Wreck the Halls: A Novel

If Beat didn’t get out of his apartment, he was going to tear the walls down with his bare hands. The live stream had gone black half an hour ago and Danielle was no longer answering her phone. He’d been calling the producer nonstop for the last three days to assure himself of Melody’s safety, living in frozen fear that Fletcher Carr would show up on her doorstep looking for money, despite Beat’s efforts to throw the drummer off the trail—and the fact that staying away from her was eating him alive, bite by bite.

Now, his last image of Melody was of her sitting on her couch with Trina, shadows under her eyes. So delicate and strong and perfectly Melody, refusing to talk about him on camera.

Checking the live stream was slowly torturing him to death, but he couldn’t stop himself from sneaking into the bathroom to watch it where Ernie couldn’t film him. At this point, the cameraman thought Beat was a compulsive showerer, but Beat couldn’t sever his last remaining connection to Melody. In between distracted bouts of working, he hunkered down on the tile floor of his bathroom and watched her walk around Brooklyn surrounded by teeming throngs of people, seemingly oblivious to their fervor and sending his blood pressure shooting through the roof every single time.

What if they’d gotten past security and into her apartment and that was why the live stream had gone dark? With the arrival of Trina, it wasn’t that far-fetched. He couldn’t simply take the train or hop in an Uber and go to her apartment, though, could he? No. No, because he would kneel at her feet and beg for redemption. Fletcher would see it happen live and Beat’s actions would once again throw her right back into the line of fire. The last three days and all the endless days ahead would be for nothing.

He would have hurt her for nothing.

Beat shoved his feet into a pair of loafers, yanked on his coat, and blew out the door of his apartment, dialing Danielle again as soon as he got in the elevator. Just before the metal doors could smack shut, a foot inserted itself into the elevator and they reopened, allowing Ernie to follow him with the camera. When a man forgets he’s actively filming a reality show, things have officially taken a turn for the worse.

“Sorry,” he muttered, squeezing his gritty eyes closed. “Pick up the phone, Danielle. Pick up—”

“She’s fine,” Danielle chirped in his ear. “The stream crashed. But I can’t talk, we’re on the move.”

Relief clattered in his chest. “On the move to where?”

“Talk later, Beat.”

The line went dead.

He stashed the phone into his pocket and fell back against the elevator wall. Okay. Melody was fine. And he . . . was most definitely not. He needed to get a grip on himself. For better or worse, Christmas Eve was two days away. Without a reunion—or the million dollars—in sight, he’d instructed his accountant to secure the loan. Come hell or high water, by Christmas morning, the terrible pressure would be off his back and that should have afforded him a small sense of comfort.

But it didn’t.

In fact, he only felt worse.

Keeping his mother’s reputation intact and his father’s heart from breaking had always been enough to keep him motivated to appease the blackmailer. Now? Those things were still more than worthy of protecting, but he needed to start acknowledging the cycle.

This was never going to stop. It would continue forever.

He was guarding a secret that took shape before he was even born. Over thirty years ago, when his parents were in their twenties. Octavia had been a rock star, constantly on the road—who was to say that sleeping with the drummer while in a relationship with his father was the only mistake she’d made? Maybe there was more and Rudy was aware of it all. Loved her despite everything?

Beat couldn’t know because he’d never asked.

He didn’t know how his parents would react, because he’d locked up the truth and decided to manage the blackmail situation all by himself, when it could have been over years ago. If he’d just trusted the people he loved enough to be honest with them . . .

Trust.

That was what it came down to, didn’t it? That was what Melody had taught him.

He needed to come clean to Octavia. Now. Today. His silence had cost him Melody, and the loss of his mental well-being was nipping at his heels. Octavia wouldn’t want that, especially over a secret that involved her. And he couldn’t carry the burden alone anymore. Another piece of straw added to the weight would break his back.

Or maybe it already had.

He was walking down the sidewalk to his parents’ building in a T-shirt and slippers in twenty-two-degree weather—and feeling none of the cold. None whatsoever. There was only the yawning canyon in the middle of his chest. Cars honked on the avenues as they passed, people changed directions to follow him on the sidewalk. By the time Beat reached Octavia’s high-rise, he was flanked by dozens of pedestrians, all of them wanting to know one thing.

Where is Melody?

Why weren’t they together?

Why was he doing this to them?

Every time someone asked one of those questions, a steel-toed boot stomped on his heart. Why weren’t they together? Because in his brief time with the most stunningly incredible woman in the world, he’d learned nothing from her. It was time to fix that.

Beat stared at his reflection in the elevator mirror on the ride up to his mother’s penthouse, finding himself unrecognizable. He’d be lucky if Octavia didn’t call security.

The doors opened and he entered the foyer, stopping short at the wall of silence, Ernie nearly mowing him down from behind. “Octavia?” There was no one in the opulent living space or the home gym, so he took the staircase to her office.

The moment he stepped through the entry, he knew something was wrong.

Octavia sat at her desk staring straight ahead, her face white as a sheet.

Instinctively, Beat fumbled for his microphone’s battery pack and turned it off, apologizing to Ernie as he locked him out of the office.

“Mom.” Frowning, Beat strode over and placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing back when she flinched. “What’s wrong?”

She shook herself, tried to speak, but nothing came out. Not right away.

After a bracing breath, she pointed at the screen of her laptop. “The Today show . . .” She wet her lips and started again. “Obviously I was pissed when Fletcher Carr ambushed you and Melody live on the air. I don’t want that man anywhere near the two of you, not that the Today show is required to consult me. Still, I called a producer friend because I felt like complaining. And she sent me . . . she just sent me this . . . recording.”

The hair on the back of Beat’s neck stood straight up. “What recording?”NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.

Finally, Octavia looked up at him. “After the live segment, you had a conversation with Fletcher.” His mother looked at him like she’d never seen him before in her life. “Your microphone was still hot.”

Beat’s temples pounded, his mind sluggish while processing that information. He couldn’t remember the conversation word for word. He could only remember the parts about Melody. He could only remember the horrible things he’d said to her afterward. “Mom . . .”

“How long have you known he’s your father?”

His lungs emptied like he’d been socked in the stomach. Holy shit. He’d dreaded this moment so long, he couldn’t believe it was happening. Finding his voice was next to impossible, but he finally managed it. “Five years.”

Octavia closed her eyes. “Oh my God.”

Beat’s first instinct was to comfort her. He started to kneel beside her chair, so they could talk through the situation together and God, he hated upsetting his mother, but the relief of having this secret exposed was like emerging from a locked room after being imprisoned for half a decade. His blood rushed in a new direction, legs rubbery.

Before he could say a word, his mother’s housekeeper walked into the room. “Mrs. Dawkins, I—” She spied Beat standing beside the desk and sniffed. “I’m sorry, I was having a necessary moment in the bathroom or I would have informed you of your son’s arrival.”

“It’s fine,” Octavia said dully, dropping her head into her hands.

“But I’m afraid more guests have just arrived, Mrs. Dawkins.”

His mother’s eyebrows knit together. “Who?”

“It’s me, you old bitch,” Trina Gallard said, sailing into the office. “Before you ask, no, you’re not dreaming. I actually still have the body of a twenty-two-year-old.”

“Trina?” Slowly, Octavia rose to her feet, her eyes round in shock, fingers trembling where she planted them on the desk’s surface. “You . . . what are you doing here?”

“Livening up the place.” She sauntered around the office, leaving boot impressions on the white rug. “Jesus, Octavia, your home is the official Museum of Boring.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t know taste if it bit you on the ass.”

“Taste did bite me on the ass once. Wasn’t he the bass player from Infinite Jesters?”

“My goodness, you haven’t changed at all.”

“My goodness,” mocked Trina, pretending to clutch at some invisible pearls. “Does the mistress of the house require her smelling salts?”

“You require some manners. This is my home you’ve invaded. Uninvited!”

“I’d have turned to dust waiting for that invitation!”

“Why don’t you bite the dust instead, you vulgar, backstabbing hippie wannabe?”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from—”

Melody walked into the room behind Trina.

The air around Beat’s head turned to glass and shattered, his heart breaking into a sprint. Oh . . . God. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. “Mel,” he said hoarsely, his feet carrying across the room before he could think better of his actions. Or before he could analyze the consequences. He went because he was compelled. Because he had no choice but to get her into his arms, by any means necessary.

She made a shaky sound as he swept her up off the ground in a bear hug, burying his face in her hair, inhaling her scent like it would revive him, a dead man—and she did. Life rushed back into his limbs, his fingertips, his chest, the simultaneous effect nearly sending him to his knees. “Beat,” she whispered into his neck.

“Mel,” he said again, more adamantly.

She’d know what it meant. She would understand.

He was convinced they would continue in this embrace for the rest of time, because he felt like their organs would tumble out without it, but Melody wedged a hand between them and broke their contact. She pushed until there was distance between them. But it was too much. Inches felt like miles and his hands were in fists to keep from drawing her back in, harder, permanently. She wanted to be held by him—her desperate gaze on his throat told him that loud and clear—but she was fighting the need.

“For God’s sake,” Trina muttered unevenly, behind Beat. “A song about them would write itself. I’d just be holding the pencil.”

“The camera doesn’t really do them justice, does it?” Octavia asked quietly. Then she snapped her fingers at the cameramen—Joseph and Ernie—hovering just inside the door beside a rapt Danielle. “All right. You’ve got your reunion, now we require some privacy.”

Danielle’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. The live stream crashed again, anyway.” Her phone started ringing and she gestured both cameramen out of the office. “Keep in mind that we should have it back up and running in ten.”

“Ten minutes is all I’ll be able to stand,” Trina said, circling one of the chairs facing Octavia’s desk and dropping into it unceremoniously. “Your son is being blackmailed, Oc.”

Beat had gone back to staring into Melody’s eyes when that pronouncement was made and he watched them go from yearning, but guarded . . . to apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t plan on telling her, telling anyone, but she was there when I figured out who it was. Your father.”

He lifted his hands to grasp her shoulders, but she stepped out of his reach, sending Beat’s stomach plummeting to the ground. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he managed. “I came here to tell Octavia everything.”

“You did?” Melody’s tone held a note of wistfulness. “That’s good, Beat. That’s great.”

“I’d already found out on my own, however,” Octavia said, followed by the sound of her sitting down again behind her desk. Beat closed his eyes when he heard the tapping of keys, knowing what would follow. Unsure if he should dread the recording being played out loud or if he welcomed having his actions out in the open.

Congratulations. She’s head over heels for you, man. I bet she’d do just about anything for you. For instance, pay me to keep your big secret. Yeah, that lovestruck way she looks at you? I guarantee she’d protect you at all costs. Could mean double the payday for me.

Leave her out of this, Beat’s voice returned. Or I will kill you.

Right there in front of him, Melody’s eyes developed a sheen.

Your own father?

It’s all for the cameras. Haven’t you heard of a scripted reality show? As soon as it’s over, I’ll probably never see her again.

“I was lying, Mel,” he said through his teeth.

“I know,” she whispered, nodding. “I know.”

Thank God. Thank God she knew. Why wasn’t she back in his arms yet?

Sorry if you thought this was some magical love story, but it’s not. You’re welcome to try and pump her for cash, but she’ll tell you to go to hell. And then she’ll be able to leverage that secret. It’ll lose its power and become her bargaining chip if she wants to sell the story. And you know offers are going to roll in. This thing is huge.

“He’s really selling that lie,” Trina remarked. “Like son, like mother, I guess.”

“Zip it, you smelly old relic,” Octavia fired back.

“That’s right, I have sweat glands, like a normal human. Did your Botox guy remove those for you, along with your sense of humor?”

I know what I saw. You two are the real deal, interrupted Fletcher’s voice on the recording, followed by footsteps in the background. Melody’s. Beat’s gut seized up. He couldn’t bear to look at her for this part, so he moved to the window and braced his hands on either side of the sill, staring out at the avenue but seeing nothing.

She wants me to teach her how to play bocce, too! We’re going to have a lady date after the holidays. That was where he’d refused the hand she’d offered. The memory was like a torpedo to the center of his stomach. Sorry. Did I interrupt?

Nah, honey. We’re just shooting the shit. You must have another big day of filming ahead. Where are you two jetting off to next?

We don’t really have any plans—

“Turn it off,” Beat demanded, pushing away from the window. “You’ve heard the part you needed to hear. Please, God, turn it off.”

Octavia tapped a key and the office went silent, except for Melody’s long, winded intake of breath. She wouldn’t look at him, though. What was she thinking?

Finally, Trina broke the silence. “I’m no mathematician, but what it sounds like, old pal, is you had yourself a little indiscretion in between tours.”

Not a single muscle shifted in the lead singer’s face. “Was there a paternity test, Beat?”

“Yes.” His voice was like gravel. “I wouldn’t give him a dime until I knew for sure. He’s my father. My biological one, anyway.”

Octavia’s head fell forward.

“Just to recap.” Trina raised a handful of fingers and started ticking them off. “He dated you. Lied to me, saying you were the one who broke it off with him. I started dating him—a move that, let’s face it, was the beginning of the end. The end of Steel Birds. Our creation. And then, after we booted him for another drummer, he still managed to wiggle back in and sleep with you one more time. Even after everything.”

“I was just . . . it was vanity and jealousy and . . . being twenty-three, goddammit. I wanted to hurt you back. We were already fighting constantly, ditching recording sessions, and blowing off label meetings. What would it matter if I screwed everything up a little more? And damn, I wanted to prove he still wanted me the most. It was stupid and it didn’t fix anything. If you want to hate me for it, fine, but I’m pretty sure I’m paying a steep enough price without adding your ridicule, Trina.” Octavia slammed a closed fist down on the desk. The only one who didn’t flinch was Trina. “He’s been blackmailing my son for five years!”

Trina reached out and knocked over a porcelain glass full of white pens. “There you are! I thought the woman who sang ‘Bitch on Wheels’ at the top of her lungs was dead and gone.”

“I want to fillet this motherfucker’s balls, grill them until they’re well-done, and dine on them with a bottle of wine,” Octavia growled.

Beat’s jaw dropped.

He’d seen countless hours of Steel Birds concert footage. He’d seen his mother unleash hell into a microphone. But in real life, she was his polished, routine-oriented mother. That was still true, but apparently the take-no-prisoners rock vocalist had been lurking inside of her this whole time.

He traded a look of bemused disbelief with Melody.

She was almost smiling at Beat when she caught herself and broke eye contact.

Trina stabbed the desk with her index finger. “Here is what I have to say. If you disagree with me, Oc, I’ll leave, and another thirty years might go by until we cross paths again.” She paused, shifting in her seat. “But the way I see it, Fletcher has had too much business in my life. He’s had too much of an effect for such a worthless piece of garbage—and I just can’t stand to see him have any more.”

“He came for our kids,” Octavia breathed.

Trina nodded. “Came between our kids.”

“He’s breaking up the band. Twice.”

“Only if we let him.”

Octavia’s eyes took on sharp focus, catching Trina’s gaze and holding—and it was an incredible thing to witness. Beat would tell the story a thousand times over the course of his life and never be able to do justice to the magic that wove the two women back together right there in front of their very eyes. It was almost a visible stitching of the disrupted air between them, a magnetic force that lifted them out of their chairs at the very same time, like two monoliths rising from the earth.

Trina raised an eyebrow. “Is this gig happening, or what?”

“Oh, it’s happening. Right after we tell Fletcher Carr to keep his poison away from our families.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Trina smiled and scooped up Octavia’s phone from its resting position on the desk, handing it to her former—er, current?—bandmate. “Accept his offer to join the reunion.”