by Jax Hart
“Just one. Come back to bed, darling.”
“Scat.” Mama orders, glaring at me.
I scramble into her closet, eagerly looking for presents.
“Mama?!” My hands open one. Inside are clothes, books on yoga and “eating clean” and a few packs of sugarless gum. “I don’t see anything.”
She giggled as her friend kisses her ear and tickled her. “Get lost, Shiloh. Santa isn’t real. Christmas isn’t real.”
“That’s harsh, babe. Did you at least get the kid something?” The man asked.
“Yeah. I kept her. That should’ve been good enough.”
Hot tears fell like a waterfall. I ran from Mama, slamming the door behind me. She’s wrong. Christmas and Santa are both real and one day, I’d prove it.
1
Dare
CHICAGO IS COLD AS FUCK THIS TIME OF YEAR. But the cold has never bothered me when it’s all I’ve ever known.
Snow swirls outside the bank of windows from the top floor of Drago industries. It falls softly to the streets below, covering the world in white.
My gut churns.
Christmas.
The time of year when you think about family. The good, bad, and ugly of it. I’ve never known Christmas. At least not the kind even semi-normal families have. Santa never landed on my roof. We never even had a tree. until the one year I thought… My fists clench as I look out at the city below, watching the snow turned into rain. The once pristine landscape’s turning to slush.
“Mr. Prescott? Isabella is on line three.”
Hell.
“Thank you, Claudia.”
My secretary turns from the doorway, shutting my office door with a click. I stare out into the gray below for a few more seconds before turning from the cool glass and walk back to my desk. My hand hovers over the phone before I pick it up, then I press line three.
“What?” I bark. She knows I don’t like to be disturbed at work.
“I miss you. I haven’t seen you for a week.”
“I’ve been busy. It’s the end of the year.”
“Too busy for your girlfriend?” She huffs.
I don’t bother answering. Isabella isn’t it for me. We both know this and yet she refuses to let go.
“Spend Christmas with me. We can go anywhere. Cabo. Paris.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Over Christmas?”
“It means nothing to me.” I lie, ignoring my wounded heart that never healed from all the Christmases past. Where the little boy I was… never woke up to presents under a tree. What I did wake woke up to was passed out drunks and broken beer bottles littering the kitchen sink.
“Really, Dare?”
“Don’t call me that.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache coming on. She feels acts like she knows my secrets, when she doesn’t know jack shit. Just because her hands have roamed over my body, tracing the ink on my skin doesn’t mean she knows a damn thing. My nickname “Dare” is written across my back followed by Creed’s emblem. Despite her prying, I never did answer her questions; even as she tried to coax them from me while using her lips and tongue. “I’ll call you later. I have a meeting in a few minutes.” I place the phone back in the cradle without even bothering to hear her reply.
I was already feeling like I needed to break something. I want to crawl out of my skin. To be somewhere - anywhere but alone at Christmas again.
“Sir?”
My PA knocks at my door.
“Come in,” I keep my tone even, despite my clenching fists.
“They’re ready for you.”
I grab my laptop and briefcase, pushing thoughts of Isabella and Christmas from my mind. I have a multi-billion-dollar company to run. There’s no time for weakness or bad childhood memories. Afterall, I’ve transformed. I’m no longer the unwanted boy from a no place of a town deep in the woods of Southern Oregon. I’m Darren Grant, CEO, Chicago millionaire and off-limits to any woman who thinks otherwise. Especially, Isabella.
I stride through the halls of my company, heads above the other men. My scowl stops anyone from wishing me a “Merry Christmas.” Cubicle after cubicle glows with tacked up string lights. Mini-Christmas trees perch on the edges of desks. A few electric menorahs are placed on tables next to wooden dreidels.
My gut churns.
A multi-million-dollar deal is on the line. I dig deep. Pushing down my emotions, and I become the shadow man of my youth: dark, dangerous, and ruthless.
My palm pushes the heavy boardroom door wide. My eyes pin everyone down in their seats. I place my laptop and briefcase down at the head of the long rectangular table. The tips of my fingers straighten my ivory silk tie.
I don’t miss the woman on my right, re-crossing her legs and shifting in her seat. I smirk, winking at her. A blush creeps along her cheeks.
I smell her arousal.
Any weakness I had a few moments ago is forgotten. I’m the king of the concrete jungle below me. People sense I am different, but they cannot put their finger on why.
Underneath, my layers of thousand-dollar threads, is a dangerous man covered in ink. I spar with amateur boxers three times a week. I might work in finance, but what I don’t have is weak hands. It’s just one of the many ways I make Isabella come. My calloused covered palms work her over real/really good. But lately, I haven’t even wanted to lose myself in her. I’ve been losing myself in work.
Claudia clears her throat, signaling to me that everyone is seated and ready to give their presentation
The woman on my right stands, nervously smoothing down her skirt. She wobbles, unsteady in her heels as she walks to the other end of the table to begin her presentation.
She’s flustered.
It’s my fault.
I shoot her some serious side-eye as I lower my head to check my cell.
Rog: I need you to look over my books.
Me: Why? You forgot how to do math, old man?
Rog: Fuck you. I’m not old. I
Me: How’s Devon?
Rog: Busy warming my bed.
Me: ***eyeroll*** I’m sending you some Viagra for X-mas.
Rog: Fucker.
Me: Yep.
Rog: Are you gonna help me or what?
Me: Depends.
Rog: F U C K E R!
Roger is family. The uncle I never had. I know how to get under his skin and I enjoy it. I grin, raising my eyes and finding the blonde’s eyes. I stroke a finger over my lips, winking at her hard. I no longer feel grumpy. I’m feeling mischievous as fuck. Until, I spot the mistletoe hanging over the refreshment area where the bagels, water and coffee are located.
I stand, interrupting her prattling on about projected sales numbers, to rip that shit right down and throw it in the trash. “Who put that up?” I demand, eyes slicing everyone in the room to shreds.
No one looks me in the eye.
I walk over to the Christmas tree, taunting me with its twinkling lights. I unplug that shit. Then kick the damn thing over.
“You were saying?” I raise an eyebrow, smooth my tie again and take a seat.
“Asshole.” Someone breathes.
“Grinch.” Is whispered, under someone else’s breath.
“Scrooge.”
I grin, placing my hands behind my head. Using my foot, I swivel my chair right to left, enjoying the sound of it squeak every time the hot blonde tries to talk.
I know I’m being an asshole by acting immature. But fuck, if she can’t get through this, I’m not buying shit from her. You need to be tough in this business or you won’t survive. I haven’t even started firing my big-boy questions yet.
Her eyes fall to the screen of her laptop. Her hand trembles as she lifts a bottle of water to her mouth.
She’s wet for me.
I just know it.
I flirt when I’m bored or pissed as fuck. It helps improve my mood. She hesitates them lifts her eyes finding mine. Grinning like the devil, I cock my head to the side and
loosen my tie.
Something has gotten under my skin today and this sweet thing standing at the other end of the room is catching the brunt of it. She continues her sales pitch, listing off reasons why Drago should switch tech support firms to hers. I half-listen as I scroll through my phone, tapping the app that controls everything in my company from office lights to thermostats. I scroll until I find the conference room we are in and adjust the heat setting from 68 to 80 degrees. Just because, I want to see, if what she has under the oversized, boxy suit coat she’s wearing can distract me from the pissy mood I’m in.
The numbers to some of the most beautiful woman in the world are at my disposal. But I think I’m over them all. Instant gratification has lost its appeal. I miss the anticipation of wondering if a woman has freckles on her chest? If her nipples are nickel or quarter-sized? This blonde trying to hide her curves under a boring skirt-suit is making me wonder again.
I sit further back into my chair popping a few buttons open at my neck and slide off my own suit jacket. She swallows hard as I roll the sleeves of my crisp white shirt up to my elbows. My forearms are cut; the veins bulging.
She fans her flushed face, popping open the button on her jacket then a few minutes later taking it off.
Hot damn.
It’s blazing in here! Warm air is streaming down from the ceiling vents, but her nipples are warm rosettes, puckering against her soft silk shirt. The fabric is delicate and thin. and Under the fluorescent lightning overhead, her nipples beaming straight at me.
She stumbles over her words, stops and sips more water. Strands of her hair stick to the side of her neck.
I finally feel my dick stirring. Something my current girlfriend hasn’t managed to do in weeks.
I pick up my laptop and tuck it under my arm as I rise from my seat. I grab my suit jacket and hook it over my shoulder as I stroll down the room, stopping to lean down and whisper in her ear. “Poor execution. But I already knew I’d sign the deal. I did my… homework and your firm is top-notch.”
She bites her lip, holding back a moan. My eyes are drawn to the V where the first few buttons of her blouse are undone giving me a glimpse of her cleavage below.
Well, hello.
I really need a new woman; one that makes my dick swell nice and hard. But one of the few rules I live by is never to dip my stick in anyone who works for me or with me in any capacity. But something tells me, I might be pleasuring myself later to images of blondie and her rosebud nipples.
I stride down the hall listening to the sounds of fingers tapping on keyboards. Christmas music is playing from someone’s wireless speakers. I pause, then turn left, strolling through the rows of cubicles until I find the culprit. Mary McGovern.
“Sir?”
She licks her lips nervously as all six plus feet of me towers over her sitting at her desk.
“Turn it off.”
Her chin quivers as she opens her browser and x’s out of the streaming Internet radio site.
“Thank you. Mary. Not everyone celebrates Christmas and I wouldn’t want any of my other employees to feel …offended.”
“Of course. I understand.”
“Good.”
I turn on my heel. Since I hate Christmas, and love, and cheer, and all that other crap I never had, my hands pull the cords from every fake Christmas tree that is lit up on desks as I pass them.
Satisfied. And feeling immensely better, I whistle the song from “Mr. Grinch” as I walk down the hall to my office.
The Grinch had it right. As soon as I round the corner to my office doors, Claudia calls out from her desk in the hall, “I’m very sorry Sir. But Isabella is on line four. She insists on speaking with you.”
What the fuck?
With a sigh, I enter my office and press line four then intercom.
“What now?” I bark.
“Don’t be like this Dare…”
“Like what? A CEO? I don’t have a trust fund like you, Izzy. I actual have to earn my money.”
“I know,” she coos. “But you’ve been working so much that we’ve barely seen each other. I made reservations at Di Pietro’s at seven. We can discuss our holiday plans…”
My cell pings with a text.
Rog: You gonna help a brotha out or what?
My eyes once again find the gray outside, pellets of icy sleet hit my window as the infamous Chicago winds pick up.
Me: I’m coming home for Christmas asshole.
Rog: It’s about time you showed that pretty boy face of yours. Safe travels.
“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”
“I’ll see you at seven.” I reply curtly, hanging up on her. I hate breaking up with a woman. It’s uncomfortable as hell. I never promise any of them forever. I hardly promise much of anything. I’m not a complete dick in relationships, but my career has always come first, and I’ve always been honest about that. But somehow, I always end up here anyway—feeling empty and wishing for the beginning again. When everything and anything with someone is possible. And the sex is fresh and off the hook.
I press the button on my phone that calls Claudia directly at her desk.
“How can I help you, Sir?”
“Dammit, Claudia! You’ve worked for me for over five years and you’re the only stable woman in my life. Call me Darren. Please.”
“Okay, Darren. How may I assist you?”
“By booking me a flight to Medford, Oregon.”
“Oregon? Is there a meeting? I can have the company jet …”
“Not for work, Claudia. I’m going home for Christmas …facing the ghosts of Christmases past and all that.”
“Oh! Okay. When should I book it for?”
“Tomorrow. I’m leaving early for the holidays, but I’ll still be available on my cell. Oh! And Claudia?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Take off too. I’m giving you an extra week of paid vacation. Merry Christmas.”
“That’s very generous of you Sir—I mean, Darren.”
“You deserve it.”
“Thank you. Shall I book you a hired car as well?”
“No. I’ll rent something when I land. It’s quite a drive to Springdale.”
“When should I book the return flight?”
My eyes cut over to the calendar on my desk. “January fifth.”
“I’ll do my best. But the flights might be booked. If they are do you want me to hire a private jet?”
“They won’t be booked. No one flies into Medford. My destination is a nothing of a town in the middle of nowhere,” I reply dryly.
“Then why are you going?” She asks before she can stop herself.
“Because it’s past time I went home.”
“You never talk about your family.”
“That’s because I don’t have any—not like how you mean, anyway.”
The silence gets awkward. I’ve never spoken to her like this before. The holidays are fucking with my head.
“Right. I’ll get right on booking your reservation.”
I hang up and sit in my chair. I need to forget the world for a while and the only way to do that besides going balls deep in a woman is to work.
Before long, I’m drawn into the financial reports my Chief Financial Officer prepared for the end of the year. I highlight a few figures and continue reading. It seems as if a whole day has gone by, but it is only ten-fifteen.
It’s going to be a long-ass day.
She’s beautiful.
There’s no denying that. But my cock doesn’t stir at her touch. I gaze at her over the rim of my wine glass as I tilt it to my lips. The ends of her caramel colored hair graze the tips of her breasts, brushing across her pebbled nipples every time she moves. The fabric of her dress stretches tight over her paid-for-by-daddy D-cups. She’s perfect. But just not for me. I almost snort as I sip my scotch.
By the way she watches me I can tell it’s all a deliberate ploy in her effort to get what she wants from me. But that sh
it is not happening. I’m not some tween looking to dip his stick every second. My will is ironclad. No woman has every made more than a dent in the armor protecting not only my heart but my mind. Seduction is something I’ve mastered not ever fallen prey to.
I tap my fingers on the table waiting for the check impatiently. Isabella is everything I thought I wanted: beautiful, poised, a socialite; born and bred for the role of wife to a powerful man like me.
She smiles, circling the rim of her own wine glass with her index finger. Little does she know I’m about to dump her in twenty minutes.
“My place or yours?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.
Sighing, I signal for the waiter, signing the air with my finger, mimicking signing my name on the check.
“Let’s go for a walk, instead.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, why not. Downtown looks good at Christmas time.”
“It’s very romantic.”
Her eyes light up with hope.
Fuck. This isn’t going to end well.
The waiter finally appears handing me the bill and I hand him my black American Express card without even glancing at it. Averting my eyes, I glance everywhere but at the bombshell sitting across from me while every other man in the room covets what I have—what I’m about to get rid of.
She just doesn’t do it for me. She never did. I tried to ignore her annoying habits: like how she always tilts her head as she applies her lipstick, giving herself “fuck me” eyes in the mirror. Or how she hates morning sex, insisting it’s gross and never wants to kiss. Or how she hates cum; never lets me finish in her mouth.
Truthfully, sex with her has become mundane. She just lays there, as if just the sight of her body alone is enough to get me there. No, honey. Not anymore. If I wanted to fuck a robot, I’d order a state-of-the-art one from China.
I want a warm-blooded woman in my bed; the kind with curves and real breasts that jiggle as you thrust into her warm body. I want a woman who won’t retreat when I fuck her mouth but savor every last drop of me.
Christ.
I sign the check with a flourish, feeling my dick finally stir. It’s been too long since I’ve had a woman like that. I lost myself somewhere along the climb up the corporate ladder. It was easier to look up when you wanted to forget you came from the down. I was born to a teenage mom who would’ve sold me for her next hit if she could’ve. Child Protection Services took me away from her. Thank fuck. But the home I went was just barely a step up from living in a shack.
