The Christmas Cottage

Excerpt

Chapter One

Oh the weather outside is frightful—The radio's crooning described everything perfectly. The weather. My mood. My life since he had left me. Virginal whiteness surrounded us. The wind howled like a banshee, taking its rage out on the car. Even with the high beams on the only thing we saw ahead of us was whiteness illuminated a ghostly yellow-orange. I half expected to see two red demon eyes snap open any minute, but course, they didn't. It was December not October.

Henrik drove more cautiously than I had ever seen him. Henrik, whose motto was "the faster the better," barely pushed the speedometer above five miles per hour. Even so, I couldn't help but feel scared. My heart beat so furiously it hurt, and I kept forgetting to breathe as I imagined us plummeting off the road and plunging helplessly into some deep, dark chasm, freezing to death, disappearing and forgotten until the spring thaw.

Shuddering, I pulled my jacket tighter around me and tried to rid the macabre thoughts from my mind. When and if we reached the cottage, I would write those images down in all their grisly, gory detail. Perhaps I had just gotten the plot for my next horror novel. The idea made me sit up excitedly. After all, wasn't that what this trip was all about? To bring the horror back into my world?
I had tried to write horror so much over the past year, but I couldn't even come up with a title, much less a whole book. My muse was gone, and he was never coming back. Not this time. When I began to talk about retiring eight months ago, Henrik had sprung into action.

"You can't retire," he had said. "Think of your fans."

"I got nothing left, Henrik. I've tried to write. I want to write." My tear-filled eyes made everything blurry, and my voice was low and husky. "But I can't. Nothing comes out."

"You're just constipated." He explained as if it were obvious. "Writer's block. Happens to everyone. Remember, once you didn't write for two years."

"That was different."

"How?" He countered.

"Because," I answered simply, not wanting to talk about it anymore.

"Because how?" He persisted, knowing me well and not allowing me to avoid the subject.

"It just was. It's different this time." I was starting to get annoyed.

"What makes it different?" He kept nagging.

"Because last time, I knew he was coming back!" I erupted like Vesuvius.

The two of us stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable time. Finally, I continued.

"He's not coming back this time, Henrik," I said softly. "Not ever."

This last part was barely audible.

We were silent for eons. I couldn't even look at him. Ever since Kristian had abandoned me, I hadn't allowed anyone, especially Henrik, to see me lose my cool. I wanted to preserve that perfect record, but standing there, chest heaving, I knew I was about to break.

"I should just retire. Retire and move away to a place where nobody knows who I am."

"You can't retire. You're only twenty-eight."

"Haven't you ever heard of early retirement? Besides, I have enough money to live on. I don't need to work anymore."

"You do need to work." Henrik argued his point. "You love to work. If you retire, you'll be miserable."

"I already am."

"What about me?" he asked.

"What about you?"

"You're just gonna leave me too? You're not alone in this, Scott. I know he was your boyfriend, and you were together since you were fifteen, but he was my best friend, and me and him were together since I was five. Kris didn't just leave you. He left all of us. But you can't just give up. He wouldn't want that. Do you really think he can rest in peace if he knows what his dying is doing to you? Do you really think he's in Heaven when he has to see you miserable and not living, day after day after day?"

Henrik's words stung like a hard slap across the face. He was right. I was being selfish, feeling sorry for myself when I needed to be strong. I wasn't the first man who had lost someone he loved. Others had gotten through it. I needed to, too.

"I'm sorry," Henrik said, his apology knocking me off balance. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, I'm sorry. You're right. Kris would hate seeing me like this."

"The writing will come." He rushed to assure me.

And three days later, it did. Though not the kind I was expecting. I don't know how, but suddenly, ideas flooded my mind, crowding and shoving to get out. I went to the park every day, sat under the same tree until night blanketed the earth, and did nothing but write. Sometimes, I even forgot to eat. I bought so many spiral notebooks, the cashiers must have thought I owned stock in them.

The strange thing? The stuff that came pouring out of me wasn't my usual, trademark horror; instead, I wrote romance. I was happy and frustrated at the same time. All my life, I had wanted to be a great romance novelist, wanted to write heartbreaking goodbye scenes that made people weep and passionate love scenes that made the reader put down the book and pick up an iced tea, and now I was. Kristian was always the hero. I didn't always use his name, but it was him. A tall, muscular, young man, forever twenty-eight. Immortalized. My novels made sure he would never grow old and his looks would never fade. Shoulder-length, wavy hair the color of fresh, golden-brown French fries. A big, goofy smile full of mischief and large, sparkling, baby blue eyes. He was a hero. An ever-triumphant hero. A hero who would never die, disfigured and in pain after a suicide bomber attacked his unit during his second tour of duty in Iraq, just weeks before he was scheduled to come home.

The public gobbled up the books, but I missed scaring people. Always obsessed with all things occult and supernatural, I desperately craved to go back to those roots. When I couldn't—when I still found myself blocked in that direction—I grew even more depressed than I had been.

"Why not write one of those horror-romance things?" Henrik asked after I had confessed my dilemma. "I read online that shit's hot right now."

"I would love to write a horror-romance thing," I answered with a smirk. "I just . . . I don't know. I can get the romance but no horror. Not even paranormal."

"Your subconscious still doesn't want to deal with any danger or bad shit. Even if it is pretend," he answered.

I stared wide-eyed. He was right. But how did he know?

"Hey," he said, answering my questioning eyes. "Fuck enough head doctors, psych teachers, and their students, and you learn some stuff."

"I'm so glad you're horny 24/7," I said, hugging him tight. "Any of them ever tell you how I can cure what I got?"

"No. But in the professional opinion of Doctor Henrik Hilberg," he said, adopting a very bad Austrian accent, "I believe ze subject has got to, how you say, geet avay from ze house he shared vith his boyfriend. Only zen can he vrite ze horror again."

I laughed, though I thought he might be on to something. The house was too full of memories. Maybe a vacation would help spark the creative spooky juices.

"What do you have in mind, Doctor Hilberg?" I asked, grinning.

His face lit up. "Rex and I rented a cottage in the mountains. It's real secluded. And it's right up your alley."

"What do you mean?" I asked, wondering how a mountain cottage could be right my alley.

"The place is supposed to be haunted. I did some research, and a lot of weird shit goes on up there."

"You rented a haunted house in December? I think you got your holidays mixed up. Besides, you know I don't believe in ghosts."

Henrik looked at me in shock. "That's sacrilege. A horror writer, especially one as prolific as you, not believing in ghosts is like a virgin erotica writer. There ain't no such thing."

I rolled my eyes, bemused. Henrik believed in all things supernatural and the occult. He would fight anyone who said Bigfoot wasn't real.

"So will you come with us?" he asked. "Please? Pretty please with a smooth, barely legal twink on top?"

"Alright." I agreed with his plan and laughed at his silliness. "You said it's secluded. I should be able to get a lot done. And if this place is haunted, maybe the ghosts'll inspire me."

"Don't make fun." Henrik warned him, his expression dead serious. "Don't you watch horror movies? The ones who scoff always die first."

"Except this isn't a movie," I said.

But a vacation is just what I need, I thought, filled with excitement. Maybe getting away would help me get some closure. Or at least feel like I was living again.

* * * * *

Sitting in the backseat of the car, in yet another blistering blizzard, I had second thoughts. Watching Rex run his hands all over Henrik, kiss his cheek, and suck on his fingers filled me with an extreme sadness and maybe a little, or a lot, of jealousy. Yes. I couldn't deny entertaining the little green monster. As much as I tried not to, I couldn't help but glare at him with jealousy every time he caressed Henrik's body. I had never liked Rex, but now, watching him from my spot in the backseat, I hated him more than I had hated anyone in my life. I sat there, pretending I could shoot fire from my eyes and wondering why such a disgusting go-go boy was lucky enough to have someone . . . why he wasn't lonely every night, while I had lost the only man I wanted to grow old with. Henrik, catching my glare in the rearview mirror, quickly put an end to Rex's wandering hands.

"But Henny"—Rex pouted, bottom lip jutting out like a peak—"I'm bored. Touching you is the only thing that makes me happy. You got a body like a movie star. Whenever you fuck me, I imagine I'm doing it with a celebrity."

"I know I got a great body, babe," Henrik responded modestly. "But I gotta keep my concentration. I'm too hot to die. There's lots of guys I haven't banged yet."

"Okay." Rex relented, looking out the window.

We drove in silence. Only the crooning of the radio kept us company.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Judy Garland began singing.

Fuck you bitch, I thought bitterly, and proceeded to fall into a brooding funk for the next little while.

"Henny." Rex's whiny, lisp-filled voice broke through my thoughts. "I'm bored. The scenery's gone."

"Nothin' I can do about that, babe," Henrik answered.

Henrik had once admitted to me that he, too, found Rex as annoying as a mosquito bite on the balls. The only reason he stayed with him was because he was tall, muscular, hung like a porn star, and had a very talented mouth. Henrik also confided that Rex was incredibly kinky and nothing was off limits.

"He does things that would freak out the nastiest of freaks," he had said, squealing with obvious delight.

I'd rolled my eyes. Those were hardly reasons to stay with someone, and I had brought this up to him several times to no avail.

"Rex knows what we have is mostly physical. We care about each other and love the sex. The perfect gay relationship."

Maybe for you, I thought now, but not for me.

"Anyone want some cookies?" Rex offered, stuffing a handful into his face. "They're good."

"Share the wealth, my sexy boy," Henrik said, caressing Rex's cheek before grabbing a handful of cookies from the cellophane-wrapped plastic tray.

"Want some, Scott?" Rex asked, turning around and offering me some. "They have chocolate chips in them."

Even though I wasn't in the mood for cookies, I took two. Munching them slowly, I salivated. They were the best cookies I'd ever eaten.

"Do you like them?" Rex asked wide-eyed, voice stained with fear.

"They're great, Rex. Thank you," I said, meaning every word.

It was the first compliment I'd ever paid him. The first time I'd ever been nice to him. His eyes lit up like the Times Square Christmas tree. His face turned red as Rudolph's nose.

"Thanks," he said and grinned, voice even mousier than usual. "I made them myself."

"You bake?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I had seen Rex ask Henrik how to use the microwave.

"It was my first time." He paused, and then giggled. His face grew bright red, and he covered it with his hands. "Oh, my God! It's been years since I've said that to a guy!"

Holding his stomach, he howled as if he'd just told the funniest joke in the world. When he regained control, he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and continued. "Henrik told me chocolate chip was your favorite, and I wanted to make them for you."

Stunned, I sat and stared. This was the nicest thing Rex had ever done for me. After all the awful things I had said to him, I truly didn't deserve his kind cookies.

"Thank you." I finally found my voice, worrying I would cry and this would turn into a big, corny, clichéd moment.

"It was my way of thanking you for coming up here with us. I know you don't like me, and I was hoping this would make you want to be my friend."

I couldn't even look at him. Even though I hadn't tried to hide how much I loathed him, it still bothered me that he knew. I guess I'd just thought he was so dumb he wouldn't realize how I felt. I had convinced myself he thought I was teasing him. Joking with him. Hearing him sound so much like a small boy, desperately seeking my approval and friendship, made me hate myself for hating him. Hating him for being so gorgeous. So muscular. For having someone. And, I had to admit, hating him for being comfortable enough with himself to not give a damn what anyone thought. He was perfectly happy to act like a femme, complete with lisp, giggle, and a need for splints to keep his wrists straight.

Taking a breath, I chose my words very carefully. "Rex, I think we started out on the wrong foot."

"Was it because I was always asking if I could sleep with you?" he asked.

"That was a big part of it," I answered. "But let's forget all of that. Let's start over."

He smiled as if I'd just given him the keys to Shangri-La. "I'd like that."

I don't know why, but at that moment, a lot of the envy, jealousy, and hate I felt for Rex melted away. Maybe the season had something to do with it . . . . it was nearly Christmas, after all.
By the time we reached the cottage, Rex and I were laughing and joking like old friends. While he wasn't the brightest guy around, I could see why Henrik was with him. He had this vulnerable innocence you couldn't help but be attracted to. It was almost like, even though he was a go-go boy and well versed in the world's perversions, you still wanted to hold onto him so you could protect him and keep his "innocence" intact.

Henrik's eyes in the rearview mirror spoke volumes. Thank you, they said. I knew you two would be friends. I knew if you got to know him and gave him a chance, you'd like him.