1. Tradition
1
Tradition
Billy
T he persistent panting and grunting that wafted through his open window was, to say the least, distracting. Eyebrows drawn low, Billy’s blue eyes wandered often to the swaying curtains. He waited.
The book had grown heavy in his fingers long ago, but he needed something to cling onto, other than the pure hope that she’d climb into his window tonight, as she did every 1 st December, and take up residence in his bedroom until the end of Christmas. Billy had been about to give up on the idea, worrying she wouldn’t show up, fearing their tradition was no longer … until the telltale rustling of the bushes below preceded the shuddering of the ladder against the house, and the muttered curses of the woman as she climbed higher.
The hardcover he’d been reading fell heavily to the mattress. Gripping the windowsill, Billy peered beyond the billowing curtains. The warm summer breeze hit him before the sight of her did.
“Need a hand?” Billy called out into the night. He thought that was rather funny, considering he had only the one to offer.
The shadow-woman struggling up the old red ladder huffed. “Piss … off!”
Gripping the ladder rung tightly, she finally looked up, her face dotted with colour from the tiny fairy lights framing the massive downstairs windows. “I can do this, William Bloody Carmichael.”
“I am sure you can, Breanna Bruce Henderson.“ She could do anything and everything she set her mind to.
He tried to force the usual gruffness in his voice to mellow into something smoother, to no avail. The sight of her red hair bobbing closer and closer left his throat too tight to speak further. She was here. Finally. This was happening.
Dragging his hand down his beard, Billy smothered a smile, watching as she continued grunting with effort, hauling herself up to his second-storey window. Heavens above, the noises she was making! His cock twitched at the thoughts the sounds invoked. Those were his grunts to tease out of her, his to swallow. At least, at Christmas they were. Billy bit down on his bottom lip. Christmas … and any other time she offered, more accurately. He wouldn’t get bogged down in details. He was simply grateful she had returned home for Christmas and was climbing in his window. It was a lingering tradition from their teenage days, when sneaking in and out of their parents’ houses was a common pastime, and it was only the beginning of their annual festivities.
Clearing his throat, Billy forced his words out. “I honestly did not expect to see you tonight.”
A resigned sigh blew from below. “I know. But I can’t just ignore years of our rituals, Billy. What would our younger selves say if I stopped showing up? I can’t break our Friends-With-Festive-Benefits plans now!“ She gave another groan as she hauled herself closer to the window, a slash of her red clothing blinking into focus as a downstairs light switched on. Breanna waved into the window and a warm greeting – his mother’s voice – drifted through the glass, before the light flicked off.
“Good night Mrs C!” Bre called into the darkened room below before continuing the climb.
Billy’s family adored having her as part of their annual festivities, even if they didn’t quite understand the relationship between their youngest son and the neighbour girl they’d claimed as their own long ago.
What were Billy Carmichael and Breanna ‘Bruce’ Henderson? Best friends? Occasional lovers? They had stopped trying to label it years ago, simply accepting that they were two sides to the same zipper – each rather useless without the other half. Together? They were unstoppable. Intricately woven and unbreakably strong.
At least, that was how he felt. And while Billy had always imagined he’d be married with a few kids by the time he was in his thirties, on nights like this, when everything felt right in the world, he remembered that all he’d ever wanted was right here – his family farm, the high-spirited noises of the Carmichael clan downstairs, and the quieter world that existed upstairs, only for them. This was his favourite place, where ‘home’ truly existed.
When Breanna’s arousing little noises floated around him, the rest of the world ceased to exist. This was as good as life could ever get for Billy. This tiny slice of Heaven that was so different from the way they interacted almost every other day, working in sync behind the bar at his tavern, The Pope, or gorging themselves on pizza and watching old movies.
That’s how they’d been, until recently.
Billy knew exactly when everything changed, if he were being honest, but he wouldn’t be the first to acknowledge it. Bre was never backwards in coming forward, so he figured he’d wait for her to approach the elephant in the room, but ...
The distance between them had been growing over the last few months, and he’d increasingly found himself looking forward to the additional time they spent together here at his family farm, simultaneously worrying things would continue to be different, while hoping their traditions stayed the same.
Bre continued her climb, the second storey feeling like a skyscraper as he waited for her to arrive.
“Bruce,” Billy started again, using her childhood nickname, “don’t you think …”
“I give very few fucks,” she huffed, “about what people think.” Resting her forehead against the ladder, she added, “Just go … lay down. I’ll be there … in a … minute.”
Breanna resumed her climb, grunting like an animal in heat. She’d never had this much difficulty scaling the building before, but then again, it was a particularly muggy December evening, and she was in a padded velvet Santa Suit. Plus, he knew she’d been working extremely long days at her garage, restoring her beloved 1943 Ford Utility, before pulling double shifts with him managing The Pope. Now, she’d come home for Christmas, to work the farm with him and organise his raucous family and their events, like she did every year. It was no wonder Bre sounded fatigued. They’d both been so busy lately, but that’s what made coming home all the more exciting. The pace of Christmas was slower, somehow, and they made the time to connect.
A warm breeze blew through his family’s Christmas tree farm, thickly scented with pine, baked cinnamon, and the tang of eucalypt. Billy loved a summer Christmas, with its hot meals shared in cold air-conditioned spaces, and the way the pool congratulated you on a hard day’s work with a cool, consuming hug.
He especially loved all the clutter of tinsel and decorations, too big and gaudy to be anything but beautiful; the small family heirlooms, and newer carved-wood decorations. His father made those by hand and his mother made everything famous with her booming social media accounts. She’d started by documenting their Australian family Christmases several years ago, and the internet had gone crazy for Holly and Nick Carmichael, their Christmas Tree Farm Down Under, the charmingly festive rural aesthetic … and all the images of their four strapping lads in their traditional plaid, chopping down trees with their shirts off.
Nobody did Christmas like the Carmichaels, and the local Moonshine residents – and millions of online followers – went nuts for it. Personally, for Billy, Breanna’s presence was the most integral part of the festivities.
Ducking his head back into the bedroom, Billy tried to wipe the smirk from his face. Tried and failed. God, this was his favourite night of the entire year. The best Christmas tradition he could’ve imagined – Breanna Henderson in a Santa costume … then absolutely nothing at all.
It was all part of The Plan – a list created when they were teenagers. They hadn’t deviated from it at all, because – as Bre said – it was tradition. Breanna Henderson was nothing without a plan, always scribbling lists and providing tick-boxes. It made her a great manager for his business, and it was an asset here on the farm, too. Always busy, December became downright unmanageable without a seasoned planner at the helm. Everyone here had a job, and even though his parents were the business owners, Bre was irrefutably The Boss.
That’s what made ignoring her demand to wait for her on the bed additionally enticing. Was it a festive fetish? Wanting his sexy Santa to scold him for disobeying orders? Maybe. Though he knew Breanna loved it when he took charge. She relinquished so little of her control, but for Billy, she’d let go entirely.
Cock throbbing with the images that flashed through his mind, Billy paused by the window, ready to pull her into his childhood bedroom, press her close, and kiss her like his life depended on it. What he wouldn’t give for two complete arms, to be able to scoop her up and carry her across every threshold, their lips locked – but only at Christmas.
He rarely lamented his disability, but there were times Billy wished his right arm extended its full length, and that he had another set of fingers to run through her hair, over her skin, to trace the outline of her lips.
He’d been dreaming of it all day, resulting in numerous spilled beers and quite a few broken glasses behind the bar. Some days, having ten fingers would have made all the difference. Billy reached absently for his right forearm now, hand falling through thin air where warm flesh and muscle still existed in his mind’s eye. It had been amputated at five years of age, but he still marvelled that it was missing. The forearm still itched and ached. And often, late at night, his right hand reached across the sheets for Breanna Henderson.
“Finally!” Her perpetually stained mechanic’s fingers gripped the window frame and she hauled herself onto the ledge, panting. ” Whose idea was this, anyway?”
Billy cocked an eyebrow and grunted in response; no use wasting words on a rhetorical question. The second her feet landed on the floor, he fisted the collar of her white, fur-lined Santa suit, Billy dragged Bre’s face closer. Smiling, he slanted his lips over hers. Bre’s mouth, warm and sweet, indulged in the kiss, but her body language … she seemed too tense.
“Hey.” She smiled up at him, eyes bright before turning her back to him. Unwilling to let go, not just yet, Billy slung his arm around her slight shoulders. Slowly, she melted back into him, and he smiled into her hair.
“Welcome home, Bruce.”
She chuckled. “Some things will never change. That nickname, and this room!” She stepped from his grasp and made a show of surveying his bedroom, as she did every year. He watched her compile a slow, meticulous mental catalogue to see if anything had changed. It hadn’t. The room was a shrine to their younger selves: The vinyl player and neatly stacked records, the overstuffed bookshelves, The Angels, Van Halen, and AC/DC posters still tacked to the walls alongside Pammie in the red bikini, and the random googley-eyed things she insisted on gifting him every holiday. They stared out, unblinking, and unchanged.
Bre often joked that Billy had a ‘steel trap’ memory, yet how the google-eye tradition had started, he couldn’t remember. His room was littered with rocks, books, pinecones and a million other objects, all sporting bulging eyes. Even the posters had been google-eyed one year, completely changing Pamela Anderson’s vibe from sexy to silly. He loved it.
“This place!” Her eyes, crinkled in the corners, darted to his appreciatively.
“It’s ours,” Billy said, the deep tone of his voice echoing around the room, dulling the screech of the cicadas outside. Mouth dry, his throat felt gravelly and unused as he squeezed the words out past the knot at the base of his neck – the knot that only seemed to grow whenever Breanna was near.
Bre had seen it all before, of course, but the room, her close examination as she picked up things and put them back down; Billy saw it for what it was – a delay. And a moment for them to assess their dynamic. Had things changed so much? The way her familiar body moved was … different. Or was it just the costume?
Settling onto the bed, Billy pushed his back into the headboard, his long, tattooed legs stretching towards her as he placed the book low over his hips.
“Wait, Billy, I thought the deal was YOU in your birthday suit and ME in this ridiculous Santa suit! But you cheated!”
Billy only blinked.
“Billy! I came here in the spirit of tradition …” She motioned to herself, how she’d gone all out this year and padded the costume. She was rounded, festive, and absolutely magnificent, hair piled into a messy bun atop her head. He’d seen that familiar bun sliding under cars as she fixed engines, and flopping front then back like a rag doll as she found the right rhythm to chop massive blocks of wood. He’d seen that same red hair slide low on her neck, curling under the lip of her Elmo helmet as she tried, over and over again, to master a skateboard in their youth. She’d done it – all that, and more. That messy bun – the knot of hair he loved to loosen – was a sign of hard work. Cheeks flushed and a light sheen of sweat dotting her forehead, it seemed that tonight, climbing the ladder fit that criteria.
He wanted to be the one who painted those cheeks red, then trace each freckle as the colour slowly faded once more. He couldn’t help but make some primal, throaty noise of appreciation. He had no words to adequately convey it, how his body responded to hers. He’d try, although his tongue tied whenever she was around, his voice sounding gruffer than usual, his tone deeper – and it was already rough and deep.
Beautiful . God, she was beautiful. He would have told her, if he hadn’t felt like he should tiptoe on eggshells. No, he’d keep the observation to himself until he was sure everything was back to normal between them. Normal … What exactly was normality nowadays? He still remembered that day, six months ago. The sight of Bre’s hair spilled across the bar, her big eyes looking back over her shoulder as his fingers dug into the soft white flesh of her bare hip, the way she’d moaned his name over and over and …
“Billy!”
She had the uncanny ability to see right through him and read his thoughts, but he refused to be embarrassed. He used to think it was because they had been such close friends for so long, but he had never been able to see through her in the same way. He hadn’t had to. She’d always been the better communicator, whether verbal or otherwise, and her somewhat brutal honesty was one of his favourite traits. Breanna Henderson never held back. Not about anything, or in any way. She had tasks and to-do’s, tick lists and back-up plans galore, and she ensured their completion. If she wanted it, she got it by sheer strength of will, making everything happen.
Except now. Now, with her Santa suit still firmly on and the physical distance between them growing, she was most definitely holding back. Tugging at her outfit, Bre was clearly hot and bothered. Christmas in Australia was usually a sweltering affair – and not just because of the weather. Why didn’t Bre just strip off? In Christmases past, the outfit would barely make it through the window before becoming a festive puddle on the floor.
Unsure what to do, he scratched at his thigh.
“Billy, the only thing covering you is tattoos. Usually .“ She threw a small smirk his way, before picking up a chipped ceramic cookie monster mug with wonky, wiggling eyeballs. “But tonight you have boxers, and a book! I see you went for the big volume?” A large, special edition volume of The Grinch hid his groin from sight. “Wise choice.”
Her brazen eyes roamed as she chuckled, the sound music to his ears. The tension in his body melted. This was all going to be fine. He knew it. Despite this weird, stilted start, soon, everything would be back to normal.
“You’re reading The Grinch in … what is that?”
“French.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Why?”
Clearing his throat, Billy shifted under the heat of her gaze. Whatever game she was playing, he’d join in. Bre knew what she wanted, and when – if – that was him, he’d take whatever time she offered.
“Knowing the English version exceedingly well,” Billy said, “the French is not too difficult.” He adjusted Le Grinch , watching her swallow. “Bruce, can we–”
“I brought you a present,” she interjected, changing the subject yet again.
Retrieving the rather large Santa sack he’d somehow failed to notice, Bre removed a sprig of mistletoe and flowering gums, their red bursts exploding from gumnut caps. Bound with a too-large red bow, the posy sported two odd-sized googly eyes, glued at awkward angles. The bundle came hurtling at his bare chest.
“You like?”
A burst of laughter rolled through the room like thunder, and Bre grinned at his response.
“This is perfect, Bruce. Thank you.”
“I don’t want my present,” she said. “Not yet, anyway. This year I’m finding the pickle, and I’m going to open my present in front of everyone and make a huge deal, like Liam and Connor do.”
“If anyone can find a needle in a haystack – or a pickle in a pine tree – it’s you,” Billy said earnestly, as he did every year. It was an odd tradition, but one as old as themselves.
“So ... you gunna string it up?” Bre’s eyes flicked briefly to the roof, and the twirling ceiling fan, before returning to Le Grinch . “You know mistletoe started this.”
“ Actually, Adam James did .” Bre’s words mirrored Billy’s thought exactly.
Exchanging wide smiles, he added, aloud, “And I have never been more grateful for childish dares in my life.”
“But I don’t want to talk about Adam. Not now. URGH!” Breanna’s bun wobbled as she shook her head. “None of this is going to plan, Billy. You and your Mr Happy jocks, Le Grinch , me ... The Plan is …“ she sighed out the last word, “fucked.”
The Plan. Her Santa suit. His birthday suit. Friends with festive benefits. ‘Fucked’ was a crass but accurate adjective for their sexy Christmas tradition. ‘Fucked’ was The Plan, the box they loved to tick. Christmas was their time to cross that line between friends and behind-the-bar colleagues into unrestrained sex-on-every-possible-surface territory. Nothing compared to this. It was worth it. She was worth the wait. But …
“Bre …” He tried to put words to his feelings, forcing them out to address her hesitation. “We don’t have to carry on the traditions anymore … if you choose not to, I–” He couldn’t help but move to her, to rub his thumb across the freckles high on her cheek. Freckles he’d mapped out like constellations, connecting the dots time and time again. She was goddamn glowing, lit from inside like a Christmas trinket, and gleaming. Yes, it was probably also a sheen of sweat – it was summer, and she was in a velvet suit after all – but that didn’t matter. Breanna Henderson could be covered in kangaroo shit, and she’d still be the most amazing woman in any room.
Breanna read the truth of it in his expression. Her chin dipped, bun flopping onto his face.
“Bre? Are you … crying?” Breanna Henderson was not a crier. Not once had he witnessed it. Not at five when she came to visit him at the hospital, after his arm had been amputated. Not at eight when she crashed her bike so badly on the old dirt road that he’d had to pluck rocks and gruesome chunks of flesh from the wound. Not at fifteen when she jumped from the rafters of the barn, missing the haystack landing point entirely, breaking her leg in three places. Not even at funerals had Breanna Henderson wept. Her best friend, Jillian, had lost her mother recently, and while Billy had seen distress and sorrow plain as day on Breanna’s face, not one single tear had escaped her hazel eyes.
But now …
“You can’t want this, want me ,“ she breathed, sobbing, pushing his hand from her face before wiping her face free of sweat and tears. She needed to get the costume off, and cool down. Billy’s eyes dropped to his favourite freckle – the one resting on her top lip. The spot he loved to kiss, every Christmas – only at Christmas. Well, almost only …
“You can’t want me like this ,“ she said, plucking the fur-trimmed costume from her body where it stuck in wet patches. Hot and flushed, Bre was spectacular. And he’d tell her so.
“You are–”
“All gross and disgusting,” she sniffled. “And I’ve been trying to call Jill, and I know she’s a boomerang and she’ll always come back, but I feel like she’s ignoring me. I don’t blame her, really, because I keep ruining all my friendships and–”
“Untrue,” he interjected.
She took a shaky breath, pressing her lips together when Billy continued, thumb wiping an errant droplet as it rolled past her nose. “Jillian is a bit … broken … right now. Give her time.” Her sigh rolled against his palm. “She might be your best friend, Bruce, but you are mine. And you can’t ruin us.” He rushed to add, “Even if you changed your mind and changed the plan. There is no pressure from me, Breanna. You could not ruin anything we have, because we are friends first, always.”
Friends with benefits had been her idea, but he’d never denied the chemistry that sizzled between them. Whatever she offered, he would take it with both hands – metaphorically speaking.
He brushed a stray lock of rosy hair behind her ear. “And you are not gross and disgusting. Far from it. Though …” Scratching his bearded chin, Billy considered her costume. “Speaking of our costumes … You know our deal was supposed to be the sexy Mrs Clause kind of Santa outfit. Yet you insist on teasing me with this concealing abomination every year.”
“Oh, you want the uncovered version, do you?”
Bre’s fingers dug into the fluffy white seam of the costume, ripping the Velcro apart in one swift movement. The sound split the room in two, sending his stomach plummeting to his feet.
Billy froze. He always froze. That familiar tightening around his ribcage constricted to near suffocating. Silence enveloped the room as he watched Breanna’s clothing hit the floor and she sighed blissfully at the fresh air against her skin. Bare and beautiful, she stood with hands splayed on her hips, determined and defiant, daring him to look. This was the woman he knew. Brave and fierce and–
“Well? Anything to say now? Still want to tell me the plan is … doable?”
He’d been rendered speechless, and she knew it. But this time … it was different. S he was different. He was kicking himself for not noticing earlier.
A foot shorter than he was, she stepped back, pulling away so he could see her … All of her. She was fearless, shameless, and honest – traits he’d always admired. He needed to be the same, but he couldn’t lift his gaze to meet hers, eyes locked on her body.
He watched Bre’s chest rise and fall, the sound of her quick breaths hitting his ears in short waves. Billy soaked in every freckle scattered across her body, noting the slow roll of goosebumps prickle across her skin as she waited for him to respond. Swallowing hard, he stared.
“You sure you want all of this, Billy?” Her hands roamed over her breasts, which looked heavier than he’d ever seen them, her nipples – darker – down her ribs to her hips, which curved and flared like never before, before circling her stomach, where a tight bubble of skin bulged.
“Bre.” His tongue managed to find words. “You’re …” His voice caught, chest was unbearably tight. “You’re pregnant?”