A Villain for Christmas (The Holyoake Christmas Series, Book 2)

Previously on...

Is that where his scars are from?! On his cheek, and his back, and his right shoulder and shoulder blade. Visible in several photos she saw online, some of them covered with tattooes.

His soft brown curls; and how he sat at her legs on the grass, in the shadow of a large willow tree.

His sighs. Like a large dog. And his smiles. That boy.

Beat up and pushed out of the window.

How could they– How could anyone–

A small part of Billie could see that Bondarenko was quite obviously scanning Billie's reactions. After all, that had been quite a calculated delivery - with excellent timing and tempo, artistically designed to produce the maximum effect; not that it was strictly necessary. Billie probably would've felt the same crushing pressure in her chest if she'd been given some sort of warning.

"They quote this story on every freaking site about him," the director exclaimed and gave Billie a derisive one over. "You've had two evenings to prepare for this job; and you haven't even researched the guy you knew as a kid. Seriously?"

Billie was still so shaken that even being called out on the greatest crime she could imagine committing - being negligent at gathering and cataloguing data - hadn't affected her right away.

"That's how he got into sports and then into acting," Bondarenko added. "It's, like, his best marketing move: a tragic backstory, and the whole 'before and after' thing, with pictures of him as a fat slow child, with a lazy eye, and a stutter - next to a shirtless photo of the stud that he is now." Bondarenko gestured two squares in the air. "That's why I want him for my villain. He's great at delivering the rage of an abused boy who grew up into a violent man. You know, the vicious circle of a victim becoming an abuser, and stuff."

'Violent?' Billie's thoughts swirled in her head like spoilt milk in a cup of assam. Eric Dair didn't feel violent. Billie lacked experience, but she was familiar with the discourse surrounding intimacy and body autonomy. He asked for consent - every time. And his kisses were so sweet! Not the point right now, Billie! Was she misreading his behaviour, because she hadn't had the foggiest what to look out for? Or was he being unobtrusive because, for some bizarre reason, she held the key to his speech impediment?

"But that's just a part, right?" Billie asked in a small voice. "It's not necessarily his real personality."

She couldn't help but notice that her panicked mind wasn't following its usual route - to assume the worst and give up right away. What are you aiming for here, Billie? Reassurance that you haven't been jolly into playing said tonsil hockey with a potential abuser?

"Well, statistically bullied boys produced more testosterone than their non-bullied counterparts," Bondarenko said with another of her infuriating shrugs. "You can really tell by Eric, heh? He's white, heterosexual, and spent years in macho dominated sports. But I guess if you really want to know what he's like in the sack and in general, you can ask Laura. She's known him the longest."

Is this Bondarenko's delicate way to say that they–

"And they used to sleep together," the director added.

Ah yes, so it was.

"Where is he?" Bondarenko grumbled and stuffed her fag back in the pack. "I'm dying without coffee. Eric!"

Billie winced from the director, who seemed to gather lungfuls of air, preparing for another screechy shout.

"Ugh, I might as well... just do it myself," the Russian muttered, sliding off her chair.

She started opening random cabinets, banging with something inside loudly, and mumbling under her breath. 

The door opened, and Dair walked in.

Oh, now it's worse! Now Billie had three versions of him that needed amalgamating: the boy who shared her apples and chewed grass blades while listening to her; the hench bloke who'd given her his scarf and who ran the tips of his fingers on the sensitive skin behind her ear when kissing; and the victim of bullying and a potential Arthur Huntingdon. It made sense, though. Why else would he have hidden from his cousins all those years ago?

"I had half a mind to start that magic pot of yours myself," Bondarenko threw to him and pulled out one of those iconic Italian coffee makers: a silver-coloured vessel, shaped like an hourglass, faceted, with a plastic black handle.

Dair barked a warm laugh and plucked the pot out of the director's hand. He was so tall that he looked like a claw machine for a second.

"D–" The sound caught in his throat, and he threw a glance at Billie. She wasn't sure what he saw in her face, but then he turned to the director and rumbled, "Don't you dare, Yulia. A moka pot isn't a toy."

He opened one of the cabinets and took out a container, with coffee beans as Billie assumed.

"I forget how anal you are about your caffè." Bondarenko handed him a hand grinder from a lower shelf. "It's freaking annoying. You're lucky, its taste is worth it."

Dair chuckled. He'd pulled up the sleeves of his jumper and was washing his hands in the pristine sink.

"What else do you need?" Bondarenko asked, sticking her nose in another shelf.

"The scale," he answered. "Start the kettle, please."

It took Billie a couple of seconds to understand he was talking to her - and not until both Bondarenko and Dair stared at her.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't–" Billie muttered and scrutinised the counters around her.

She did find a kettle: it was black, worthy being featured in an Herbert screen adaptation, and had more knobs and buttons than an average library self-service machine.

"Um... I don't know how to operate it," Billie said sulkily.

Dair, who was energetically twisting the grinder's handle, stepped to her and looked over her shoulder. It didn't escape Billie's attention that he'd kept plenty of space between their bodies, just as he'd done with Bondarenko a couple of minutes ago.

His gaze dropped at her face.

"Just p–"

His lips closed, and she realised a stammer was coming - and Billie impulsively grabbed his sleeve. A preposterous whim to rise on her toes and to press her mouth to his - it's her duty of care after all! - made Billie's breathing hitch. His eyes widened. Billie could feel the warmth of his body through the cashmere.