Unwrapped

by Jax Hart

  My maternal grandmother took me in; wanting the checks the state would pay for her to keep me after she formally adopted me. She got eight hundred a month and spent it wisely on cigarettes, cheap wine and god knows what. But my grandmother lived in Springdale, Oregon. A place sometimes I want to run back to instead of run from. Just like I’m about to in under twelve hours.

  “Darren?”

  Isabella looks at me expectantly. Sighing, I push my chair back and finally meet her eyes. “We need to talk… about us.”

  “Good. Then we are on the same page, darling. Mummy and Daddy are expecting us to Christmas in the Aspen at the family ski chalet.”

  I cringe as she places her hand in mine, squeezing firmly. I’d rather fuck a pinecone than spend the holidays with Isabella and her blueblood old-money family. I grin sardonically as I hand the coat-check girl the ticket for Isabella’s mink coat. She wears fur. I should’ve broken up with her just for that weeks ago. But I didn’t. I was too busy closing the Geffen deal to see what my gut knew but I didn’t want to yet deal with, she’s all wrong. Hell, my whole life is wrong. Everything I’ve worked for is about to crash all around me like a stack of cards.

  My peers, employees, and friends know me by the persona I’ve created—Darren Preston, CEO of Drago International, an international investment firm specializing in venture capital start-ups. But underneath my custom-made tailored suits is the truth; I’m Dare, the former errand boy for CREED MC. And I don’t mean fetching beer and cigarettes. If there was a hole that needed digging, I dug it. If there was a run that needed doing, I was the man-child who did it. I learned how to lay low and blend into the background at an early age. I had skills at thirteen that the MC found valuable. Like a ghost, I moved in shadows: eavesdropping, setting up surveillance and gathering intel for the club.

  No one saw me. Invisible.

  But I was used to that.

  My gut clenches. No matter how many years have gone by or how far I’ve come—the old pain of being an unwanted child never left my soul. But I found family.

  Eventually.

  Under my layers of thousand-dollar threads is ink. The symbol of the brotherhood I pledged my life too, it stretches across my back like a brand. But the boys are true family. They didn’t hold me back. They encourage me to go far. And go far I did; MIT with an MBA from Wharton School of Business in New York City. Then, I finally landed here at Drago International, which is based in Chicago.

  I owe the MC for my education. They footed the bill and in return, I helped them launder money when needed. Hell, I even secured the financing for, Sassy’s, the bar Rog and Duke opened after the fire that destroyed it. I am instrumental in securing the club’s financial future.

  And when Rog bought hundreds of acres in the deep woods of southern Oregon, I made sure The Springdale Chapter of Creed, gave back to the community by allowing a non-for-profit charity to use it as a kids camp for a few weeks every summer. It’s one hell of a tax write off for the club and helps its image.

  I miss all those fuckers. Maybe, I tried too hard to forget who I was? Hell, who part of me will always be a badass biker from an old-logging town, raised on the wrong side of the tracks. No matter how far I run, or how hard I try to change my image, the eyes in the mirror don’t change. I can’t shed my skin. I foolishly thought, landing a girl like Isabella would be the finishing move on the imaginary chessboard in my head.

  “You’re quiet …”

  “I have a lot on my mind,” I reply while opening the door to the restaurant. Icy air hits my face. But I’m used to it after seven winters in Chicago. Isabella snuggles into my side, curling an arm through mine. “Christmas is so romantic, isn’t it, darling?” She stops, turning her face up to me.

  I hate it when she calls me darling.

  “No. I hate Christmas. I never had presents from Santa…family or any of that shit.”

  “You know I hate it when you talk about your past …”

  “Isabella. My past has made me who I am. I’m done running from it.”

  “Just don’t advertise it. Mummy and Daddy think your parents died in a diving accident in the Caribbean.”

  “Why in the hell would you tell them that?”

  “They were asking questions. Naturally, they wanted to know about the man their daughter’s been seeing for months. I could hardly tell them the truth; that you were gutter trash who ran with an MC and lied on your college applications.” She bats her false mink eyelashes.

  Scheming bitch.

  She’s threatening to use our pillow talk against me; letting me know she remembers the dirty details of my past that I confided in her early on. When I thought her tight pussy was a pot of gold. She fooled me…let me believe she was a hot little piece beneath her layers of groomed perfection. She used to suck me off, let me fuck her in the back of cars and in elevators. My seed would leak down her legs as we rose higher and higher in the lift. The hot sex only lasted three months before she started complaining.

  “Why are you with me then? If I’m so below you?”

  “Because I love being below you. You fuck like a God—have a dick as big as your bank account and a body of a prize fighter instead of a CEO.”

  “Good. This should be painless then. It seems we were both using each other…but I’m done. I have been for a long time.”

  She pales. Her expertly made-up eyes go wide. “You can’t! You wouldn’t. I’ll go public about your past. I’ll phone every gossip columnist in the city. I will not be single on the holidays. I already RSVP’d to the New Year’s Eve and the Christmas Ball. You can’t do this to me!” Her voice gets higher and higher. Her eyes are wide. Fuck. She’s in full freak-out mode. But Isabella has secrets too.

  “Go ahead. It will make you look exactly as you are—a desperate, dumped woman who pathetically tries to strike back. Did you forget I know your secrets as well? You gave up a child. A child who is out there–somewhere, wondering just who in the hell you are? But you know what? Maybe they are better off not knowing. Maybe giving them the hope that you are a woman with a soul instead of a calculating whore dressed in designer clothes—”

  Her leather gloved hand smacks across my face. It stings. But I smirk lifting a hand to my cheek. “Well, hell, sugar. What do you know? There is fire in you after all? If only you showed it sooner, maybe I’d fuck you “like a god” tonight. Goodbye, Isabella. Don’t contact me again.” I unlink my arm from hers, but her blood-red nails refuse to loosen their grip on my navy pea coat forcing me to use my other free hand to pry them loose.

  “That’s it? You’re dumping me here? Literally, out in the cold?”

  “No. I ordered you an Uber. It’ll be here any second. Goodbye, Isabella. I’ve already packed up your clothes and toiletries from my condo. They’ll be delivered by courier in the morning.”

  “Asshole,” she breathes, her angry breath coming out in pants of hot steam as it meets the frigid air.

  I shrug. Because I guess I am. But it’s not my fault. I’ve just learned it’s better to be this way than the lost boy I once was—the one whose innocent heart always got broken for believing Christmas magic might be real. Hell, for believing anything is real.

  I leave her standing under an awning as the Uber pulls to the curb. I pull the neck of my coat higher and decide to walk the twelve blocks home.

  Like I said earlier, the cold has never bothered me. Snow begins to fall softly at my feet. Every light pole is wrapped in garland and twinkling lights. With my hands buried deep in my pockets, I wish just for once to have it. The Christmas that’s always eluded me; where friends and family gathered around, and the light and joy would fill your heart.

  “Pussy,” I mutter under my breath, catching my reflection in a store window as I pass under a light. I need to man up, because tomorrow I’m going to shed my thousand-dollar suit for my leather cut and worn-in jeans. The boys in Creed are gonna kick my ass if I show up crying over childhood dreams that never came true.

  2
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  SHILOH

  GRANT IS AN ASSHOLE.

  I wish I knew that before wasting the last six months of my life dating him exclusively.

  Averting my eyes, I lift the glass of merlot to my lips. The waitress knows. Hell, everyone in here probably knows. He picked one of the most romantic restaurants in Los Angeles. It’s decorated for Christmas with lighted garland, soft candles, and Bing Crosby crooning through the wireless speakers.

  I’m dressed in my new Versace wrap dress, Louis Vuitton boots, my hair falls down my back in soft waves fresh from the hundred-dollar blow out I had done hours earlier in the posh salon on Rodeo Drive.

  I look like a million crisp dollar bills—but all my efforts are wasted.

  My date stood me up.

  Again.

  It’s the third time this month.

  Fucking Grant.

  When we first met his drive; his ambition was such a turn on. He would speak so passionately about his work, his need to expand his empire, branching out and opening a new office in Europe. He’s a high-powered agent to the stars. He started his own agency from scratch building it into one of the most prestigious firms in the industry with firms on both the West and East Coast. Dropping hints that he’d take me with him. I’ll never forget the line he used to get me in to bed the first time.

  My face burns.

  I was putty in his hands, after he murmured it huskily in my ear as his hand slid up my legs under the hem of my dress. “You look sexy tonight, Shiloh. But you know what will look even sexier on you? The lights reflecting off your skin shining from the Eiffel tower as I go down on you,” I gasped, my head falling back against his chest. He pulled me back against the front of him, my dress was bunched at my waist as his finger rubbed over me. I purred. Needing him to touch me more.

  He laughed deep in his throat, increasing the pressure of his hand as he rubbed back and forth, then a finger snuck inside the seam of my thong.

  Then two.

  His lips found the side of my neck as he touched me.

  Readied me.

  Broke down my walls, priming my body to need his.

  The thing is, I don’t sleep around. My pussy is by invite only. No players, cheats or creeps need apply. After tonight I’m adding suits to that list. I need to stop dating men who wear tailor-made suits and thousand-dollar watches.

  They are my kryptonite. My knees get weak, my nipples pucker, my thighs ache when I’m near a powerful man in a suit. It’s not the money because I have enough of my own. It’s the raw sex appeal. The power…the way a suit makes a man’s shoulder look even wider… I sigh.

  But no more.

  I’m done.

  I’m done coming in second to the deal, business meeting, conference call, email…ex-wife, daughter—just for once I want to be somebody’s first.

  Finishing my wine, I open my clutch slapping a hundred dollars down on the table. I need to get out of Santa Monica. Hell, California. My heels click against the pavement as I walk to my car. Palms trees dance in the wind overhead.

  I drive home, ignoring his calls and texts. “Your loss, asshole,” I mutter as Grant texts again that he’s ten minutes away from the restaurant.

  I don’t reply.

  Good.

  Let him walk in expecting to see me looking hot as fuck. He probably thinks he has a night with me moving under him ahead. Instead, he can play with himself. I’m certainly never touching him again. But now I’ll be alone on Christmas instead of in Cabo with him. But I’d probably be at the swim-up bar at the pool alone anyway while he’s glued to his cell and laptop. He’s always available—to everyone but me. Truthfully, I didn’t want to go to Cabo for the holidays. I live in the Sunshine State. I was hoping for something more romantic, like a cabin tucked away in the snowy woods; where dozens of Evergreen trees would catch the snowflakes on their lush branches, and the moonlight would reflect the flakes, making them twinkle like a thousand diamonds. I only had seven good Christmases and the first four didn’t count since I can’t remember them. My mother wasn’t cut out to be a mother. She was selfish and cruel but other times she’s try. Maybe it was all an act, the days she doted on me. But I didn’t care. I was thirsty for her attention and love and I hoarded every second I could get. Maybe that’s why I always fall too soon. Too hard. I’ve never felt completely loved. Ever. And It makes me desperate to know what it would be like.

  Sighing, I blow a lock of hair from my face. The only place a Christmas like that exists is in a Hallmark Channel Movie.

  I don’t need him.

  The orgasms he gives aren’t worth the humiliation of being stood up anymore, I’m especially when my eight-inch vibrator can do the same thing. I’m done coming in second place when I want to be someone’s first place prize.

  I park in my spot in the garage and walk up three flights of stairs to my townhouse overlooking the Santa Monica Pier. My mother was and wasn’t a lot of things, but she left me this place and I’m grateful for it. Mama was a real sex kitten well past her cougar expiration date. She was every man’s wet dream when she was young. She loved hard and left them hard. She fell into the world of glitz, glamour, drugs and sex. She was never without cigarettes and champagne. Every photograph of her in my album has her holding both, one in each hand. I’m sure posters of her in a shiny bikini still hang on some old fart’s wall. Mom was a famous model who was in almost every music video in the eighties. But showbiz life burns you out: the sex, the drugs—the men. She tried her hand at acting after she had me and managed to land some B-rated movie roles. She was better actress than she ever got credit for, but no one wanted a has been and by 1989 that’s exactly what she was.

  My father could be anyone from a bass guitarist to an executive producer. Exactly who—is anyone’s guess. I’m tempted to order one of those Ancestry DNA kits. But in the end, my finger hovered over the computer one-click away from “the order now” button. Instead, I closed the browser out. Knowing who he is won’t change my past now anyway. My fingernails curl into my palm. But what if he could have made a difference? That question haunted my childhood.

  I shudder despite the warm California December air. What if he’s some dud? An eighties rock-star wannabe that just fucked mom at an after-party in Beverly Hills. At least she kept me.

  Sighing, I run a hand through my thick hair. My best friend, Jenny, thinks I’m more beautiful than my mother ever was, but for some reason none of the men I’ve dated have panned out into anything serious; something that’s lasted. Jenny’s beautiful herself and married to a famous Hollywood entertainment lawyer. She has a house in Malibu, three kids, and even a god damn golden retriever.

  I laugh bitterly at my sorry Charlie Brown Christmas tree sitting in the corner, undecorated; one that I rescued from the dump behind the building.

  It looked sad and lonely. Just like me.

  Even my three houseplants seem days away from dying. Suddenly, the walls of my spacious apartment start closing in.

  I need to get out of here. I’m suffocating despite the ocean air coming through my windows. The first day of my holiday break starts tomorrow. I don’t have to report back into work until January second. I don’t even need to work. My mother was a lot of things—greedy wasn’t one of them. Being a sex goddess in the seventies and eighties paid well. When she died after a long battle with lung cancer a few years back, she left me three million in cash and her house in Beverly Hills which sold for a few million more. But I can’t shop all day. I want to do something fulfilling with my life. I graduated from UCLA with a degree in early childhood education and a master’s in counseling. Shortly, after graduate school, I found a job in Compton working as a school guidance counselor. It’s dangerous. My car’s been jacked twice. But once I earned the trust and respect of the students; they protect me. Well, as much as they can. I wised up and bought an old clinker car to drive to work. I wear thrift shop clothes to school. It can’t hide my inherited beauty, but it hides my wealth. That’s why I enjoyed dress
ing up for Grant so much. Wearing expensive designer clothes is a luxury that I don’t take for granted. After long, hard days of helping troubled students, I wanted to feel sexy, desirable and forget my stress and worry over the kids in bed, under a sexy as fuck man as he treasures my body with his skillful touch.

  Damn.

  Grant. Why did he have to take me for granted?

  As if on cue, my cell rings.

  “Shiloh? Where the hell are you? I drove across the city to meet you and cut my clients short.”

  “It’s over. Go fuck yourself tonight, because I won’t be doing it anymore.”

  “You don’t mean that baby,” he tries to sound husky and sexy, trying to entice me. He does have a gifted dick, but I’m done with it. I have more self-respect than to give it up to him again.

  “Don’t be like this, baby. I’m sorry I got angry at you. Work—”

  “I don’t want to hear one word about your damn job, Grant. I hope it keeps you warm at night, since it’s clear you put it first.”

  Despite my tough words, I’d be lying if the thought of spending Christmas alone is appealing. Part of me wishes I could spend Christmas cuddled up with Grant. But knowing him, I will end up alone. Dumped again, for some idiot celebrity who overdoses; or some other Hollywood actor who gets drunk and makes a scene on Christmas. Grant wouldn’t even consider me; I’d be left behind in a nanosecond. Work comes before everything in his life.

  I cross the wide plank floors to my bedroom, catching my own eyes in the mirror as I slip off my heels. Flopping back on the bed, I facetime Jenny.

  “Shiloh? Why aren’t you on your date? He didn’t! Again?”