Wreck the Halls: A Novel

December 1

Present Day

Beat stood shivering on the sidewalk outside of his thirtieth birthday party.

At least, he assumed a party was waiting for him inside the restaurant. His friends had been acting mysterious for weeks. If he could only move his legs, he would walk inside and act surprised. He’d hug each of them in turn, like they deserved. Make them explain every step of the planning process and praise them for being so crafty. He’d be the ultimate friend.

And the ultimate fraud.

When the phone started vibrating again in his hand, his stomach gave an unholy churn, so intense he had to concentrate hard on breathing through it. A couple passed him on the sidewalk, shooting him some curious side-eye. He smiled at them in reassurance, but it felt weak, and they only walked faster. He looked down at his phone, already knowing an unknown caller would be displayed on the screen. Same as last time. And the time before.

Over a year and a half had passed since the last time his blackmailer had contacted him. He’d given the man the largest sum of money yet to go away and assumed the harassment was over. Beat was just beginning to feel normal again. Until the message he’d received tonight on the way to his own birthday party.

I’m feeling talkative, Beat. Like I need to get some things off my chest.

It was the same pattern as last time. The blackmailer contacted him out of the blue, no warning, and then immediately became persistent. His demands came on like a blitz, a symphony beginning in the middle of its crescendo. They left no room for negotiation, either. Or reasoning. It was a matter of giving this man what he wanted or having a secret exposed that could rock the very foundation of his family’s world.

No big deal.

He took a deep breath, paced a short distance in the opposite direction of the restaurant. Then he hit call and lifted the phone to his ear.

His blackmailer answered on the first ring.

“Hello again, Beat.”

A red-hot iron dropped in Beat’s stomach.

Did the man’s voice sound more on edge than previous years?

Almost agitated?

“We agreed this was over,” Beat said, his grip tight around the phone. “I was never supposed to hear from you again.”

A raspy sigh filled the line. “The thing about the truth is, it never really goes away.”

With those ominous words echoing in his ear, a sort of surreal calmness settled over Beat. It was one of those moments where he looked around and wondered what in the hell had led him to this time and place. Was he even standing here at all? Or was he trapped in an endless dream? Suddenly the familiar sights of Greenwich Street, only a few blocks from his office, looked like a movie set. Christmas lights in the shapes of bells and Santa heads and holly leaves hung from streetlights, and an early December cold snap turned his breath to frostbitten mist in front of his face.

He was in Tribeca, close enough to the Financial District to see coworkers sharing sneaky cigarettes on the sidewalk after too much to drink, still dressed in their office attire at eight P.M. A rogue elf traipsed down the street, yelling into his phone. A cab drove by slowly, wheels traveling over wet sludge from the brief afternoon snowfall, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” drifting out through the window.

“Beat.” The voice in his ear brought him back to reality. “I’m going to need double the amount as last time.”

Nausea lifted all the way to his throat, making his head feel light. “I can’t do that. I don’t personally have that kind of liquid cash and I will not touch the foundation money. This needs to be over.”

“Like I said—”

“The truth never goes away. I heard you.”

Silence was heavy on the line. “I’m not sure I appreciate the way you’re speaking to me, Beat. I have a story to tell. If you’re not going to pay me to keep it to myself, I’ll get what I need from 20/20 or People magazine. They’d love every salacious word.”

And his parents would be ruined.

The truth would devastate his father.

His mother’s sterling reputation would be blown to smithereens.

The public perception of Octavia Dawkins would nose-dive, and thirty years of the charitable work she’d done would mean nothing. There would only be the story.

There would only be the damning truth.

“Don’t do that.” Beat massaged the throbbing sensation between his eyes. “My parents don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I didn’t deserve to be thrown out of the band, either.” The man snorted. “Don’t talk about shit you don’t know, kid. You weren’t there. Are you going to help me out or should I start making calls? You know, I’ve had this reality show producer contact me twice. Maybe she would be a good place to start.”

The night air turned sharper in his lungs. “What producer? What’s her name?”

Was it the same woman who’d been emailing and calling Beat for the last six months? Offering him an obscene sum of money to participate in a reality show about reuniting Steel Birds? He hadn’t bothered returning any of the correspondence because he’d gotten so many similar offers over the years. The public demand for a reunion hadn’t waned one iota since the nineties and now, thanks to one of the band’s hits going viral decades after its release, the demand was suddenly more relevant than ever.

“Danielle something,” said his blackmailer. “It doesn’t matter. She’s only one of my options.”

“Right.”

How much had she offered Beat? He didn’t remember the exact amount. Only that she’d dangled a lot of money. Possibly seven figures.

“How do we make this stop once and for all?” Beat asked, feeling and sounding like a broken record. “How can I guarantee this is the last time?”

“You’ll have to take my word for it.”

Beat was already shaking his head. “I need something in writing.”

“Not happening. It’s my word or nothing. How long do you need to pull the money together?”

Goddammit. This was real. This was happening. Again.

The last year and a half had been nothing but a reprieve. Deep down, he’d known that, right? “I need some time. Until February, at least.”

“You have until Christmas.”

The jagged edge of panic slid into his chest. “That’s less than a month away.”

A humorless laugh crackled down the line. “If you can make your selfish cow of a mother look like a saint to the public, you can get me eight hundred thousand by the twenty-fifth.”

“No, I can’t,” Beat said through his teeth. “It’s impossible—”

“Do it or I talk.”

The line went dead.

Beat stared down at the silent device for several seconds, trying to pull himself together. Text messages from his friends were piling up on the screen, asking him where he was. Why he was late for dinner. He should have been used to pretending everything was normal by now. He’d been doing it for five years, since the first time the blackmailer made contact. Smile. Listen intently. Be grateful. Be grateful at all times for what he had.

How much longer could he pull this off?

A couple of minutes later, he walked into a pitch-black party room.

The lights came on and a sea of smiling faces appeared, shouting, “Surprise!”

And even though his skin was as cold as ice beneath his suit, he staggered back with a dazed grin, laughing the way everyone would expect. Accepting hugs, backslaps, handshakes, and kisses on the cheeks.

Nothing is wrong.

I have it all under control.

Beat struggled through the inundation of stress and attempted to appreciate the good around him. The room full of people who had gathered in his honor. He owed them that after all the effort they’d clearly put in. One of the benefits of being born in December was Christmas-themed birthdays, and his friends had laid it on thick. White twinkling lights were wrapped around fresh garland and hanging from the rafters of the restaurant’s banquet room. Poinsettias sprung from glowing vases. The scent of cinnamon and pine was heavy in the air and a fireplace roared in the far corner of the space. His friends, colleagues, and a smattering of cousins wore Santa hats.

As far as themes went, Christmas was the clear winner, and he couldn’t complain. As far back as he could remember, it had been his favorite holiday. The time of year when he could sit still and wear pajamas all day and let his head clear. His family always kept it about the three of them, no outsiders, so he didn’t have to be on. He could just be.

One of Beat’s college buddies from NYU wrestled him into a playful headlock and he endured it, knowing the guy meant well. God, they all did. His friends weren’t aware of the kind of strain he was under. If they did, they would probably try to help. But he couldn’t allow that. Couldn’t allow a single person to know the delicate reason why he was being blackmailed.

Or who was behind it.

Beat noticed everyone around him was laughing and he joined in, pretending he’d heard the joke, but his brain was working through furious rounds of math. Presenting and discarding solutions. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Double what he’d paid this man last time. Where would he come up with it? And what about next time? Would they venture into the millions?

“You didn’t think we’d let your thirtieth pass without an obnoxious celebration, did you?” Vance said, elbowing him in the ribs. “You know us better than that.”

“You’re damn right I do.” A glass of champagne appeared in Beat’s hand. “What time is the clown arriving to make balloon animals?”

The group erupted into a disbelieving roar. “How the hell—”

“You ruined the surprise!”

“Like you said”—Beat saluted them, smiling until they all dropped the indignation and grinned back—“I know you.”

They don’t know you, though. Do they?

His smile faltered slightly, but he covered it up with a gulp of champagne, setting the empty glass down on the closest table, noting the peppermints strewn among the confetti. The paper pieces were in the shape of little B’s. Pictures of Beat dotted the refreshment table in plastic holders. One of him jumping off a cliff in Costa Rica. Another one of him graduating in a cap and gown from business school. Yet another photo depicted him onstage introducing his mother, world-famous Octavia Dawkins, at a charity dinner he’d organized recently for her foundation. He was smiling in every single picture.NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

It was like looking at a stranger. He didn’t even know that guy.

When he jumped off that cliff in Central America, he’d been in the middle of procuring funds to pay off the blackmailer the first time. Back when he could manage the sum. Fifty thousand here or there. Sure, it meant a little shuffling of his assets, but nothing he couldn’t handle in the name of keeping his parents’ names from being dragged through the mud.

He couldn’t manage this much of a payoff alone. The foundation had more than enough money in its coffers, but it would be a cold day in hell before he stole from the charity he’d built with his mother. Not happening. That cash went to worthy causes. Well-deserved scholarships for performing arts students who couldn’t afford the costs associated with training, education, and living expenses. That money did not go to blackmail.

So where would he get the funds?

Maybe a quick call to his accountant would calm his nerves. He’d invested in a few start-ups last year. Maybe he could pull those investments now? There had to be something.

There isn’t, whispered a voice in the back of his head.

Feeling even more chilled than before, Beat forced a casual expression onto his face. “Excuse me for a few minutes, I just need to make a phone call.”

“To whom?” Vance asked. “Everyone you know is in this room.”

That was not true.

His parents weren’t here.

But that was not who his mind immediately landed on—and it was ridiculous that he should still be thinking about Melody Gallard fourteen years after meeting her one time. He could still recall that afternoon so vividly, though. Her smile, the way she whisper-talked, as if she wasn’t all that used to talking at all. The way she couldn’t seem to look him in the eye, then all of a sudden she couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. Neither had he.

And he’d hugged thousands of people in his life, but she was the only one he could still feel in his arms. They were meant to be friends. Unfortunately, he’d never called. She’d never used his number, either. Now it was too late. Still, when Vance said Everyone you know is in this room, Beat thought of her right away.

It felt like he knew Melody—and she wasn’t here.

She might know him the best out of everyone if he’d kept in touch.

“Maybe he needs to call a woman,” someone sang from the other side of the group. “We know how Beat likes to keep his relationships private.”

“When I find a woman who can survive my friends, I’ll bring her around.”

“Oh, come on.”

“We’d be on our best behavior.”

Beat raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t have a best behavior.”

Someone picked up a handful of B confetti and threw it at him. He flicked a piece off his shoulder without missing a beat, satisfied that he’d once again diverted their interest in his love life. He kept that private for good reason. “One phone call and I’ll be back. Don’t start the balloon animals without me. I’m going to see if the artist can create me a sense of privacy.” He gave them all a grin to let them know he was joking. “It means a lot that you organized this party for me. Thank you. It’s . . . everything a guy could hope for.”

That sappy moment earned him a chorus of boos and several more tosses of confetti until he had to duck and cover his way out of the room. But as soon as he was outside, his smile slid away. Back on the sidewalk like before, he stood for a full minute looking down at the phone in his hand. He could call his accountant. It would be a waste, though. After five years of having the blackmailer on his back like a parasite, he’d wrung himself dry. There simply wasn’t eight hundred thousand dollars to spare.

You know, I’ve had this reality show producer contact me twice.

Maybe she would be a good place to start.

His blackmailer’s words came back to him. Danielle something. She’d contacted Beat, too. Had a popular network behind her, if Beat recalled correctly. His assistant usually dealt with inquiries pertaining to Steel Birds, but he’d forwarded this particular request to Beat because of the size of the offer and the producer’s clout.

Instead of calling his accountant, he searched his inbox for the name Danielle—and he found the email after a little scrolling.

Beat dropped the phone to his thigh. Had he seriously only skimmed an email that passionate? He hadn’t even made it to the middle the first time he’d seen the correspondence. That much was obvious, because he would have remembered the part about Melody. Every time someone mentioned her, he got a firm sock to the gut.

He was getting one now.

Beat had zero desire to be a household name. Never had, never would. He liked working behind the scenes at his mother’s foundation. Giving the occasional speech or social media interview was necessary. Ever since “Rattle the Cage” had gone viral, the requests had been coming in by the mother lode, but remaining out of the limelight was preferable to him.

However.

A million dollars would solve his problem.

He needed to solve it. Fast.

And if—and it was a huge if—Beat agreed to the reality show, he’d need to talk to Melody first. They might have grown up in the same weird celebrity offspring limelight, but they’d gotten vastly different treatment from the press. He’d been praised as some kind of golden boy, while every single one of Melody’s physical attributes had been dissected through paparazzi lenses—all when she was still a minor. He’d watched it from afar, horrified.

So much so that the first and only time they’d met, he’d been rocked by protectiveness so deep, he still felt it to this very day.

Was there any way to avoid bringing her back into the spotlight if he attempted to reunite Steel Birds? Or would she be dragged into the story, simply because of her connection to the band?

God, he didn’t know. But there was no way in hell Beat would agree to anything unless Melody was okay with him stirring up this hornet’s nest. He’d have to meet with her. In person. See her face and be positive she didn’t have reservations.

Beat’s pulse kicked into a gallop.

Fourteen years had passed and he’d thought of her . . . a weird amount. Wondering what she was doing, if she’d seen whatever latest television special was playing about their mothers, if she was happy. That last one plagued him the most. Was Melody happy? Was he?

Would everything be different if he’d just called her?

Beat pulled up the contact number for his accountant, but never hit call. Instead, he reopened the email from Danielle Doolin and tapped the cell number in her email signature, with no idea the kind of magic he was setting into motion.