Decked with Holly (8 page)

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Authors: Marni Bates

BOOK: Decked with Holly
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Chapter 8
Dominic
 
S
he thought I was gay.
More accurately, she thought that Dominic Wyatt was gay for his bandmate. She appeared to find “Nick“ plenty attractive, if her exhausted ramblings were to be taken seriously. Holly Dayton might be a walking disaster, but that particular admission had still felt damn good.
Then she had announced her theory that the guys of ReadySet were probably gay for each other.
Christ. The girl was even more screwed up than I had originally thought.
And even snoring on my couch, she was messing up my plans. All I had wanted out of this vacation was some time to relax, get some space to myself. Not an option that night. I couldn't even sleep my way through this living nightmare, because the coffee I had ordered from room service now had me wired. Which left me supercaffeinated and unable to make any noise in the room, in case it woke her up.
In my own damn suite.
It would have been one thing if I liked the girl. If we had met by the pool, struck up a casual conversation, and I had invited her to hang out in my suite . . . that would change things. Instead, she had commandeered my bathroom before openly speculating on whether I was sexually involved with my two best friends. Generally speaking, I prefer sane girls to crazy ones who demand pepper spray before they'll take me up on an offer that, frankly, they don't deserve.
Oh, yeah, she was a real treat.
I found myself glaring at her sleeping figure until she let out a pained groan and tossed around under the covers. She really had it bad: Not even a superfan could fake turning
that
sickly pale to meet me. I studied her carefully and was relieved to see that she didn't look quite as deathly ill anymore—even her lips were starting to look more normal.
But while she might be looking
less
awful, the only real benefit of having Holly Disaster around was that she had effectively eliminated the deafening silence in the room. Now I just needed to tune out the moans and whimpers long enough to compose a song. Absentmindedly picking up my drumsticks, I began tapping out a beat that sounded sort of like her: a bit sharp and staccato, but with a pulsing, jagged edge to it. It sounded nothing like anything else ReadySet had produced before . . . but it wasn't bad. Switching over to guitar the instant lyrics started coming to me, I lunged for my notebook and started scribbling:
You've got me seasick. I don't know how you do it,
But my legs aren't steady, they just won't hold
The deck is buckling and it's ready to fold
And I can tell, it's my personal hell,
It's been torture for us both
Someone's got to stop, stop the boat.
And, okay, maybe it wasn't quite as good as Tim's stuff, but I didn't think it was terrible, either. Not once we added in Tim on vocals and Chris on guitar. I scrawled madly across the pages, desperately trying to write the chords I was seeing for each instrument. I had to be able to replicate it perfectly back in LA. Tim would kill me if he ever found out that I had forgotten
exactly
how the bridge was supposed to go.
So I kept at it, tweaking old lyrics and adding new ones until the finished product actually looked producable to me. It might not be the cutting-edge indie-rock sound ReadySet was known for, but it was solid. Definitely something to keep in mind if the movie sound track contract came through. Rumor had it that the film under discussion was loosely based on Tim's boyfriend's best friend, Mackenzie, and how her embarrassing attempt at performing CPR on a high school football player (after she had accidentally body-checked the jerk with her backpack) launched her into YouTube fame.
Mackenzie probably wouldn't be thrilled to be the center of any more speculation. I doubt there is a girl less predisposed to be part of the glitter and shine of Hollywood than Mackenzie Wellesley, geek extraordinaire. Not that there is anything wrong with her. In fact, if she hadn't been so obviously hung up on a guy from her high school, I might have asked her out myself.
Thankfully, I realized early on that anything beyond basic friendship with us would be a royal failure. A long-distance relationship was the last thing Mackenzie would agree to—especially with a rock star. She had more than enough notoriety without dating me.
But my song sounded about right for her loosely based biopic. And even if the studio hired some starlet who would be in treatment for drugs, alcohol, or anorexia in a few years, the music should at least be good. I tapped the cover of the notebook thoughtfully. I might just have something of quality to show the guys after all.
Thanks, in part, to Holly.
I glanced over at her and noted that she wasn't even slightly perturbed by the music. Once she was out, apparently nothing could rouse her. I yawned hugely as my caffeine buzz faded into oblivion and blearily eyed my watch. Four in the morning. No wonder I was exhausted. The whole reason I had insisted on taking a break was because the long days, and even longer nights, of nonstop work were wearing me down. Yet my first night of official vacation and I had been busting my ass every bit as hard, if not harder, than usual.
It had to stop.
So I flipped off the hall light I'd used so as not to disturb Goldilocks on the couch and fell asleep wondering what the guys would think of the new song.
I woke up only a few hours later to a loud thump and muttered curses from my suite guest.
I growled and pulled the blanket over my face. I didn't want to deal with Holly Dayton's latest disaster. I had played white knight long enough to make amends for the pepper spray. I didn't care what she needed; I was done.
“Nick?” she called out tentatively.
“Go away, Holly.”
“Uh, do you mind if I use your bathroom first?”
Now
she was asking permission? Seriously? She was only, oh, about ten hours late on that one.
“Sure. Fine. Leave me alone.”
I heard her mumble something like, “Well, I guess
he's
not a morning person,” and fought the urge to snarl in response.
What I wanted to say wasn't complimentary.
I tried to think of the shower as a good sign that she'd be gone soon. I'd probably only have to act semi-polite for another hour, tops, before I could luxuriate in my private suite at last. And if I could just fall back asleep before she stepped out of the bathroom, I wouldn't have to do or say anything.
A brilliant plan . . . if Holly hadn't been a shower singer. It started out quietly enough but then she must have gotten caught up in the song.
A ReadySet song.
Maybe it should have been flattering: She had our band shirt, she knew all the words to our songs . . . clearly she was a superfan. And she had no idea she was enjoying a shower in the drummer's suite.
But I wasn't smiling.
Holly couldn't sing if her life depended on it.
She could warble. She could screech. She could make sounds remarkably similar to the yowling of a cat in heat. But singing? Yeah, not so much.
She was single-handedly butchering all of our biggest hits. It was so painful, I almost yelled for her to stop, but I thought better of it. Knowing her luck, my shout would startle her into slipping in the shower. Then I'd be stuck with a concussed naked girl in my bathroom.
The naked part might not be so bad if the other factors didn't exist.
Factors such as that she was more than slightly unhinged.
I could still hear her singing brokenly as she used up all the towels I had requested for
myself
the night before
.
Then she strolled into the room, wearing her jeans from last night and
my
stupid Hawaiian-print shirt as if she owned it.
Well, today Goldilocks was going to get chewed out by the bear.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ground out.
She looked at me in surprise. “I was about to fold up the couch. I'm sorry, did you want to do that yourself?”
“No, I didn't.”
“Okay then.” She walked over to her makeshift bed and started pulling the blankets off.
“That still doesn't explain why you're wearing
my
shirt!”
She turned back to me, and while she was looking better than she had last night, that wasn't saying much. Her face was still too pale and her hair clung together in long wet strands that made her look like a rather destitute, down-on-its-luck rat.
“What's the big deal? It was lying in an ugly heap on the floor. I didn't think you'd miss it.”
“You can't
steal
someone's clothes while they're sleeping!”
“I have never stolen anything in my life!” Her glare made it clear that I was irritating her almost as much as she was me.
Good.
“No stealing. You just restrict yourself to breaking and entering then.”
She rolled her red-rimmed eyes. “Will you let that go, already? I became seasick. Obviously, I would've been better off puking in anyone else's bathroom!”
I saw red. “Oh, really?
You
would have been better off. I bet you think someone else would applaud your screeching at this ungodly hour too! You're mental.”
Her back straightened. “I don't screech!”
“Trust me, I know music. The sounds you were making? That was not music.”
Holly shot me an intense glare. “I don't know what your problem is, but for the record, you're being a total jerk right now.”
There was a flurry of knocking at the door and her scowl darkened even as understanding appeared to sink in. “Oh, I get it! You're mad because you invited girls over and don't want me around. You could have said as much.” She shouldered her backpack. “It's been . . .
interesting,
Nick. Have a nice life.”
And before I could say a word about how, yes, I wanted her out but not because I had a harem of women coming, she jerked open the door.
She wasn't even able to cross the threshold of my suite.
The hallway was crammed with girls. Dozens of them, varying in ages, shapes, and sizes—but all uninvited—crowded in the doorway. Holly froze, dumbstruck in amazement, as they blinded her with camera flashes and shrieked some version of:
“DOMINIC! I LOVE YOU! MARRY ME! OH, MY GOD, DOMINIC, I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES!”
I think one of my fans might have even fainted.
Sprinting to the door, I grabbed onto Holly's backpack, yanking her back into my room, and slammed the door shut. It locked with an audible
snick
.
Shit.
Holly stared at me for a long moment. “Who the hell are you,
Dominic?
”
And that's when I knew I was officially screwed.
Chapter 9
Holly
 
O
kay, rewind. What on earth just happened?
I remembered waking up on the couch and feeling slightly better, with the nausea from yesterday lingering like the vague threat of exams at the beginning of the school year—unpleasant but not imminent danger. At least I no longer felt immobilized by my seasickness. That was a vast improvement, especially since waking up in a stranger's room was highly disconcerting. Although, I could think of worse ways to start my day. Especially since Nick, unarmed with pepper spray, was exceedingly fun to look at.
Something I distinctly recalled mentioning the night before.
I sat bolt upright, lurching out of the makeshift bed. Instead, all I accomplished was twisting the blankets around my feet, tripping myself up, toppling over . . . and landing ungracefully in a heap.
Well, that was one way to make an entrance.
Not that Nick seemed to notice. He just grumbled something into his pillow and then told me to get out. Real nice. Then again, considering the way I had barged into his life, I hadn't expected him to order breakfast and insist that I share it with him.
But we could at least try to depart on good terms.
And politeness dictated that I ask permission to use his shower instead of just helping myself. Not that I had any experience with morning-after etiquette. Maybe I should have just slipped out and returned to my cabin, but I hated the clammy layer of sweat that lingered on my skin. I seriously needed a shower before I turned my makeshift bed back into a couch. I even considered calling in for coffee as a thank you before leaving as a way to eliminate potential future awkwardness.
And maybe after a real conversation we'd even
want
to hang out. It would be nice to have someone to spend time with while I avoided the majority of my blood relations. So I shrugged off his growl and headed for the bathroom, determined to make a better impression than I had the night before.
The hot water felt absolutely fantastic, and for a minute I could ignore all the weirdness in the situation. But stepping out of the shower forced me to take stock of my clothing options. I hadn't thought to pack a change of clothes in my backpack the night before, which meant that all I had available were my jeans, the ReadySet shirt I now associated with nausea, pepper spray, and general disgustingness . . . and the Hawaiian-print shirt still lying in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Desperate times call for ugly shirts.
So I buttoned up his shirt, which effectively dwarfed my body, fully planning to return it to him that day—just as soon as I had changed into some fresh clothes of my own. Honestly, I would probably be doing him a favor if I kept the shirt, though. The thing was hideous. Even Nick of the broad shoulders and dark blue eyes couldn't make it look good.
But I guess he was pretty attached to it because his eyes started shooting daggers the second I stepped out of the bathroom.
My good resolutions evaporated when he actually
accused
me of trying to steal the damn thing.
He was being such a jerk and, frankly, I didn't have to put up with it. He could simmer in his own anger for all I cared. It's one thing to put up with criticism from my family with my grandpa around, it's quite another thing to let a guy who had recently mistaken me for a zombie make
me
feel like an idiot.
That left me with exactly zero desire to linger.
Which was probably what he was aiming for anyway: to make me leave as quickly as possible. I never should have tried to be friendly in the first place. Clearly, he thought he was above common civilities like politeness and basic courtesy.
But, whatever, he wasn't going to be my problem.
And if he thought so little of me then maybe I
wouldn't
return his stupid shirt . . . but probably not. I'm not very good at holding grudges, and becoming a thief to upset a stranger was flat-out petty. I'd just have to “rise above” again.
Later.
I stomped over to the door like a cartoon with a dark, squiggly storm cloud over my head as I wrenched the door open.
And then all hell broke loose.
There was a huge crowd of teenage girls in the hallway who must have agreed to stay silent until the door opened. But when I emerged they couldn't seem to hold back their wild screaming a moment longer.
Except at first all I registered was a wave of bright lights from the flashes and total confusion. The girls must have had the wrong room because they weren't yelling for Nick. Instead, all the girls kept screeching weird stuff like marriage offers to someone named Dominic.
And all I could think was:
Who the hell is that?
I was about to tell them that they'd made a mistake—picked the wrong suite—when an arm roughly yanked me back into the room. Swearing profusely, Nick locked the door to keep the howling girls at bay. I had expected a vapid, shallow jerk like Nick to be taking them up on their offers before telling his buddy Dominic all about it—locker-room style. The two of them had probably set this whole thing up to help Nick impress girls. Not that I expected he would need any help in that department . . . at least until he had flipped out over his butt ugly Hawaiian shirt.
Except the screaming had definitely increased when Nick sprinted into view and slammed the door.
What was it that he had said the night before about nicknames? He had a lot of them? Something along those lines. My concentration had been pretty shoddy at the time.
Now I wished I had paid closer attention.
I was staring at him, open-mouthed, when it hit me: I knew even less about The Resident of Room 329 than all the girls clamoring outside the door.
“Who the hell are you,
Dominic?
” I asked, deadly serious. I needed to know. He clearly wasn't just plain Nick the way he had claimed. Only famous people, royalty, or the exorbitantly wealthy have girls camped outside their rooms.
And it would make some sense for a member of one of the above to carry pepper spray.
So which of the three was he?
I took a step back from him. “Why do you need pepper spray,
Dominic?
Who are you?”
I don't know what I expected him to say.
I'm actually a cousin of Prince William. I rule a small country you may never have heard of, that is primarily known for its ski chalets and excellent spas.
But whatever I could have imagined him saying it wasn't, “Look at your shirt.”
I stared down at the ridiculous Hawaiian print. “What? You invested in palm fronds?” I said sarcastically. “I don't think so.”
“I said, look at your shirt. Not
my
shirt. Your shirt.”
Which could only mean my ReadySet shirt. I started walking backward away from him and when my knees bumped into his bed, I sat.
“Holy shit. You're Dominic Wyatt. From ReadySet.”
He smiled, which I took to mean that he was back to being smugly confident again. “Yes, I am.”
“Huh,” I said articulately. “And you are sure you're not gay?”
That zapped the cocky look off his face pretty fast. “Positive!”
“Really? Because I could have sworn—”
“No!” He raked a hand through his dark brown hair, mussing up his just-rolled-out-of-bed tufts even more. It wasn't fair that on him, even that looked good. “Look, I had a late night, so why don't you try not to annoy me. For a few minutes. That's all I'm asking.”
“Fine.” I eyed him expectantly while he just stood there.
“What?”
“Nothing. I'm just waiting for you to come up with a plan, right? Because I'm a little nobody who can't handle anything.”
“You've got that right,” he muttered and I glared at him.
“I was being sarcastic!”
“Yeah? Well, it's a fact. You have no idea what you've just landed us in!”
I rolled my eyes and pretended like I saw crowds of screaming girls every day. “All those tween girls outside your door were
so
terrifying. I'm shaking in your Hawaiian shirt.”
Nick—scratch that,
Dominic—
took a deep breath. “Okay, here's what's happening: Those girls are going to send those photos to all of their friends. Someone will post them on Facebook. Someone will sell them to the highest bidder. Either way, they're going to be leaked. Now, someone is bound to identify you and even before that happens there is going to be lots of speculation. Are you following me so far?”
I gulped and nodded. “What kind of speculation, exactly?”
He laughed but not like he actually saw any humor in the situation. More like if he didn't laugh he would be tempted to yell or start punching pillows. It was weird, but the longer I spent around him the more I wondered how I could have ever been fooled by his relaxed persona.
The guy was stiffer than a starched shirt.
“Speculation on everything. Where and how we met. How long we've been dating. That's what I have to look forward to and for you it'll be so much worse.”
“Worse?” I squeaked.
“Oh, yeah. The media always puts the girls through hell. They'll evaluate your every outfit. Then there are the death threats.”
I was starting to worry that my brain couldn't process any more because it had hit maximum capacity.
“Why would I have death threats? People like me. Well, most people ignore me, but the ones who don't do that generally like me.”
“People might
like
you,” he explained calmly, “but they
love
me. As in, I have a fan group that feels personally insulted if anyone ever criticizes me.”
“And that explains your ego,” I muttered because, well, it was the truth. Then again, if I had thousands of fans I'd be feeling pretty good about myself too.
“I still don't think you're getting this. ReadySet fans don't take too kindly to us forming relationships.”
I couldn't resist. “Maybe because they think you secretly belong with each other.”
“Will you get off that already?” Nick snarled.
His raised voice only set off more screeching from the girls who were probably jostling each other in an attempt to place their ears against the door.
“Dump her!” seemed like their common consensus.
“Shit.”
The guy really looked like he was nearing the end of his rope.
“Look, this whole thing will blow over. We'll just tell people the truth. I was seasick and you let me crash on the couch. I'll even leave out the pepper spray part. You'll look like a hero.”
He looked at me like I had smacked my head in the shower. “You're kidding, right? First of all: No one will believe that we didn't have sex. No matter what we say, they're not going to believe it. But that isn't even our biggest problem.”
I glared at him. “Really? Because having people implicate that I slept with you, yeah, that's problematic from where I'm sitting.”
“The problem is that you look like crap.”
I reeled back like I'd been slapped.
“No offense,” he added as an afterthought.
“Right. Because ordinarily when someone tells me I look like crap, I take it as a huge compliment.”
“It's just . . . I'm trying to be honest here. Now I'm sure ordinarily you don't look . . . like you do now. But your eyes are still red-rimmed from the pepper spray, your face is still sickly pale, and your wet hair makes it look like you just tried drowning yourself in my shower. . . . Did I leave anything out?”
I crossed my arms defensively. “No, I think you've made your point. I suppose if I looked like a model this would be so much easier to explain. Getting caught with your pants down with a girl like me, that
must
be humiliating for you.”
I gave his boxers a pointed glance and he hurriedly grabbed his jeans from off the floor and pulled them on. Honestly, until that moment I hadn't noticed he was sleeping in the same boxers and plain white T-shirt from the night before. The blankets on his enormous bed had done an excellent job of obscuring him earlier, and when there are roughly fifty screaming girls snapping photos in your face, it's rather distracting.
“I don't sleep in my jeans,” he growled. “Not that I need to defend my actions to you. This is
my
room, goddamnit!”
“Something you've made perfectly clear. So if that's all, I think it's time for me to go.”
Nick's iPad began ringing from the other side of the bed and he scrambled for it, calling over his shoulder, “Just hold off a damn minute!” Then, ignoring me completely, he accepted the call and said without preamble, “I know, Tim. I screwed things up. I'm sorry, man.”

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