I do not own The Hunger Games.
Triggers: Breastfeeding, Post-Partum Depression
GNO34: Shake Up Christmas
"Get your stuff together. We're going back to L.A."
"What?" Katniss struggles under the pile of young bodies as they tickle her. She's barely listening until she pushes through the puppy-pile and sees my face. "Jo? What's going on?"
"Just…get your stuff together. We're leaving."
Leave it to Charles to get in the way as I try to leave the room. "You can't leave. You're grounded."
Like I care. I point a finger at his chest. "Do Mom and Dad ever leave the boys with you?"
His eyes light up with pride. "Yeah, sometimes."
"Good. You're in charge, then."
Katniss doesn't say a word, not even when she sees me walking out of my parents' room dangling the car keys. Maybe she notices the determination on my face, or maybe she's afraid I'll leave her with my family by herself. Or maybe it's a little of both that has her hustling to keep up as I carry my bags downstairs and leave my Dad a quick note telling him I'll call. I don't say I'm sorry even though I know I'm going to end up in trouble. But on my way out the door, I hug Caleb and Christian tightly to me and kiss the tops of their heads.
Charles won't put up with the public display of affection and I don't let on that it bothers me. "When will you be back?" he asks.
"I'm not sure. You've got this, right?" Something about his look reminds me of Gale when he nods, which would make me want to smile if I weren't so distracted. "Good. Promise me you won't go near the pool until Dad's here."
He rolls his eyes. "We'll be fi-"
"Promise!" I grip both of his shoulders tightly. He winces, like I'm hurting him. I probably am, but I need him to hear me.
He at least understands the urgency because he's not the least cocky when he finally says, "We won't go near the pool."
"Good." I muss his hair for good measure and he reflexively smacks at me. Satisfied, I turn to Katniss. "Let's go."
-o—
I fill Katniss in on what I know, which isn't much. She's quiet for most of the two hour drive. Not that she's much of a chatterbox, normally. I can't help but assume she's trying to give me space to think things through and come up with the best strategy. I can't though. My mind runs in a million directions: I have no idea what we're walking into. I'm normally Finn's wingman, so I hope he has a plan once we get there. We're usually in his car, listening to his crappy playlists, getting crumbs all over his center console. But he's not here and I'm in charge. Suddenly it hits me – Finn and I will never talk girl-talk in my room again, or work out the perfect after-wax elixir. He'll never sleep on the floor and cry over some girl whose name he won't remember in a week.
That part of my life is over. This is all new territory.
Everdeen doesn't even say a word even when we pull into the underground parking garage of Finn's high-rise in downtown L.A. I have to give my name to the attendant who confirms that I'm on Finn's "list of visitors", but after that we're free to park. My new-old car is out of place amidst the parked Mercedes and BMW's. I lock it anyway because we're in downtown L.A. Katniss checks out the elevator on the way up to Finn's place. I can tell she's impressed at how quiet it is. It's the sort of building that has a concierge desk and free dry cleaning. Too bad that Finn needs those things about as much as I need a hole in the head. There's no funky smells in the hallway here, either; if any of the residents eat stinky food, I'm pretty sure they get evicted on the spot.
Finn hugs me when he answers the door. He looks like shit – haggard and pale, with spit up on his shoulder, and spiky hair like he's been running his fingers through it. His jeans look like they haven't been washed in a days. He smells like pee and baby wipes.
"What's up with her?" I motion to Annie, who's rocking silently back and forth on the couch.
He shakes his head. "I don't know. She's been like this off and on for a few days. She'll be fine for hours, then she'll start to cry and I can't calm her down. Eventually, she cries herself out like this and it starts all over. It's worse at night."
"But Sam's okay?"
"Yeah. He seems fine. But it's hard to do laundry and meals and deal with him and Annie at the same time. I haven't even showered today." He wrinkles his nose.
"So I smelled. Why don't you go take one now? Katniss and I can handle whatever out here." I notice Katniss has taken a seat on the couch and is talking quietly to Annie. "Have you guys eaten anything today?" I figure I might as well make myself useful, right?
Finn grins sheepishly. "We've, uh, been living on Peeta's care package and mac and cheese."
"Fruit cake and mac and cheese? That is not nutrition and you know it!" The thought turns even mystomach.
"He didn't send us a fruitcake. We got a whole bunch of Christmas cookies this year. And you're really going to lecture me about nutrition?" He laughs, looking more like the old Finn by the second.
I smack him on the arm and then push him toward the bathroom. "Go. Make yourself beautiful, please, or Katniss and I might have to bail." I cross to the stainless steel and granite kitchen that I'm used to Finn keeping pristine. It's not that different now, which is my first clue that maybe Finn isn't kidding. It's confirmed when I open one side of his fridge and find out-of date orange juice, mustard, and bread.
"Fuck," I mumble under my breath. "Even Peeta couldn't make anything with this. We're gonna have to go grocery shopping."
-o—
"Are your parents pissed?" Katniss asks as I walk in from the balcony. She's looking expectant, sitting cross-legged in the middle of a sleeping bag in Finn's guest room-slash-office.
I sigh and flop down next to her onto my own nest of blankets on the floor. "You have no idea. Forget giving up my room; I'm pretty sure they want disown me." I leave out that my mom won't even speak to me, and my heart still aches from the hurt in my dad's voice when he asked if I was coming home tomorrow for Christmas Eve.
I tried to explain to him how bad things are here. How Annie had frozen up when Sam started to cry in the grocery store. And when I had suggested that she breastfeed in the store, both she and Finn had looked at me like I had sprouted a second head. I explained that it was no big deal, Mom used to do it all the time – we could drape her shoulder with a blanket and she could walk while holding him. Annie had burst into tears even before I had finished. Finn had had to walk her to back to the car so she could feed there while Katniss and I finished up in the store. Then, once we were done and ready to leave, she had started to cry again when we had taken a sleeping Sam from her to strap him into his car seat. She had cried the entire way back to the apartment, even when we gave Sam back to her. Katniss had had to sit with her for an hour, plying her with chamomile tea, rubbing her back, and urging her to rest.
Which is why I wanted to talk to Mom: I figured she could help me figure out what to do.
"You were pretty good with her out there." My voice is muffled as I straighten my legs out into some stretches. I'm hoping the pull will help me take my mind off the pain in my heart.
I think I hear Katniss snort. "Yeah, well, I'm used to dealing with something like that." When I stop, perplexed, she sighs and continues, "My mom was like that after my dad died. Actually, I think she was worse than this in the beginning."
I can't even imagine what her mother must have been like if what we've been through today is a sign of improvement. It puts a new spin on Katniss, her desire for order, and her need to separate herself from people sometimes. It also explains her fierce protectiveness when it comes to Prim.
"We should get Annie on a schedule. That really seemed to help us – but especially Mom – cope."
I nod because it's as good an idea as any.
-o—
"You gonna help me fold, Odair, or what?" I push Finn's feet off the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary. Everdeen and I have singlehandedly take on the piles of laundry that have accumulated on the floor of Sam's room.
"I'm taking a break."
"Oh?" I cock an eyebrow. "Can I put a timer on your break? Because this is not how I imagined spending Christmas break."
He gets up with a whiny protest and pulls some underwear out of the basket. Folding it, he looks up with his most charming smile. "You know, most girls would die to get in my underwear like this."
I snort, but can't help but smile a little. "Not this one. Now less lip, more laundry."
He's quiet through a few more skivvies before he mumbles, "Sorry, Jo. For not helping. I'm just…really tired."
Oh, I hear him. If the past couple of nights are any indication, I have no idea how he's still functional. Between Annie getting up to feed the baby, switching between breastfeeding and pumping, and then prepping bottles, it's like Union Station out in the living room. Even Katniss and I are exhausted, and we're sleeping in a room with a door. Finn, whose bed is in the loft over the living room, can hear every single thing clear-as-day.
"Why don't you go lay down? I've got the rest, and Annie, Sam, and Katniss won't be back for a little while," I tell him.
Everdeen's been going stir crazy cooped up in the apartment. When she found out that Annie hasn't been out of the apartment in weeks – barring our disastrous shopping trip – Katniss cajoled her to take a short walk. The three of them packed up enough stuff to camp for a week, and Katniss had to agree to return to the apartment if Sam got fussy and wanted to eat, but it was something. I am almost jealous of her time outdoors, even if it's just to pace the gray streets of downtown like the dumb pigeons that don't even realize they can fly.
He nods and shoots me a grateful smile before taking himself up the loft stairs. I figure I have time to finish folding and then maybe I can shut my eyes as well.
A few minutes after laying down, I've given up on trying to nap and end up on the internet to check out my favorite Tumblr porn blogs. I'm seriously disappointed when I realize how boring they are. On a whim, I Google "post-pregnancy sleep deprivation" and begin to read. I'm still at it when Katniss, Annie, and Sam return.
"How'd it go? Any freak outs?" I ask when Katniss pops her head into the room.
"Alright. She's…she doesn't talk much. The minute Sam started to fuss, she started tugging at her hair and shaking and crying. I had to hustle her back here. She seems really concerned that she's not doing a good job of feeding him. She counts. Have you heard it?"
I nod. In the middle of the night, Annie wakes me up with her quiet sobs as she counts over and over. I think about the fact that Annie's getting almost no sleep and wonder how much of her anxiety is related to that. "I think we need to get her to sleep."
"How are we going to do that when she has a fit every time Sam eats?" Katniss doesn't have to tell me that there's barely time for any of us to get sleep between feedings right now, let alone time to get Annie to calm down, too.
I frown. "What about…let's try waking up with her at night. If we can help her get whatever she needs organized so that she's not puttering around for half of her sleeping hours, that's got to help, right? We can do shifts: I can take midnight to four. You take four to eight. "
"What about before that?"
"We'll make Finn pick that up." I feel slightly more in control now that we're going to try something to help. "What's for dinner?"
"Chicken breast with sweet glaze, pineapple, and peppers over rice. And a salad." Katniss's bizarre menu memory for Peeta's cooking is really paying off: we've been using it as the basis for whatever we cook, since none of us are very creative. Or rather, I'm creative but we need something with actual nutrition and not just a carb one night stand.
"Okay. I'll be out to help in a second."
Katniss turns, bumping into my purse and knocking it off the dresser. "Dammit! Sorry," she mutters as she scoops the contents back into it. She holds up a small envelope. "Jo, is this the invitation to Angus's Christmas party?" She scans it for the date. "It's tomorrow night!"
"So?"
"You should go."
"No way. We've got too much going on here…" I don't want to admit that the party is so far out of my league that I've never entertained a single thought of going.
"Oh, come on. Finn and I can handle Annie and Sam for a few hours."
I shake my head. "I don't have anything to wear. And I somehow doubt I can show up in jeans and a t-shirt, no matter who invited me."
She taps the invite against her palm with a thoughtful look. "If I can figure out the 'what to wear' part, will you go?"
"What's the fuck, Everdeen? Why are you pushing this?" I'm cranky and probably being too harsh. But can't she just drop it?
"I just…I know that you hate being cooped up as much as I do. And, somehow, I don't think walking around the block with a stroller is your style. You've got to be going stir-crazy…ergo, consider it my Christmas gift to you this year."
"Hanging out with in high society? Yeah. Because that seems like fun," I scoff, even though she's right. I'm ready to bite Finn's head off, and it's taking everything in me to stay patient with Annie. I assess Katniss's devious look. "Are you – you're not trying to set me up, are you?"
She brushes a strand of hair from her suddenly flushed face. "No. Why would you think that? It's just that Brue's the only guy you've gotten horizontal with this year. I just thought that you guys might consider a repeat."
I smack my fist down on the desk so hard my laptop bounces. "Oh. My. God. There's nothing between Brue and I-"
She shoots me a sly look. "That's what I said about Peeta. Remember?"
-o-
You know that scene in every Cinderella rip-off where she stands and gawks at the palace? Where the sweep of the driveway gives way to a fountain and maybe some steps upward and she smiles in awe, unable to believe her good fortune and looks forward to meeting her handsome prince?
Yeah, this isn't like that at all.
Okay, so the mansion literally looks like something out a romance novel – all high, imposing walls symmetrically flanking a front door that looks like it takes two men to open it. The way the lighting reflects off the gray stone gives it a festive air, as do the pine garlands and wreaths attached to each of the dozens of windows along the front of the house. But I definitely don't feel like Cinderella, and she wasn't regaled with loud bagpipe music as soon as she got out her car. And as for the prince…don't get me started. At least I'm not late, despite my pumpkin being stuck in sucky L.A. traffic. And I'm not dressed like her, either. No big, frilly dress for this girl.
When Katniss asked Annie if she might have anything formal that would fit me, Annie was more enthusiastic than she had been about anything since we arrived. What followed was something between a girl sleep-over, and a New York fashion show - -it was so giggly that Finn, the same guy who had twenty cheerleaders get ready for our high school's Homecoming dance in his hotel room, told us he was going to work out so he could give us some space.
With him out of the way, Annie shoved dress after dress in my direction and made me try them all on. It's a good thing that she and I are both of a similar height and shoulder widths, because there's no way some of those outfits would have fit otherwise. I'm not exactly sure what Annie was doing at boarding school, but she had enough formal wear to fill half the closet in Sam's room. I finally called it quits after an hour – how many green dresses can one girl try on? Katniss begged me for one more after I vetoed this slim-fitting, high-necked number she and Annie loved, saying it made me look like a tree.
A freaking tree.
So pardon me if I questioned her judgment when Annie came out with what looked like a satin washrag dangling from the hanger. "This is it, this is the one. I've never had the guts to wear it, but it's totally you."
"It looks like something you won in capture the flag," I scoffed.
Katniss shot me a look. "Try it on."
"I can't even find the front, are you kidding? Let's just admit that this little Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants moment didn't work and move on."
But a little while, and a whole lot of cajoling later, I had to admit that the look worked for me. A deep bronze color, the dress draped in the front before tapering to an ax-blade of a sheath that fell to mid-calf. Antique gold lace appliques on each side emphasized the tight waist. The cowl of the neckline streamed in a ribbon from each shoulder blade, emphasizing the expanse of skin left completely bare and ending in another drape that accentuated my butt.
Annie crossed her arms triumphantly. The bitch.
Even Katniss was taken aback. "You look-"
"—Like a shot of Jaeger?" I quipped, turning this way and that so the smooth satin caught the light.
Katniss shook her head. "Like a total bad-ass."
"Oooh! I forgot!" Annie rushed back into Sam's room and returned with a small clutch purse and a handful of gold. "Jewelry!"
I stared at the bangle she thrust at me. It looked real, its knobby, burnished gold was a hefty weight in her hand. That's when it dawned on me that the tag still hanging from the dress was the price, not some weird SKU, and I was wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my car. And we hadn't even gotten to shoes yet. "Annie, this is too much. I can't-"
Her eyes, shining a moment ago, filled with tears. "Please, Jo? You and Katniss are helping us so much."
Fuck. She's a faucet! I backed off and grabbed the bangle and earrings from her before she started to cry in earnest.
So that's how I ended up letting Katniss do my hair while Annie did some design in gold body paint all over my back: a few threatened tears, some giggles, and Katniss and Annie pushing me out the door like some perverted fairy godmothers.
-o-
I run the gauntlet of bagpipers and climb the steps to the imposing front doors. That's a great set of knockers, I think for a second, staring at the set of lion heads that are the size of Angus's fists. I take a deep breath, mentally squaring my shoulders and boosting my bust. Two men in full-on Scottish gear swing open the great doors.
I freeze for a second on the threshold, blinded by the reflection of light on all the shiny surfaces of the two-story foyer. And there are a lot of them: the entire back wall is floor to ceiling glass, the floor is an imposing expanse of dark wood polished to a high sheen, and the center of the back wall holds the largest fresh Christmas tree I have ever seen. Just the smell of all that pine refreshes me in a way I can't describe as I move into the receiving line.
"Lass, ye made it!" Angus, looking like a Highland laird from way back, thumps me on the shoulder as I try not to wince. "And ye look gorgeous." His thick burr is even more pronounced and I idly wonder if he's hit the Scotch already.
"Speaking of gorgeous…" I lean to kiss Elizabeth. If Angus is brawny, Elizabeth is as cool and composed as a flower in a cream dress that brings out glow of her skin and the blue of her eyes. I'm surprised that her jewelry is minimal – especially in L.A.- except for a heavy pin that holds a bit of a tartan scarf to her neckline. I have to assume it's the MacLeod plaid, since Angus is sporting it too, as is the monolithic Christmas tree. "Elizabeth, that is the largest Christmas tree I've ever seen," I tell her.
She shoots a wry look toward Angus."Angus, I told you - it's too big."
"Bah. The lass is daft. There's no such thing as too big."
I can't help but giggle at his expression, or Elizabeth's helpless shrug. "Ignore him, Johanna," she says. She immediately moves into a speech she must have down pat, "Through there is the bar, and there's a buffet and dancing on the patio behind us. Just head through any of the French doors. Have a good time, dear." A quick squeeze of my hand and I'm released from the line and on my own.
-o—
Holy crap, there are kilts everywhere. I can't get over the twisting kaleidoscope of patterns and textures as the guests dance. I had expected Angus would use this as an excuse to wear full Scottish evening dress, I just hadn't anticipated so many other men joining in. In a city full of women striving for a specific look every day, seeing men dressed up like this is a pleasant change. Even without any alcohol, I feel a little dizzy just watching all those pleats swirl. Maybe a trip to the buffet is in order. God knows, I'm grateful for any meal I don't have to cook.
"Jo?"
I whirl around, almost losing my balance, but Brue's hands are there to steady me. He seems to know when I can stand upright and releases me. I'm still not sure my legs will hold me, though, as one word keeps repeating itself in my head.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck….
Because, if I thought a picture of Brue in a kilt was fucking hot, the real thing is so bang-worthy that my legs are already jelly. I don't think I've ever seen him actually use product in his hair, and the crisp whiteness of his shirt contrasts with his tan. How could I have known that a kilt would hug his hips like that? Or that my eyes would be drawn to them, thinking about the little "V" his abs make? If that's not enough, his dress jacket is tailored so he looks like he could be on the cover of a romance novel. A tawdry romance novel.
I swear, I just had a little orgasm over the fact that he's wearing a vest under his jacket. Did I mention that I find vests fucking hot? His eyes sparkle in a way that suggests he knows exactly what I'm thinking, the bastard. I know my mouth is hanging open, and my panties would be soaked through if I was wearing any.
I close my mouth with a click that I'm sure he can hear and clear my throat. "Hi."
"I didn't expect to see you here! You look-"
"Like a shot of Jaeger?" I cut in. Because that's how I feel in this dress. Like I could cut through anything.
He stops for a second, as if considering my interruption. Finally, he smirks and nods in acknowledgement. "Yeah. Something like that." I raise an eyebrow at him, but he ignores it. Motioning to where a bunch of couples are dancing in front of a stage, he asks, "Would you like to dance?"
I don't think Brue has any idea what might be opening himself up to with that offer. The mere thought of me putting my hands on his vest under that jacket is enough that I want to fan myself. And the image of me scraping my nails up his thighs to see if he's authentic under his kilt? I almost have to grab my stomach, it tightens so painfully.
So I quip, "No way. I'm afraid you'll hit me with your man-purse."
His brows draw together. "My wha-you mean my sporran?" He motions to the leather and silver pouch he wears on a chain at his waist. Like I need another excuse to drop my eyes to his dirk.
"Yeah. What's that for? I mean, what do you put in there? It's not very practical." I suppose it could be an erection hider. I mean, if you're free-balling below it, having something to cover that up is handy.
"Not very practical? But your tiny little purse is? What's in that?" He motions to the completely impractical clutch that I'm only using because it matches my dress.
"My license and insurance cards, a credit card, some cash, lipstick, mints and condoms." At his surprised look, I defend, "Hey, you never know who you're going to meet at one of these things."
He laughs, showing his sparkling-white teeth, and almost making me whimper. "I'm just surprised that little thing can hold all of that. As for what's in my sporran, pretty much the same thing. Because you never know who you're going to meet at one of these things." He winks.
Dammit, he's using the voice that stars in my fantasies again.
"How about we just go check out the buffet, then?" He motions his arm to the heavily laden tables set up on the opposite side of the patio, away from the band and dancing.
I'm game for that. After all, I'm sure the food is off-the-hook, and having something to do with my hands will keep me from doing something I'll regret. Like slipping the metal buttons of his vest free and then fisting the sides of his shirt until every button pops open and I can lick down his hedge-trimmed happy trail. When I nod, he moves to put a hand in the middle of my back.
I side-step. "Woah - don't touch the back. Annie spent an hour on it and I'm sure she'll kill me if I wreck it this soon."
He raises an eyebrow, then circles behind me and lets out a low whistle. "This is amazing." I swear I can feel a finger trace the air next to my spine.
"It kept her from crying." I shrug.
"You haven't seen it?"
When I shake my head, I hear a little rustling, then a click and a flash. "Check it out." He thrusts his cell phone at me.
I marvel that he's got enough room in his sporran for a cell phone too – like it's Dora's magical backpack – before I check out exactly what Annie did to the blank canvas that is my exposed back. Brue's right: it's amazing. Annie's taken the elaborate design of the appliques and created it as one large design in gold body paint and tiny jewels. No wonder she told me I didn't need much jewelry.
"Wow." I say, and hand him back the phone.
"Wow? That's all you can say? You really have no idea how you look tonight, do you?" Suddenly he's next to me and aims the cell phone at us both. I'm blinking from the flash before I know what hit me. "Look. You're a warrior, Jo."
And I am. Standing next to Brue in all his finery, I look lethal from my elaborately braided hair to the clunky, hammered gold arm band gripping my upper arm, to the satin that hugs my legs. If he's a peacock, I'm the ax that will chop off his head.
I grin. "I'm hungry."
He stashes the cell phone and grins back. "Then let's go conquer that buffet." He offers his arm in a grand gesture, ever the gentleman.
We fill up on everything from turkey to a standing rib roast, mashed potatoes, and some sort of deep-fried vegetable. I skip the salad and the rolls in favor of saving room for the dessert table because I think I spy Peeta's fruitcake porn.
"Is that Peeta's fruitcake?"
Brue nods. "He sent one to my dad, who has no idea what to do with it. I gave it to Grandda, and he thought it should be shared. From the look on your face, I'm going to have to fight you for it, aren't I?"
"I'll win." I'm not even joking. I would walk through fire for that cake. "We got one too. It didn't last a day. I was hoping Finn and Annie would still have theirs, but all they got was a cookie assortment." I frown and wonder if Peeta's losing his touch, but the thought is immediately eclipsed as I savor a bite of buttery, creamy mashed potatoes. Really, is there anything better than mashed potatoes?
"Try this." Brue holds out his fork, which cradles some sort of dark meat and dressing. He laughs at my arched eyebrow. "Come on, Jo. It's goose, not poison. Try it."
I take a bite. It's dark and smooth - almost greasy - and has a strongly-wild taste. Paired with the sausage, cranberry, and nuts, and it's spicy and sweet and tart and gamey all at once. It would be phenomenal paired with Peeta's Porter. "That's goose? There's something else in the stuffing-"
"It's elk sausage, cranberries, nuts, and honey bread. One of my uncles hunts."
I turn to look at the tables, so full they're practically groaning under the weight of all the food. "You mean someone makes all this stuff?"
Brue shrugs, like it's never occurred to him to wonder where all the food came from. "Yeah. I mean, Grandma brings in caterers to round out the edges. And the desserts are mostly brought in, with the exception of some cookies."
"I wish I'd known. I would have brought something."
"No thanks. We don't want anything based on mac and cheese or crescent rolls." At my dirty look, he grins. "Now, tell me about Annie and Finn and their mysterious lack of fruitcake."
So, I do. I tell him about Finn's call and Annie being an exhausted mess. I explain that we're trying to get her to sleep and eat like a human being. Of course, he scoffs at the fact that I would be giving anyone nutrition advice. I tell him that we switch off who's cooking between Katniss and me. Finn picks up the slack. I say that I'm optimistic, and that even the walking with Katniss seems to help, although Annie still freaks about breastfeeding anywhere outside of the apartment.
Halfway through the tale of my return to L.A. we end up at the dessert table. He slices me some of the fruitcake, tops it with whipped cream and adds a few cookies to the plate as well.
Not wanting anything crowding my cherry chocolate bliss, I take a bite of the golden shortbread that melts on my tongue, buttery and only faintly sweet. It's studded with some sort of pale gray seed that lends it the same pungent tang as rye bread. "What are these?"
Brue's eyes twinkle. "Abernethy biscuits. They're a digestive."
I almost choke. "Haymitch has biscuits?" The thought doesn't stop me from taking another bite, though. They're the perfect end to a meal – especially one as heavy as what we just ate. I can see Angus skipping any other dessert and just having this and whisky. I sigh when the last one is gone and move on to the reason I went light on the meal. Hell, I even skipped drinking for this cake. I can't help but moan a little as the first bite crosses my lips.
Brue's fork pauses on the way to his mouth. "You really do love your desserts, don't you?"
"What's not to like? This is perfection." I punctuate the statement with a lick of my fork.
Brue's eyes follow my tongue. "Do you need to be alone for a moment? Because I'd bet my garters that you want to know there's éclairs on the other end."
I barely break my stride, although the word "éclair" does funny things to me. Or is it the image of Brue in garters and nothing else? I point the tines at his chest and narrow my eyes. "Do not toy with me over French pastry."
"I wouldn't dream of it. I'll go grab a couple."
What Brue brings back are fallen bits heaven. Each tiny éclair eschews the pretension of chocolate ganache and is, instead, crowned with some sort of spread that glistens like the best sort of edible Astroglide. I eye them greedily and he lets me pick one before taking the other for himself. I waste no time and bite into the lusciously creamy blend of strawberries, cream, and pâte à choux.
"Oh my God," I breathe with my eyes closed.
"You okay there, Mason?" I can hear the laughter in his tone and imagine his smirk. When I open my eyes, he's watching me, pastry barely touched. He smiles bashfully, like I caught him staring. To make it up to me, he holds out his barely touched cream-filled wonder. "You want this?"
"You don't?" I'm astounded. Clearly, there must be something wrong with Brue MacLeod for him to turn down the best dessert I've ever had that wasn't baked by a Mellark.
He shakes his head and moves a little closer so I'm literally eating out of his hand while he watches. It would be an erotic enough moment – his gaze heavy on mine as the burnt sugar topping explodes like a brulee orgasm in my mouth – if there wasn't someone clearing his throat next to us.
"Brue? There you are!"
My eyes widen at the unfamiliar voice, especially when I can already feel Brue pulling away. I grab the last bite and I lick my lips as I assess this new threat: our visitor is tall and lanky with ginger, wavy hair and blue eyes. Almost impossibly for a red-head, he's tan and without freckles, which sets off the MacLeod plaid nicely.
The MacLeod plaid. Fuck.
"Dad, this is my friend Johanna Mason."
Brue's dad doesn't hold out a hand, which is good because I have no idea what to do with my plate. He quietly assesses me. I get the distinct feeling he's not impressed when he does nothing more than nod in my direction before turning to Brue. "You almost ready?"
"I don't see why we have to do this every-"
"Now." There's an imperious tone to his dad's voice that I imagine came right from Angus. And now that he's annoyed, I can see the similarity between father and son: it's in their eyes as they frown, the curl of their hair as it flops slightly over their foreheads. He literally grabs Brue's plate, thrusts it at me with barely a glance, and guides his son away.
I'm amazed at the audacity of the man for a minute. And I thought Finn's dad was a dick? This guy makes Mr. Odair look like a charmer. With people skills like the ones I just saw, it's no wonder Brue's so quiet. But I have to admit that I'm curious as I see the two of them pause to say hello to a guy wearing black leather pants and mirrored aviators, especially when I realize that it's Lenny Kravitz. Holy crap. I'm at a party with Lenny Kravitz! I force myself to focus past Kravitz's amazing sense of style – and a great ass, I might add – as they continue past to stand next to the stage. Brue pulls off his jacket and, as his dad talks to him, he unfastens and rolls his French cuffs. Something about the way he moves the pressed cotton over his forearms has me gripping the plates for dear life, remembering the way those hands had moved over me just as deliberately.
Suddenly, this gorgeous blonde glides up to him, slides a hand up his arm, and leans in to plant her glossy rose-colored lips on the side of his mouth. I'm shocked as Brue and his dad laugh and the latter hugs this vision in palest pink. She's as lovely as Madge, and almost as tall as Brue in her heels. I know two other things about her: one, she's the mystery girl from Brue's cell phone pictures; and two, she comes near me and I will claw her lipstick right-the-fuck off.
I ignore the pain in my chest and whirl around to dump the plates I'm holding when I almost bump right into Elizabeth.
"Johanna? Oh, let me take those plates from you, dear." Elizabeth makes quick work of summoning a circulating waiter to take them from her. "Are you having a good time?"
I try not to think about that kiss, how the light had reflected off her blonde hair. "Yes, it's amazing. And the food was sublime. Brue tells me you make a great deal of it yourself?"
Elizabeth smiles softly and it's like angels have come down to earth. "Oh, I have help." She leans forward as if imparting a great secret. "I enlist the entire MacLeod clan every year for food duty for both this and Christmas. When you have as many children and grandchildren as I do, it would be a shame not to take advantage of all that free labor." She winks.
I laugh at her strategy. "I never would have pegged you as a little general."
She pats my hand. "Ah, Johanna. Some women are gifted at creating things, others at organizing, and still others have the gift of influence. It's a skill you need if you're married to Angus."
I bet. She'd have to have some skill in that area just to keep him in line.
"Elizabeth? Oh, Elizabeth! What a wonderful party!" A tittering voice says behind me. I smell the perfume of the owner before I see her in her distinctive, ruffled finery. She kisses Elizabeth on both cheeks. Realizing she's interrupting, she raises a perfectly manicured hand to her breast in a dramatic gesture. I wonder if she realizes that it's impossible to see because the fabric of her dress almost swallows her hand. "I apologize for the interruption."
"Effie, you remember Johanna Mason from Parents' Weekend," Elizabeth reintroduces us.
Her handshake is limp in a way that says that she's an air-kisser from way back. "Ah, yes. You're a friend of Haymitch's ward?"
I want to roll my eyes at that description. What are we, twelve? I know that's disrespectful to Elizabeth, though, so I say politely, "Yes." I think to add, "That's a lovely dress. Is it a Stella de Libero?" I leave out that the heavy cream and maroon confection would look better on someone ten years her junior.
Effie beams. "It is. What an amazing eye you have, child!" She leans in conspiratorially. "She is all the rage this year. That's a lovely dress as well. Who are you wearing?"
I panic for a minute. Who am I wearing? What sort of question is that?
Luckily, Elizabeth comes to the rescue. "Effie's a clothes horse. She organizes the yearly fashion show fundraiser for our boarding school alumni organization. How are you dealing with the kilts this year, Effie? Last year, Effie was scandalized when a man wearing his kilt authentically flashed more than he intended."
That dramatic hand returns to plucking at the ruffles across her chest, the flash of a garnet the size of a robin's egg glittering. "It was horrific - he was completely on display. I still haven't recovered: I have to keep averting my eyes from the dance floor in case one of them turns too quickly!"
"You should really give Haymitch a tartan and give it a try. I rather think that the possibility of Angus flashing me is the best part of the party." Elizabeth winks in my direction.
I'm caught between laughing out loud and choking in horror. What comes out is something like a snort.
Effie clucks her tongue, distracted, as she looks around. "Will you look at that? Clarissa Conrad is making a total spectacle of herself, despite looking fabulous in pink Givenchy. You would think she would learn. He is handsome, though. I'll give her that."
It's the same blonde that was kissing Brue earlier. She's still all over him, practically draped around his shoulders as his father talks. Brue clearly isn't paying her any attention, though, which makes me want to give someone a high-five. He finally steps away from her and up the steps to the piano.
Sadly, he smooths his kilt before sitting, arranging it so there will be no peeking.
Angus strides over and presses a kiss to Elizabeth's lips. "Beg your pardon, ladies. But this lass hasna danced with me all evening. Elizabeth?" She blushes like a much younger woman and takes Angus's arm.
Effie heaves a deep sigh. "They are so in love. Still. Isn't it glorious?" She grimaces at the stage. "And that spectacle…every year, they make that poor boy perform that song. So sad that he's a one-hit wonder, really." She rubs her cheeks as if to massage away any unhappy thoughts and then smiles. "And now, to quote Haymitch, I think I need a drink. Angus was telling me your little friend brewed some beer for tonight. I'm not much of a beer drinker, but perhaps the occasion warrants it. Shall we, dear?"
I jolt in recognition as Brue starts to sing. It's a song about young love, crushes, and that heady feeling of getting to know someone and realizing they like you too. Suddenly, accompanying Effie to the bar seems like a good idea. And if I look back at him once or twice, I'll never admit it.
-o—
Brue finds me leaning against the wrought iron balcony in the back corner of the patio. "Hey. I was wondering where you'd disappeared to. You didn't stay to listen to my set?"
"Hey, yourself. Nah. I have enough Hanson at home." I don't let on that the sight of him covered in a blonde named Clarissa made me bolt.
His chuckle is barely audible. "I'm going to grab something to drink. Can I get you anything?"
"You want this? It's a little too hoppy for me." I pass him the half full pint glass.
"Thanks." He takes a sip, considers it for a second, then takes another.
We let the quiet descend as we each look out at the manicured lawn, listening to the strains of bagpipes from the front of the house.
"Angus's neighbors must love him."
"Most of them come tonight, or are out of town."
"Ah." The old goat has a way to solve every problem, which makes me want to smile. "Did I know you had a chart-topper?"
He shrugs with one shoulder and bows his head. "It only made it to the top 20." He pauses for a second, then adds quietly, "Dad was pretty pissed about that. He thought it should have done better."
"Because it was you performing it?"
He turns to face me. "Because it was him producing it. Dance?" He pushes away from the balcony, puts down his glass and holds out his hands.
This time I don't hesitate, not until his hands settle with familiar weight on my waist. By the time the heat of his palms reaches my skin, my hands are sliding up his lapels. I savor the feel of the wool. "Your blonde friend seems familiar. And friendly."
If I expect him to be shocked at my directness, I'm disappointed. He frowns and answers, "Clarissa just doesn't know when to quit."
"So you guys were close?"
"She's the one who…" He trails off, like he doesn't know how to describe it. Finally, he finishes with, "She hurt me."
I don't know what to say to that. But if I wanted to claw her lipstick off before, now I want to rip every hair from her head. Instead, I step a little closer, sliding my hands past his bowtie to rest at the back of his neck. He shifts his hands to my hips to accommodate my new nearness and lets out a heavy breath. I'd ask what it's for, but my fingers are too busy re-learning the crispness of the curls against his collar. His thumbs trace circles against the satin of my dress.
"Seems like your dad pushes you pretty hard." That's not my best choice of words, especially since all I can think of right now is how he felt when I rode him in the front seat of his car.
He doesn't answer for a long minute and I glance up. It's a mistake, because his eyes are fixated on my mouth and I know I'm not the only one struggling with the memory of how we were together. My fingers tighten. That's all it takes for him to drop his mouth to mine and explore, gently stroking my lips with his. I'm not sure why he's coaxing when he must know I'm more than ready to take it further. Impatiently, I swipe my tongue underneath his top lip, smiling in triumph when he deepens the kiss and his hands slide lower on my hips, pulling me closer.
We break for air. I can feel the cool night air against my heated cheeks. "Is that the tassel on your sock I feel against my calf?"
He nuzzles my ear and I can practically hear the eye roll. "It's my garter flash."
I get the giggles at the idea of him in garters and the word flash. He bites down on my ear lobe in warning. "I told you I'm wearing garters." When I don't stop giggling, he adds, "I don't make fun of your underwear."
I don't even think before I answer, "That's because I'm not wearing any."
His fingers tighten on my hips as he smirks. When his lips brush across mine, sparking heat, I almost don't register it when he says, "That's good because neither am I."
-o-
"We've got to stop." Brue says breathlessly a little later.
I nip at his full lower lip. Sure, I know he's right and we can't actually have sex on his grandfather's balcony – the railing that's digging into my back is too uncomfortable for that. But I'm still fantasizing about the two of us lifting our skirts and having our wicked way with one another. He must have similar thoughts because his hands have been roaming with a mind of their own. Not that I mind.
"Okay. Let's stop." I lean in for another kiss. How is it possible that hoppy beer tastes so good on his tongue?
"Jo," he groans, dragging his hands up my throat to hold my jaw gently while we kiss.
I pull my mouth away and trail it across the rasp of stubble to his ear. "You don't smell like you tonight."
"What?"
"Normally you smell like chlorine. You don't tonight." I lick the spot underneath his ear for good measure.
"I haven't been in the pool since the start of break. Dad's got me doing work around the studio."
I pull back to look at him. He's flushed and thoroughly kissed. Even his hair is tousled. I wonder if he has any idea how insanely attractive he is at this moment, but I'm distracted from telling him by a faint buzzing that's coming from somewhere nearby. "Don't go getting soft on me over break, MacLeod," I say instead as I look for my clutch.
"I think I can find a way to stay hard," he answers drolly.
I roll my eyes at his double entendre and check my phone. 3 missed messages from Katniss. Fuck.
"Everything alright?" he asks, reaching to pull me in closer to his chest.
I impatiently wave him off as I hit dial. Already a bad feeling pools in my gut. I don't even let Katniss answer properly before I ask, "What's going on?"
And just like that, the bubble of happiness that surrounds me bursts.
A/N: Thanks, as always to the Bedazzler of betas: Kik, you're awesome. And extra thanks to Doc. I know it's been a rough week for ya. Thank you, again, for telling me to split this one in two. Special thanks, also, to Walker, for the elk stuffing with cranberry, nuts, and honey bread, and to Ash, for showing Brue how to sit in a kilt. Thank you, also, to FamousFremus for pre-reading.
Postpartum Depression is real. It can be slight, or it can be debilitating. Even the baby blues can seem overwhelming on some days. If you have a friend who's had a baby, offer to help: a few extra hours of sleep, a nutritious meal, even just someone to take a walk with can help. If symptoms seem persistent, urge her to talk to her doctor: every woman is different. Every pregnancy is different. More resources are available at postpartum dot net.
Annie faces challenges breastfeeding. If you have a friend who is trying to breastfeed or would just like to learn more about it, Medela and La Leche League both have excellent web sites.
Please, no breast versus bottle hate. A healthy child is everyone's desired outcome.