A Billionaire for Christmas

It was a contemptible, bastardized mess, but it felt more right than anything he had written in his life.

Killer Valentine would never play those little musings. His songs didn’t even have lyrics, for God’s sake, and they were entirely in the wrong style, more sweet ballad than rock anthem.

Peyton got the backpack seated correctly on his shoulders—no use irritating the tendonitis in his elbows from hours of practice and performance with his arms unnaturally cocked around the bass guitar—and grabbed his bags.

Just as Xan fucking Valentine strode out of the elevator.

His blond hair, reverse-highlighted with chunky black strands, blew behind him as he walked with purpose toward the coffee stand. He might as well have been wearing a billowing cape that rode the wind as he walked. His security guy, Paul, strode alongside him, squinting and glaring at the crowd in the lobby.

Why didn’t that guy order room service like a normal celebrity?

A chorus of feminine squeals and a couple of guys’ shouts swelled around Xan as he walked. Xan waved to them, and the coffee stand barista waved him up to the front of the line.

Oh, yeah. Because Xan was an adoration vampire, as Tryp called him.

Even though Xan Valentine had Georgiana Oelrichs in his bed every night and beside him on the stage, even though Xan was the love of her life, even though Xan was a French duke and held a low, single-digit succession number to an actual European throne, that guy still sucked in the attention of anonymous, screaming fans like he would die without it.

That’s why Xan ventured out and created a ruckus wherever he went.

Not that Peyton was usually so sarcastic about him. It was all settled and had been for a long time now. Georgie’s kidnapping had been over a year before. Cadell and Andy had been married for nine months.

Over at the coffee stand, Xan Valentine was signing coffee cups and napkins.

Besides, Peyton was looking forward to seeing Raji. He didn’t pine for Georgie at all anymore.

His chest didn’t hurt when he thought of Georgie anymore. That regretful pang was long gone.

When he thought of Raji, however, late at night when he was alone in his hotel bed, that was when the heaviness settled in again.

Peyton glanced at his feet and tapped his phone app to call his ride. The app said a car would be in front of the hotel within four minutes.

Xan Valentine marched across the hotel lobby toward the elevators, holding a rack of two coffees in one hand and raising his other to respond to the fans screaming at his retreat.

Peyton kept his eyes on his phone, trying to be invisible. Xan was probably preoccupied with the groupies, anyway.

“Oy! Peys!” Xan yelled across the lobby space and chattering voices.

Dammit.

Peyton asked, “Yeah?”

“What’re you doing down here?” He surveyed Peyton’s luggage, and his eyebrows dipped. “Going somewhere?”

Xan’s voice was low, almost menacing.

His mercurial moods dismayed Peyton. “Just visiting friends since we’ve got a few days off.”

“But we don’t,” Xan said. “We’re working on demos for the next album. We’ve got decisions to make before we cut the demos.”

They were always discussing the music, getting ready to cut more demos. It was a ceaseless cycle of demos, recording, and touring. “You don’t need the bass guitarist there to discuss that contribution. I’ll jump in there and bum-bum-bum,” he mimicked the low tones of the bass, “just like always. You need to be there. Cadell needs to be there. Georgie and Tryp, somewhat. But me? You’ll never notice I’m gone.”

“I notice when you’re gone,” Xan said, anger snapping in his dark eyes. “I notice that you’re gone a lot. I notice that any time we have more than two days between shows, you’re running out of the hotel so fast that you leave skid marks. What’s going on?”

Peyton shrugged, keeping his body language thoroughly casual. No need to invite scrutiny. “Just seeing friends.”

“We’re your friends.”

“True, but I have other friends.”

“What kind of other friends?” Xan asked.

“Musicians. Old friends from school.”

“Do I know them? Would we have friends in common?”

“No.”

Xan grabbed Peyton’s wrist and yanked his arm up.

“What the fuck?” Peyton jerked his arm away.

“Let’s see your veins, Peyton.”

“Why would you—Good God, Xan! I’m not using heroin!”

“Then why are you jetting out of the hotels every chance you get? And if it’s not heroin, what is it? Angel dust? Coke? Meth?”

Peyton slapped his bulging pectoral muscle through his tee shirt. “Do I look like I’m smoking meth?”

“Rade looked great for an addict. Look where that got him.”

“I’m not doing drugs, Xan.”

“All this sneaking around has to be for a reason.”

Peyton’s phone flashed a message on the screen. He grabbed his roller bag and hitched his backpack farther up on his shoulders. “My ride is here. I’m leaving. When I get back, I’ll pee in a cup for Andy, and you can test me for every drug you can think of.”