold back her hair—not gently or
sympathetically, just with clinical efficiency. When she was finished, he
lifted her to her feet again and kept pulling her toward the car.

He put her in
the passenger seat and walked briskly around to get in the driver side. He
accelerated quickly, and they were turning the corner when she could see a
police car pull up to the house from the opposite direction.

She couldn’t
say anything on the drive home. She felt too groggy and disoriented.

By the time
they reached the house, however, she’d realized a few important things.

“Fuck you,
Cyrus!” she snapped, glaring over at him by the light of the dashboard. He’d
just put his car in park. “You had no right to do that.”

He didn’t look
remotely concerned by her defiance. “Someone had to. You know better than to be
so stupid.”

“You’re
actually going to lecture me on drinking and partying?
You
?”

His blue eyes
met hers, and his eyebrows lifted. “Is your dramatic emphasis supposed to mean
something? Drink a beer if you want to drink a beer. What the hell do I care?
But never—
never
—let yourself get trapped in a situation where you no
longer have the power to choose.”

“I
was
choosing.”

“No, you
weren’t.” Cyrus got out of the car, still looking nothing but cool and
controlled.

Helen just
stayed in her seat, stubbornly refusing to move. It didn’t do any good, of
course, since Cyrus just walked around the car, opened her door, undid her
seatbelt, and pulled her out of the car.

“I choose all
the time. I’ve already had sex, you know,” she spat out at him.

Cyrus didn’t
react. “No, you haven’t.” He took her arm and dragged her through the garage
and into the house.

He was right,
but she didn’t know how he would have known it. He didn’t know her at all.

He took her to
her bedroom and told her to take off her shoes. She was still working on her
boots when he came back in with a bottle of water, which he set beside her bed.

He peered down
at her closely. “How many beers did you have?”

“Just three,”
she said with a scowl, “But I didn’t even finish them. I’m not drunk.”

“You’ll feel
better if you drink water.”

“Everyone is
going to hate me now—since you ruined the best party of the year and called the
cops on them.”

“My remorse
knows no bounds.”

She gaped at
him. He was rude and bossy and sarcastic and barged in where he wasn’t wanted.
And he wasn’t even pretending to care about her feelings anymore.

Just five
months ago, he’d been her favorite person in the world. Then she’d discovered
how little he cared about her. Now she could barely stand the sight of him.

“I hate you,” she
gritted out, as he was leaving the room.

He looked at
her for a moment before he said calmly, “I can live with that.”

He shut the
door behind him.

*
* *

Helen lay on her bed, on top of
her covers, still wearing her clothes, for about a half hour. She felt groggy
and a little sick, but her mind and emotions just wouldn’t turn off. She
couldn’t go to sleep.

Eventually, she
was so thirsty she had to sit up and drink most of the bottle of water Cyrus
had brought for her. Then she got up to go to the bathroom. She stared at
herself in the mirror as she was washing her hands afterwards.

She looked
awful. Her makeup was all smudged, and her eyes were red. Her top was wrinkled,
and her lips were very pale.

She splashed
water on her face. She kind of wanted another bottle of water but didn’t want
to go downstairs to get it, since she might have to run into Cyrus.

Instead, she
just filled her empty bottle from the faucet in the bathroom sink and took it
with her back into the bedroom.

She sat at her
desk in front of her laptop and opened a browser window to pull up a website.

Once the site
came up, she saw they’d linked a new story, and she followed the link to an
article on a blog that featured D.C. gossip. The story was about how Cyrus had
been stopped by the police for reckless driving the night before, in the
company of a gorgeous, nineteen-year-old model. No charges had been filed. No
one—least of all Helen—was surprised. The story was run with a photograph of
Cyrus, wearing all black and smirking arrogantly, with the model draped all
over him.

The girl was
exotically beautiful—lithe, dark-haired, and wearing a dress that looked like
lingerie.

Helen was
reading the caption under the picture, which called Cyrus a “notorious
playboy,” when a tap on her bedroom door made her jerk in surprise.

Before she
could react, the door opened to reveal Cyrus, carrying another bottle of water
and saying, “Helen? Are you all righ—”

“Cyrus!” she
wailed, breaking into his mild question. “You can’t barge into my room without
knocking!”

“I did knock.”
He hadn’t yet stepped into the room.

“But I didn’t
answer!”

“Sorry. I was
just checking on you. How do you feel?’

“I’m fine. Now
leave me alone!” Helen turned back toward her laptop, feeling rattled and upset
and still a little woozy. She also really wanted the bottle of water in Cyrus’s
hand, but she wasn’t about to ask for it.

“Did you need—“
He broke off his own question when he had evidently focused on her laptop
screen, where his photo with the model was prominently displayed. “What are you
reading?” he demanded, striding over to stand behind her and peer at the
screen. “Damn it, Helen. Don’t read that!”

“Why not?” she
asked, staring at her laptop, sticking out her chin stubbornly, and feeling
strangely vindicated. Let him lecture her on drinking and partying now.

“Because you
don’t
need to be reading that.” He reached down and closed out the browser window,
making the story and the picture disappear.

But what
appeared in its place was the site that had originally linked her to the story.

He gasped
audibly as he processed the website on her screen. “What are you
doing
?
Why are you looking at that site?”

“It’s
interesting,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, although she was getting
more and more upset by his obvious horror and outrage. “I check it out every
day.”

She’d stumbled
on the website accidentally, when it was referenced in the comments of a news
story she’d been reading about Cyrus at a club opening where several people had
been arrested for drug possession. The site was called “Stalking Cyrus,” and it
daily posted links on any story or reference to Cyrus on the web. There were
also discussion boards where the members shared their thoughts about Cyrus and
detailed any encounters they’d had personally with him.

Helen had read
lists of Cyrus’s top ten desirable qualities. She’d read elaborate daydreams
rehearsing the most romantic first meeting with Cyrus the members could
imagine. She’d read many, many irate rants about his heartlessness, from dozens
of women who claimed to have slept with him only to be dumped the next morning.

Cyrus had been
leaning over her shoulder, scanning the front page of the website, featuring
the links to the most recent stories and the first paragraph of a new blog post
that speculated on the kind of woman it would take to finally “tame” him.

“Damn it,
Helen!” he gritted out, sounding as furious as she’d ever heard him. “Don’t you
ever
look at this site again.” He closed out the window and then snapped
her laptop shut.

She turned to
face him, somehow pleased that she’d upset him. “Why not? Isn’t it true? Didn’t
you almost crash your car last night? Don’t you screw girls once and then dump
them? A lot of them have posted about it, you know.”

Cyrus had gone
a little pale, and his expression was openly appalled. “It’s all twisted, and
you don't need to be reading all that about me. Don’t go back there. Don’t ever
go back.”

“I’ll go back
if I want,” she muttered, starting to feel less pleased and more guilty. She
didn’t know why she should feel guilty though. He’d
done
all those
things. She’d just read about them.

He sat on the
edge of the bed and leaned toward her, his expression changing. “Is this why
you’re so mad at me? Because of the twisted stuff you read there?”

She took a
shuddering breath, striving to sound cool and nonchalant. “Why should I care
what you do?”

He grabbed one
of her hands, not in an affectionate gesture but as an urgent insistence on
attention. “Seriously, Helen. Is that why you’re so mad at me?”

She stared at
him, her eyes burning and her throat starting to ache. He seemed so sincere and
bewildered—like he had absolutely no idea what he could have done to upset her.

He probably
didn’t
know. It wouldn’t be important to him the way it was to her.

“Did someone on
the site say I said something about you?” he asked, clearly thinking quickly
and trying to put the pieces together. “Because, if they did, it’s a lie. You
can’t believe what some random person writes online. You know that.”

She sputtered,
trying to scoff but almost on the verge of tears. “Don’t treat me like I’m
stupid. It has nothing to do with the site.”

His eyes were
boring into her, as if he were trying to search for some sort of answer on her
face. Before she could stop it, a tear slipped out of one eye and streamed down
her face. She brushed it away impatiently.

“Damn it,
Helen.
Tell
me,” he insisted hoarsely.

“What does it
matter?” She jumped to her feet in her emotion, angry because she hadn’t been
able to control herself the way he always could. “Why do you care if I’m mad?
I’m just a foolish, spoiled princess who will never be anything but a drain on
a man's bank account.”

She hadn’t
meant to say as much, but the words just came tumbling out. And with them more
tears.

Cyrus had stood
up too, but now he froze. He stared at her blankly for a long time. “Wait,” he
said at last, his voice thick with confusion, “Who said that about you?”

“You did!” she
sobbed, palming away the tears she couldn’t hold back. The words hurt so much,
and they hurt even more since he obviously didn’t even remember saying
them—they meant so little to him. “
You
did! I heard you.”

“I never said
that,” he argued, looking vaguely horrified. “I never would have said that
about you.”

“You
did
!
You were talking to your dad about why I couldn’t go to Paris. I heard you. I
remember it exactly.” She took a few breaths and recited the words that she’d
never been able to forget. “You said, ‘The trip will be nothing but trouble.
She’s a foolish, spoiled princess whose only talent is being a pain in the ass
and draining a man’s bank account.’ Those were your words exactly.”