White Hot Christmas: A Heart of Fame Christmas Story (3 page)

His cock stiffened: not at the thought of his far-from stellar performance on the stage of his old school’s sports hall-slash-theatre-slash-multi-purpose building, nor at how he’d ironically subverted the overtly religious tone of the concert with such a song choice, but at what had happened
after
he’d come off the stage.

Lauren had met him at the bottom of the backstage stairs, her eyes dancing with happiness, and by
met him
he meant she threw herself into his arms, her long coltish legs wrapping around his hips, her arms wrapping around his neck, her lips claiming his.

She’d kissed him so fiercely, so wildly, his knees had buckled and they’d both ended up on the floor.

That hadn’t stopped her from kissing him however, nor him kissing her back. Hell, they’d been teenagers driven by hormones more powerful, more consuming, more potent than a nuclear bomb. His hand was under her shirt, cupping her right boob, his cock well and truly a rigid pole of impatient want, when the school principal broke them up.

They’d both spent the rest of the week on lunchtime detention in separate buildings, but holy fuck, had it been worth it. For one, it declared loud and clear Lauren was his and he was hers to all the other students at the school (most of the boys lusted after her), and for another it showed him just how much she loved his singing.

They’d finished what the performance had started later that night, in the back seat of his dad’s car—which meant he and Lauren both came screaming to mutual orgasms in the captain of the Murriundah police department’s cop car.

Lauren had called it an early Christmas present. He’d called it perfect. Heaven.

Stare fixed on the road even as the memory played with his senses, a grin stretched Nick’s lips. What were the odds he could convince the current Murriundah police captain to let them borrow his car for a—

A high-pitched beeping filled the Range Rover’s cabin, barely a second before the 4WD’s engine spluttered, coughed and—with an ignoble gurgle hardly worthy of a car costing more than two hundred grand—died.

Just like that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nick ground out, directing the car to the side of the road. The Range Rover coasted to a complete standstill as AC/DC boomed from the still working speakers.

He sat behind the wheel, staring at the array of warning lights flashing at him from the dashboard; lights that meant little to him. He was a singer for Pete’s sake. What did he know about cars?

“This,” he growled, watching those bright red lights flash, his hardening cock softening in his shorts, “is getting ridiculous.”

Magic Mike

M1 Motorway, Australia

Perched on the bulbar, waiting for the arrival of the very affable Mike of Mike’s Mechanics (the only mechanical service he could convince to come out to his location at 1:35pm Christmas Eve), Nick glared at the cars zooming past him on their way north.

Cars with functioning engines and charged batteries.

Cars carrying their passengers where they wanted to go.

Cars that did what they were supposed to do.

Damn it, when he got back home he was buying a Learjet. A fleet of them.

Lowering his glare to his mobile phone in his hand, he bit back a curse. Nope, the thing was now as dead as his car.

Flat battery. He wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t charged it on the flight home. He should have. What was the point of flying First Class if not to make sure one’s electronic devices were fully charged at all times? No, he’d been too concerned with sleeping. Idiot.

Of course, because the battery of his Range Rover had also died—or at least decided to play dead with such perfection he couldn’t even get a sad
whrr
on his numerous attempts to restart the car—he had no way of charging it now.

Damn it.

He had tried to call Lauren again before calling for a mechanic, but once again, it had diverted immediately to her message service.

What the hell?

It had taken five knock-backs from various mechanics, five battery-draining phone calls, five time-sucking rejections before he finally landed Mike. By then, his phone had 3% charge.

“Sure,” Mike had said barely a minute into Nick’s plea for help. “I’ll be there in a tick.”

Nick had disconnected the call, stared at the 3%, and then ground out a protracted
fuck
as it changed to 2%.

It was then his mobile had burst into life, the sound of Blue Swede singing ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ emanating from its tiny speaker as an image of his beautiful, gorgeous wife filled its screen.

Lauren. Lauren was calling him.

Nick had swiped his thumb to accept the call. Rammed his phone to his ear.

“Babe,” he damn near gushed.

“Nick?” Lauren’s husky, sexy-as-sin voice teased his senses, tickled his ear. His heart slammed into his throat. His groin throbbed. His stomach tightened. “Are you okay? I didn’t realize my phone was on mute and I’ve just noticed all your missed calls. How far away from home are—”

Silence had cut her off.

Just like that, his phone’s charge had gone the way of the dodo.

He’d let out a roar that was far from mature. Had thrown his dead phone as far into the scrub beside the motorway as he could.

He’d even jumped up and down in a tantrum worthy of a three-year-old beside his dead 4WD.

And then, feeling petulant and foolish at the same time, he’d gone in search of his phone.

It had taken longer than he thought it would. Who knew he had such a good throwing arm? Perhaps he should have pursued a career as a javelin thrower instead of rock star. Maybe, just maybe, if he’d been an Olympic javelin thrower, he wouldn’t be stuck on the side of the freaking motorway, hours away from Lauren and home and everything in his life that he craved to see on Christmas freaking Eve?

He’d sustained more than one scratch to the legs and arms in his search for his phone. Those scratches stung now, intensified by the inferno in the sky that was the summer sun, a mocking reminder of how ridiculous he’d been.

He let out a ragged sigh. At least he had a hat. That was something. A hat, and a tree behind which he could relieve himself if he needed without being subjected to public scrutiny from those in the cars speeding past him. Yay.

A horn blared behind him, making him start and yelp.

Before he finished climbing down from the bulbar, the sound of a heavy door slamming shut filled the hot air.

“You look flustered, mate,” a man who had to be at least one-hundred and twenty-five years old in the shade laughed, strolling towards him along the side of his Range Rover. On his head, at a rakish angle, was a red Santa hat, complete with a fat, white pom-pom. Behind his 4WD, a tow truck that looked about the same age, sat idling.

“Mike?” Nick asked. Nick had grown up an Aussie country boy. He recognized the type walking towards him now: a dyed-in-the-wool good bloke more than happy to help, regardless of the situation. It made sense that Mike would have answered his call for help when no other mechanic in Sydney would.

“Yep.” Mike flashed a smile at him that showed at least one missing tooth. “Want me to take a look at that fancy go-mobile of yours?”

Nick liked him instantly. “I do.”

Mike wandered past Nick to the Range Rover’s bonnet. “Pop it for me?”

Climbing back into the driver’s seat, Nick pulled the lever, releasing the locking mechanism of the bonnet with a solid clunk.

By the time he climbed back out of the car and walked to where the ancient mechanic stood, the bonnet was up and Mike was studying the sophisticated engine with a bemused smirk.

Mike whistled. “There’s a thing.”

Nick’s stomach dropped. Did the old guy even know what he was looking at? The Range Rover Sport SVR wasn’t exactly the kind of car found in the average Australian mechanic’s garage.

“Do you think four hundred and five kilowatts is enough?” Mike said, given Nick a sideways grin.

Nick blinked.

“Of course,” Mike went on, scratching at the side of his face as his grin turned devilish. “Doesn’t matter how much power you’ve got in the supercharged V8 if there’s water in the petrol.”

“I didn’t…” Nick stopped. He was about to say he hadn’t put water in the petrol tank but he figured Mike probably knew that already.

Mike’s grin stretched. “I know. But those bloody big-smoke servo owners are notorious for getting water in their tanks. By your description on the phone, that’s likely what’s goin’ on. This however, doesn’t explain the battery. A new car like this should’n ‘ave battery problems. Gimme a sec to ‘ave a squiz to see what’s goin’ on there.”

Nick nodded.

Mike turned to look at him. “By sec, I mean a tick. Probably a while. If you’ve got one of those fancy phones, you may wanna fire up the Angry Birds or whatever it is you kids play on it now.”

Chuckling, Nick shook his head. “My phone’s dead. Like the car.”

Mike
tsk
ed. “That sucks.”

“Yep,” Nick agreed.

The old man dug his hand into the back pocket of his very baggy coveralls (baggy and covered in grease stains, Nick noticed) and then pulled out a mobile phone as ancient as he was. “’Ere,” he said, tossing it to Nick. “There’s no fancy games but you can at least call whoever’s wait’n for you to get home.”

Nick looked at the communication device now in his hand—a mobile phone old enough to require flipping open to use—and then up at Mike. “I think I love you, mate.”

Mike snorted. “No offence, but you’re not my type. Now go take a load off in me truck while I see if I can work me magic. I ran the air-con the whole way so it’s cooler in there than it is out ‘ere; bloody sun would suck the spit right outta your mouth, it’s that hot. There’s also an esky on the front passenger seat with a couple of bottles of water and some apples in it if you’re thirsty or hungry. Help yourself.”

Before Nick could declare his undying love and devotion for the man again, Mike turned back to the exposed Range Rover’s engine.

Flush with a surreal sense of elated achievement, Nick flipped open the mechanic’s phone and began dialing Lauren’s number, walking to Mike’s tow truck as he did so. He
was
thirsty. And an apple wouldn’t go astray right now. When
was
the last time he had something to eat?

He’d just pulled open the truck’s passenger door when Lauren answered.

“Hello?”

Warmth and love and relief rushed through him, powerful enough to make his head swim. “Hey, babe.”

“Nick?” Worry and an almost frantic confusion filled her voice. “Where
are
you? What’s going on? I’ve been trying to ring you and text you and nothing. I’ve called Josh and Chloe. Hell, I’ve even called Aslin and what the hell
he’s
going to do from LA is beyond me. Are you okay?”

Climbing up into the truck and settling into the passenger seat, Nick laughed. “I’m okay. Honest. The Range Rover’s broken down on the M1, and my phone went flat.”

A ragged sigh answered his explanation. He smiled at it, his chest tightening. “Don’t do that to me, you bastard,” she scolded, laughter in her voice. “I had you abducted by an insane fan, or run off the road by the paparazzi. I was about to call the cops. Jax even offered to fly up and down the coast in his helicopter, following the M1 looking for you.”

Grin wide, Nick wriggled his butt on the surprisingly comfortable seat and closed his eyes. The interior of the truck
was
cool, the lingering artificially chilled air a relief from the baking heat he’d been waiting in. With all the windows down and a playful breeze streaming through them, slumping in the passenger seat was a wholly relaxing experience. “God, don’t let that happen. I’m still not convinced he actually
has
a license to fly, let alone in a chopper.”

Lauren chuckled. It was singularly the most exquisite, wonderful sound Nick had heard since touching down in Sydney. “Yeah, well, we’ve been worried.”

A smile curled Nick’s lips. “Christ, I’ve missed you, woman,” he murmured.

“Ditto,” she answered. “Where are you? Are you going to be able to drive home, or do you need me to come collect you from somewhere?”

“Let’s see what Magic Mike can do first.” He didn’t like the thought of Lauren driving all those hours to get him on crazy Christmas Eve roads. Not that he doubted her driving ability, rather that of the other people recklessly racing the clock and the laws of physics to get where they wanted to be.

“Magic Mike?” Lauren chuckled. “Is a stripper fixing your car, husband?”

Nick laughed back. He thought about opening his eyes but the thought floated away on a heavy wave of
nope
. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not his type.” Man, his tongue felt lazy in his mouth, like it didn’t want to form the words in his brain. “He already told me.”

“Oh well, in that case, I’ll definitely stop worrying.”

He chuckled, although that too felt fuzzy. A gentle breeze wafted against his face. “Do you remember our first Christmas together as husband and wife, babe?” he asked on a murmur. The need to hug her, hold her and kiss her rolled through him, so profound his heart panged.

“We had a picnic breakfast by the Murriundah river and spent the morning swimming,” she answered. “You and Josh had a water fight so epic I’m still surprised neither one of you drowned.”

Memories of that morning danced through Nick’s head at Lauren’s words. He could see his son—only sixteen at the time—dripping wet, wielding a Nerf water gun, and laughing so much he ended up with the hiccups. Lauren grinned at them both from the riverbank, gorgeous as ever in a simple black swimsuit that showed off just how beautiful and natural her body was, how lush her curves…

“Christ, I miss you,” he said again.

“I miss you too. More than you could ever hope to comprehend.”

“Show me when I get home?” he asked, smiling even as he wriggled deeper into the passenger seat. His eyes stayed closed. Better to see her in his mind that way.

“I’ve got an early Christmas present waiting for you when you get here,” she answered, and despite the heavy fog falling over him—how could he be tired? He’d slept on the plane—Nick didn’t miss the seductive suggestion and innuendo in her declaration.

“Love you,” he said. Or maybe he mumbled it? Or murmured it?

“Love you too. Give me a call when you know what’s going on, okay?”

He thought he said
okay
in return.  He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was just how comfortable he was, just how calm. Just how…

A deep thrumming sensation vibrating through his body was the first thing he became aware of. That and the sound of Bill Hailey singing about rocking around the clock. After that came the aroma of coffee, followed by a dappling light and shadow show on his closed eyelids.

Nick opened his eyes and righted himself in the seat, squinting at the world beyond the windscreen before him.

Murriundah. The main street of Murriundah.

He was in Murriundah.

“Your singin’ is better than your snorin’, mate,” a familiar voice chuckled beside him.

Twisting on the seat, Nick blinked at Mike—behind the wheel and grinning at him. “You… When did I… What…”

He stopped, looked back out at Murriundah, back at Mike, and then over his shoulder towards the back of the tow truck.

“It’s back there,” Mike said with a laugh. “I promised your missus I’d get you and it home safe ‘n’ sound.”

Nick swung his stare back to the mechanic.