55. Run Rudolph Run #2
instantly knowing it’s not Andrew’s.
Raymond breaks the circle, his voice slithering across my ear, “Digby, Ace, hope you’re enjoying yourselves tonight.”
They both shake his hand.
Then those cold eyes drift to Andrew,
giving him a once-over.
Raymond holds out a hand with a fake-as-hell smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Raymond. Allison’s stepfather.”
Andrew’s eyes dart to me,
then Raymond, narrowing,
not knowing that piece of information.
But before Andrew can match his grip
or say a word—
Raymond turns his attention to me. “We have a minor crisis. The bar staff is falling apart. Kid just threw in the towel, and we’re dangerously short.” He pauses, a cold, conspiratorial smirk cutting to Andrew. “Actually, this might be a fortunate coincidence. You’re a bartender, aren’t you?”
All eyes fly to Andrew.
His throat strains as he swallows hard,
hand burying deep in his pocket.
“Raymond, don’t go there,” I hiss out quick, horror shooting through me. My first reaction’s to step in front of Andrew, but I force myself to stand strong. “He’s our guest tonight. He’s not workin’ the fuckin’ bar—”
“Allison—” Andrew stops me, turning to face me, gazing down at me with that why-did-I-think-I-could-belong-here look in his eyes. “It’s all good. This is your label’s Christmas event. If your guests are waiting, I got it handled.”
He brushes my hip with his thumb to reassure me, but then it slips away, and I instantly go cold.
He turns to offer Digby and Ace a hurried handshake.
“Excuse me, fellas.”
Andrew’s behind the bar, five-grand blazer abandoned on a hook in the back, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms flexing under sepia lights as bottles spin through his hands.
Sweat slips down his temple, and I’m one fake smile away from breaking a champagne flute against the bar and slicing Raymond from throat to balls.
As Andrew pours,
his eyes search for me across the room.
“Allison, please tell me the Christmas duet survives another year…”
“Mhm?” My eyes slide back to Morgan.
She talks loud over the music, the gold holly pin in her hair reflecting light from the chandelier. “You and Raymond still doing your version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” tonight?” she asks hopeful. “Raymond tells me you rewrote the lyrics and the melody for the duet when you were eighteen?”
“Sixteen,” I correct absentmindedly,
glancing back at the bar.
“That duet’s basically part of Soundwave history now.” Her smile gleams. “I think your version ruined the original for me.”
“Yeah. That’s nice—listen, Morgan? Thank you for being here, there’s… something that needs my attention.”
I beeline for the bar,
heels beating out anger,
then step behind it.
Andrew’s head snaps over instantly.
“Allison—what’re you doin’?
“You can’t be back here.”
I yank his sleeve,
pulling him aside,
bottle still gripped in his fist.
“We’re leaving.” I grab the bottle out of his hand and set it on the counter. “I’m saying it nicely before I stop saying it nicely. We had fun. We can go do literally anything else—dinner, drinks, a walk in Central Park.”
He shakes his head fast. “Don’t do this.
Please, don’t make a scene. Not right now.
Let it go.” He scans down the line of the bar, then steps closer.
“Listen, I ain’t leavin’. Lemme do this, and we’ll leave when the job’s done.
S’pose to be workin’ tonight, anyway.” He grabs the bottle, takes a step back.
“Now, please, I don’t want you back here. Not in those heels.”
He turns
and goes back to making the drink.
I stare at his back,
running my tongue along my teeth.
Fine. If he won’t come out,
then I’ll go in.
I step up to the sink.
Turn the water on.
Andrew does a double take.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—
“you stubborn ass woman.”
“No job’s too small for a future CEO,” I say, plucking a glass from a nearby tray and start washing it. “If there’s a problem, we handle it.”
Andrew shakes his head, a chuckle slipping out under his breath. “You even know what you’re doin’ over there?”
“No fuckin’ idea.”
He slides the finished drink across the bar to a guest. “All set,” he taps the bar,
then strolls over to me.
“First?”
He turns off the water.
“These glasses ain’t dirty.
“This is a VIP event. All the empties go straight to the back, where they’re sanitized through a machine.
” He bends down and swipes a clean rag off a shelf, then takes my hands in his and dries them.
“Second? You wanna help?” He tosses the rag over his shoulder and hands me silver tongs.
“This is Allison’s station. Right here. You don’t move.
You’ll pick an ice sphere from this ice well, drop it into a tumbler, then slide it down to me, aight?
An’ keep it goin’.” He grabs a tumbler from the tray and sets it in front of me.
“And I swear t’God—if you so much as take one step in those heels, you’re fired. ”
My grin hits me too hard.
He opens his mouth,
about to say something to erase it,
but then a laugh slips out instead,
and he shakes his head at himself.
“Can’t even stay mad at you, dumbass.”
Half an hour goes by.
Somewhere between the drink orders
and ice cracking against glass,
we fall into a rhythm.
Ice sphere. Tumbler. Slide—
Andrew catches it seamlessly.
We charm top producers,
trade jokes with executives,
run the assembly line,
stealing secret grins.
Each time he squeezes behind me,
his fingers find my hips,
trousers pressing flush against my ass
as he slides past.
And each time,
a breathless laugh slips out of me.
But it’s only to hide the fact that I’m so disgustingly desperate for this man.
I want him to hold me close,
whisper sweet-nothings,
make out, make lov—
gag.
Spit in my pussy
and finger it back inside me.
“Allison—”
My head snaps up.
Andrew’s staring at me.
“You good?”
I nod fast, neck flushed. “Yeah.”
His eyes drift past me,
and his shoulders tense.
He returns to the drink he was making.
I turn to look behind me.
Raymond’s heading our way,
slipping through the crowd.
“So Raymond’s your stepfather,” Andrew says, the words sounding physically exhausting to him. “Outta all the insane shit you’ve told me…”
A puff of air leaves through his nose.
“Yeah, that’s a crazy thing to leave out.”
Not when it’s best to leave in.
And I had my reasons. All of them:
didn’t want Andrew lowering his guard around him.
Didn’t want Andrew trying to impress him, seek approval, shake his hand, call him sir, or get manipulated by him.
Didn’t want Andrew asking questions, connecting trauma, or finding out that the man who made me like this is my stepfather, too, and not just the CEO of my life.
I shrug. “Didn’t seem important.”
He laughs dry. “Right.”
Raymond’s gaze sweeps the counter when he arrives. “You really shouldn’t be behind a bar, sweetheart,” he says with disgust behind his teeth. I ignore him, dropping an ice ball into the glass with a clink. “You’re just askin’ to lose their respect.”
My hand freezes.
I lift my gaze.
See Simon from Finance.
I reach across the bar. “Hey, Simon.”
His eyes dart to Raymond.
Then back to me.
I smile sweet.
“Lemme ask you, seeing me, standing here, respect points—they go up or down?”
Simon’s afraid to answer. “Up?”
“Thank you,” I say, eyes crawling to Raymond as I slide back in place.
Raymond flashes a smile, but it’s a bothered thing. He kills it by draining his drink and dropping it on the bar. “No man with self-respect would stand there and watch you do that.” He flicks his hand. “Let’s go.”
Andrew locks up for a fraction of a second, a flex in both his jaw and neck.
I expect him to clap back, protective.
But he doesn’t.
He’s wiping down the counter, carrying on as if he doesn't want to disrespect my stepfather.
“Fun’s over,” Raymond says.
“People are expecting you.”
I push hair off my forehead. “For?”
“The duet.
“You’ve kept ‘em waiting long enough.”
I set the tumbler back onto its tray.
Andrew’s leaning over the bar, palms planted flat against the mahogany as he talks to Jess, one of Raymond’s flirty PAs. The second my eyes hit him, he senses it and glances over his shoulder at me, bicep flexing when our eyes lock.
I can’t tell how he’s feeling.
I don’t want to leave him.
But he gives me the smallest chin lift,
like—Don’t worry about me.
We’re good, baby. Go.
I breathe out slow,
drying my hands on a clean bar towel.
Raymond leads the way,
passing between suits.
In the center stands a grand piano, equipped with a mounted mic for him, leaving a second mic waiting for me in a tall chrome stand. I step up to the stage and watch as he delivers a quick speech. I don’t even realize Raymond’s finished until he pulls me in for a performative hug.
I half-hug back.
Raymond sinks onto the piano bench, shooting me a wink as his fingers stretch over the keys.
I glance out across the ballroom.
Three hundred faces glow in candlelight—artists, assistants, executives, producers, people who once filled the halls of Soundwave while Dad was alive. Most watched me grow up. Most haven’t heard more than two words from me in years. Not since the funeral, when grief turned me into a crypt.
The melody starts—
But then I do the unthinkable—
“Hold on. I wanna say something.”
The melody falls apart.
Raymond freezes.
My brain freezes,
going into shock.
Shit, Allison.
You stupid motherfucker.
My throat tightens as I stand on the other end of their waiting gazes.
Well. Here goes nothing.
(And I mean that literally ‘cause I’m standing, a still portrait in the room.)
Someone clears their throat,
breaking me from it.
A held exhale rushes out of me. “Yeah. So. For anyone who somehow doesn’t know me yet, Hi. I’m Allison Taylor—”
Clapping crashes into the room.
As much as it makes me smile,
it makes me even more nervous.
“Yeah… usually I’m not a speech person. Mostly ‘cause it’s something people only do when they feel like they have to, and I believe in freedom of speech, and the freedom to shut the fuck up.”
Laughter bursts through the room.
I side-eye Raymond.
He’s the only one not smiling.