Unwrapped

by Jax Hart

  “He did. And it’s over. I gave him the boot.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “I know. But it still sucks.”

  “I know.”

  “What am I doing wrong, Jenny? Am I so unlovable? No one ever wants to keep me?”

  “Stop. You know what it is?”

  “I do?”

  She gives me an eye-roll. “You have a thing for douchebags. Hot, rich ones.”

  “I do,” I mutter, laying back against my pillows.

  “Some spend Christmas with us. The kids would love it!”

  I smile weakly. I can’t hurt her by saying what I’m feeling out loud; that being around her and her adorable family is just a reminder of everything I’m longing for and don’t have. “Actually, I’m taking a trip.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. I want a real Christmas this year with evergreen trees that smell like fresh pine needles. I’ve never had a white Christmas, maybe it’s about time I give myself one and while I’m at it I can work on my books.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Probably up North. I feel like a drive. It’ll clear my head.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a high-end spa in the mountains somewhere. I’ll pamper my loneliness away. I’ll be fine.”

  “Ok. If that’s what you need. Call me, though, okay? I’m going to worry if you don’t.”

  “I’ll be fine. I know how to take care of myself.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Love you!”

  “Love you, too. He’s out there Shi. Just stop looking then he’ll find you.”

  This time, I’m the one to roll my eyes, “You know I hate those crappy sayings.”

  “Well, maybe they are true.”

  “Bye!” I laugh, ending our call. Getting up from my bed, I unzip my gown and step out of it, carefully placing it back on the hanger still on the back of my door. Then zip it back up in its protective bag.

  Lifting my chenille robe off a hook, I wrap it around me and tie the sash. Padding back out into the living area, I pour myself a glass of merlot and open my laptop. Opening up my web browser, I type in “scenic luxury mountain spa.” Hundreds pop up. Some are in the Mid-West, but most are in Europe or even the East Coast. I amend my search, “scenic luxury mountain spa west coast.”

  I scroll down. There it is. “Maple Mill Inn and Spa, located in Springdale, Oregon.” I click on the link and it opens to a picture that takes my breath away. It’s a huge white colonial nestled amongst enormous pine trees. The owners describe it as being an old logging mill that they lovingly restored into a fifteen-room luxury inn and spa facilities. They even host weddings in the summer under a large pavilion next to the old sawmill and pond.

  Without hesitation, I pick up my cell and dial the number.

  “Maple Mill Inn, Sally McBride speaking. How may I help you?”

  “H-hello. I know this is last minute, but would you happen to have any availability?”

  “When are you looking to stay?”

  “I don’t know…how far of a drive is it from Los Angeles to you?”

  “…maybe about twelve to thirteen hours if you stop and encounter light traffic.” My eyes fall down to the time displayed on my laptop.

  “Perfect. I’ll take a late check-in…tomorrow?”

  “Sure. We have a room available. How long do you want to stay?”

  “January third.” I hear her clicking on a keyboard on the other end.

  “What type of room would you like? Our prices range from $299 to $599 per night.” I click through the website looking at pictures of the rooms. Some are suites with sitting areas with a small kitchen. They are all lovely and cozy decorated elegantly but with a Victorian country charm.

  A smaller corner room catches my eye. It has a wood burning fireplace and a canopy bed with a fur rug on the floor.

  “Is the corner room…the one called the ‘Snowflake Suite’ available?”

  “It is.”

  “Great. I’ll take it.”

  “And how many will be traveling in your party.”

  “One. Just me. It’s…just me.”

  “No problem.” The woman maintains her professionalism. “Any special requests?”

  “Yes. Can you make sure my room is decorated for the holidays…with real garland and a real tree?”

  “We only use fresh Oregon greens to decorate.”

  “Good.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Can you book me a different spa treatment for every day of my stay?”

  “I can…but our spa staff is off on Christmas Day.”

  “Right. That’s it then.” Picking up my purse, I slid out my wallet. Rattling off my credit card number, I give all my information to book the room.

  Satisfied with my decision, I wash the makeup from my face, put on my pajamas, and grab my Louis Vuitton suitcases from the closet.

  Shit.

  I don’t even own a snow coat or a pair of winter boots.

  Although I have plenty of money, I’m usually quite frugal with it despite the dollars I dropped trying to look good for Grant.

  I pack what I can, toiletries and such knowing I’ll treat myself to my own Christmas presents on the way out of town at ‘The Grove’. It’s a high-end outdoor mall that will have everything I need. I always wanted a pair of Ugg boots, but they just never seemed practical.

  I climb into bed, turning off the lights and Google Springdale Oregon. What I find would have me dreaming of more than a white Christmas.

  News article after news article mentions the local bad-boy/hero biker club, CREED. I lick my lips as pictures of tatted men with bulging biceps fill my screen. ‘These bad boys have hearts of gold,” is the title of the article. I read on. It’s dated from last summer when the ‘bad boys’ of Creed opened up their two-hundred-acre property surrounding a lake to underprivileged and at-risk youth for a week of camping and adventure. They paid for the kids transportation and through a local YMCA arranged for their property to be transformed into a type of summer camp. The article states the MC had been doing this for the past few years.

  I sigh, scrolling through articles more scrumptious than the next. But I shiver when I read the MC was questioned by local police after a shoot-out occurred during a freak summer storm. No one was charged, but the reporter’s thoughts were clear: the MC isn’t all bad boys with hearts of gold, but that they are dangerous criminals hiding behind good deeds.

  I keep scrolling. Then click on another one. “President of local MC weds local girl, Shanna Flynn.”

  Holy hell. The man in hot.

  I fan myself, jealous as hell at the way he stares at his bride. The lens of the camera captured all the lust and fire of his love as he gazed down at his bride.

  I want that.

  Springdale here I come.

  Jenny is right. I’ve been dating the wrong type of man over and over. It’s time for a change and the New Year is right around the corner. This year, all I want for Christmas is a bad boy biker from Creed to jingle my bells and make me come under my tree.

  With images of a dark-haired beast of a man undressing me, un-wrapping me like the gift he always wanted, I slip my hand between my legs. Shutting my eyes, I imagine him touching me with rough, callused hands, holding me down as he feasts on me. Grant was never one to reciprocate oral.

  I moan, rubbing my slippery folds, then pinch my own nipples, convulsing to some nameless, faceless stranger.

  But he won’t be a stranger for long.

  I’ll find my bad-boy biker…in Springdale, Oregon.

  Smiling and sated, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips.

  3

  DARE

  MY EYES OPEN BEFORE my alarm goes off. I tossed and turned all night. It didn’t help that Isabella called dozens of times and sent even more texts. Each more desperate than the last.

 
I blocked her number around three a.m. but thoughts of going back to Oregon kept turning in my head. I miss the boys. But there was a reason why I left. Actually, several good ones.

  I’ve achieved everything I set out to do when I left six years ago—and yet something still seems missing.

  I dress in my running gear, pulling a dark hooded sweatshirt over my head. I’ll jog five miles to the UFC gym where I work out and still have plenty of time to make my flight.

  My feet tread heavily over ice-covered sidewalks. I don’t slip once. My shoes have special tractions underneath making it easier for me to navigate. My breath comes out in steady puffs of steam.

  The blood pumps through my veins; my steady pace keeping me from icing over. I’m at the gym just as the doors open at 5 a.m. wasting no time as I lace up a pair of boxing gloves and enter the ring.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.” I turn facing Ernie.

  He’s a man’s man motherfucker. Born and raised in the streets of Chicago. But so was I. Maybe it was a different street, a different state but the scars on his heart matched mine.

  “So be it.” He grins, before putting his mouthguard in. I put my own in feeling like myself for the first time in a while.

  I’ve changed, but underneath all my layers of education and finely tailored suits is still a man raised on the wrong side of the tracks with the skill to prove it.

  We meet in the center of the ring and tap gloves.

  Then, it’s on.

  Eyeing each other, our feet dance in small circles. He jabs first. I block. Round and round we go. Jabbing, circling, letting go of everything that swirls inside us. All that matters is what’s here. What’s coming as I block another right hook then jab low connecting with his ribs.

  “Fuck, man.”

  “Sorry. I lost myself.”

  “It’s cool. I know. That’s why I come here too.”

  Breathing hard. I wipe the sweat from my face with a towel. Take my mouth guard out and squirt some ice-cold water in my mouth. I tap my gloves to his. “I’m out. See you in the New Year.”

  “What about tomorrow? Or do you need that much time to recover.”

  “I could’ve dropped ya’ if I wanted.”

  “Bullshit.” He straightens, all our banter turning serious.

  I grin, “Loosen up, E. I just need to blow off steam. I don’t come here looking for anything more than that.”

  “Word. I feel you. Merry Christmas, pretty boy.”

  Ah, fuck no. I can’t let that shit slide as snickers break out on the gym floor. Slowly, I unlace my gloves and drop them on the mat. Raising my arms, I wiggle my fingers, “Say that again? To my face …”

  He smirks, knowing I’m about to accept his challenge. I was done but he wasn’t. He still has more ghosts to fight. But punching air isn’t as satisfying as connecting with solid flesh. I peel my sweat-soaked shirt over my head throwing it out of the way.

  Silence follows.

  My ink speaks for itself. I know what everyone is staring at, the ink of my MC spread across my traps.

  “What?” I turn facing the stares. “You never figured a pretty boy like me is about to kick some ass, eh?”

  “Bring it.” Ernie beckons me forward. We waste no time circling each other, each of us eyeing the other looking for a way to land the first hit. He takes a cheap shot, aiming for my face. I dodge it, striking out with my right leg and hooking him behind the knee. I bring him to the floor locking him in a rear-naked-choke, MMA style. “What the hell, man?” He asks as he’s forced to tap out.

  “You went for my face with that cheap shot. I get needing to blow off steam, but I can’t go into my office looking like I got into it, man.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just the holidays, you know?”

  “I do.”

  My phone buzzes from inside my sweatshirt laying on the floor outside the ring. I get up. Ernie and I clasp hands. and I grab my stuff and head toward the locker rooms.

  Christ.

  My PA texted a group message that included Claudia. he end of the year audit is finished and they need me to sign off on it before I leave for Oregon. I text back to push my flight back and that I’ll stop in briefly on my way to the airport.

  I rinse off quickly and put on a spare set of gym clothes that I keep in my locker here. and I throw my dirty stuff in an old gym bag that I keep tucked inside the locker. The men nod their heads with respect as I walk back out into the freezing Chicago morning.

  It’s barely seven, so I decide to pick up my favorite blend of black coffee at the shop a few blocks from my condo.

  With my head bent, the icy breeze goes over the top of my hooded jacket. It’s early but the buses are running, their tires rolling to stops through dirty slush as their brakes groan.

  I never lived in a city before I moved out here. Everything seemed fresh and new. But everything seems to have lost its magic. I pull up short at the sight of a young girl staring longingly through the window of a shop. Her sneakers are old, the rubber on the front missing a piece by her toe. She’s not even wearing a coat but has a man’s large sweatshirt hanging down to her knees. Her backpack looks as if its seen better days as well.

  Hell.

  She turns sensing my stare. Her eyes tell a story, I only know too well. Her face is sallow, large circles are half-moons under each eye.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  She ignores me, shuffling a few steps back and presses her palm to the cold glass. I turn, curious as to what grabbed her attention. It’s a music box with a glass ballerina spinning in graceful circles.

  “I always wanted to dance,” she shrugs.

  “So, dance.”

  She pretends to brush her hair from her face instead of the tear threatening to spill down her cheek. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Come on. I’m heading inside the café next door for a coffee. I’ll get you a hot chocolate and a bagel.”

  “Why are you being so nice? I don’t trust anyone who is nice. They always want something.”

  Rage builds, burning my blood. “Is anyone hurting you?” I step in closer.

  “Everyone hurts me,” she whispers.

  “What’s your name?”

  “You’re a stranger.”

  “I am. But in my experience, the ones who you know hurt you more than those people you don’t.”

  Her solemn brown eyes meet mine. “Freddie. My name is Freddie Pearce.”

  “I’m Dare Preston. Short for Darren. How old are you Freddie?”

  My question makes her nervous and she backs up. I hold up my hands. “I’m just curious. I swear. I’d never hurt a child.”

  “Ten. Almost eleven. I gotta go. I have six more blocks to walk before I get to school.” She turns quickly and tucks her bare hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt.

  I duck into the café watching her go with a frown. I order my signature blend, a hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin. It doesn’t take long for my long legs to catch up to her. “Here. I was a victim of the system myself. Dance Freddie. Even if it’s just for yourself—even if no one can see you.” I try handing her a hundred-dollar bill, but she refuses.

  “I can’t. They’ll take it from me…accuse me of stealing it. And if I buy something with it—they’ll take that too.”

  Shit.

  “Take it. Use it for food then, Freddie. Be smart about it, a bagel for breakfast…a sandwich on your way home. Take care of yourself, kid.”

  “Why do you even care?”

  “Because, Freddie. I’ve been where you are. Merry Christmas.”

  “I don’t believe in Christmas.”

  “I know. But we all need to believe in something.”

  “What do you believe in then?”

  “In surviving.”

  “Thanks.” She takes the bill and hides it inside her sock.

  “Good luck, Freddie.”

  She gives a small wave as she walks off clutching the bag with the muffin and t
ake small sips of the hot chocolate I bought.

  See? Maybe I’m not such a Grinch after all.

  I make a mental note of the name of the store next to the café where Freddie stood hoping for something, she knows she’ll never have. Then I text Claudia.

  Me: Call my investigator. Find out everything on a ten-year-old-girl, Freddie Pearce. She’s in foster care. Also, when the toy shop on Chicago Ave opens call and order the ballerina box from the window. I want it personally delivered to Freddie on Christmas Eve by a man in a Santa suit. FYI …I don’t care how much it costs. Get it done.

  Claudia: I’m on it. Did you forget you gave me today off?

  Me: Shit.

  Claudia: It’s fine. I already rescheduled your flight. Doing this for Freddie will be my pleasure.

  Me: I just decided to give you a Christmas bonus. I’ll have HR wire it into your account.

  Claudia: Thanks Darren. Have a safe trip.

  I tuck my phone back inside my pocket. I pass by a school that I have done a hundred times without giving it more than a glance. This time I do more than glance. I swallow hard noticing the small figure in an oversized gray sweatshirt, huddled over her cup of hot chocolate.

  Something in me cracks.

  My fists clench.

  She’s so cold and alone. In a few years—God knows what sick fuck’s house she could end up in. Something inside me breaks. She’s so precious; so fragile.

  I pull my phone back out, this time I don’t text.

  “Darren?”

  “Claudia. I need one more thing. Find out how to become a Foster Parent in Chicago. Fill out any forms for me. You know all my personal information.”

  “Darren?”

  “I didn’t ask for an opinion. Just get it done. It’s Christmas for Christ’s sake and maybe I’m someone’s Santa. Even though, personally, I detest the holiday.”

  She snorts. “Yes, your actions yesterday made that quite clear.”

  I disconnect with a grin. Freddie’s question suddenly searing across my heart.

  Family.

  I believe I’ve always wanted one. All the bitterness I feel at being alone for so many years as a child just snapped in me when I saw her standing so forlorn outside that store window. I can’t go back in time, but I can change someone else’s future. I can make hers right. I have the means to provide her with a safe home where she’ll never go hungry or wonder if she’ll get a winter coat. She’ll never have to cower under thing blankets as she grows up wondering if some sick fuck will try to enter her room. Her belly won’t ever hurt from hunger again.