by JA Huss
“What is Bric’s type?”
“Dirty whores, mostly.”
I laugh. Like kinda loud. “I think I fit that description, actually.”
“You do not. Bric likes desperate girls. Ones who need that dream he’s offering. You’re not her. You don’t need anything from us, and yet… here you are. Just tell me why you’re here.”
“I… don’t know what to say.”
“Try the truth.”
We stare at each other in silence.
“Why is it so hard for you?”
I take in a deep breath and let it out. “It’s a very personal thing. I like you a lot. I would date you. And you’re right about Bric and Quin, we’re not soul mates or anything. But I like them. And I’m with all three of you right now.”
“So you want it to stay that way?”
“Not forever. Not even for much longer, probably. But for now. I want this to stay the same for right now.”
“Why? Why did you go up to Rochelle’s room that night? Why did you allow Quin to sleep with you?”
I have nothing to say to that. So I stay silent.
“Rochelle came for money and a place to live. Quin thinks she was homeless before she met us. She needed her dream fulfilled. But you don’t.”
“How do you know I don’t? Maybe this is my dream? Did you ever ask yourself that?”
“Is it your dream?”
“Obviously I’m interested in what you guys are offering. I think we can agree on that just by looking at all the things I’ve agreed to in the recent weeks. But no, it’s not my dream.”
“Then what will take?”
I put my fork down and sigh. “Can you ask me this again next week?”
“You do know that they’re both at the club right now picking out the girl they’ll fuck tonight, right?”
“Why are you telling me this? To make me jealous? I’m not jealous. I don’t care what they do when they’re not with me. On Sunday night at midnight Quin will show up in my apartment and we’ll have fun. Tuesday night at midnight Bric will call me and say nice things.”
“And what will I do Thursday night at midnight?”
“Nothing,” I say. “You don’t bother with me at midnight.”
“Because I can’t touch you without Bric.”
“I’m not the one who gave you that rule.”
“But you’re OK with it?”
“I don’t think this is what people do on Christmas Eve Eve.”
“You’d be wrong. The holidays are the perfect time for family fights.”
“Family—” I laugh. “Come on, Smith. I’ve known you what, a month? If that?”
“What will it take,” Smith says, his voice rising, “to change your mind and make you want to just be with me?”
“To change my mind about the arrangement? Nothing, Smith. Nothing you can say or do will change my mind about this arrangement.”
“So you want all four of us to be together.”
“Yes,” I say, tired of talking about this. “Yes, I do. I want it. And I’m going to ask for it when Quin comes over Sunday night.”
He just stares at me. The seconds tick off and then… “OK. Then what? Once you get that, then what? You’ll stay?”
“I might. I don’t know yet.”
“You’re lying, Chella.”
I huff out a breath of air, then grab my napkin off my lap and toss it on the table. “I’m done,” I say, getting up from my chair.
Smith stands as well. “Just tell me what you’re doing and I’ll back off. But I don’t like being manipulated.”
I throw up my hands. “How am I manipulating you?”
“I don’t know, but you are. Quin and Bric are happy to forget how we found you. They don’t care about you, Chella. That’s why they’re OK with letting it go. But I actually like you. And I know you’re lying to me about something. So what is it?”
I want to tell him, I really do. Because I like him back. A lot. But I can’t tell him now. Not yet. Not when I’m so close to what I came for. “I got you a Christmas present,” I blurt, desperate to change the subject. I know it won’t work, but I try it anyway.
His frown eases a little and then he smiles. “What did you get me?”
I sigh out a long breath of relief. Thankful. “It’s pretty special, but I can’t give it to you yet. I have to save it a little longer. It’s a present for later, Smith. Something more meaningful than I want to share with you now.”
“Because you’re not done with Bric and Quin?” His words are angry at first. “And you have to finish that before you can start something new?” But they are soft by the time he’s done.
I nod. “Yes. That’s exactly it. I have to finish what I started and then I have a gift for you. So I hope you can wait a little longer.”
He walks around the table and stands in front of me. I can tell he wants to touch me. Maybe very badly. But he stuffs his hands in his pockets, like he usually does when he needs to control his urges around me. The rules, it seems, are meaningful to him. “I can wait.”
“Good. I’m glad. I really am.”
“Did you get Bric and Quin a gift?”
“Yes,” I say. “But it’s not the same.”
His eyes go sad for a moment. “How are they different?”
“They just are. Can we please talk about this next week?”
He thinks about my request for a few moments. Trying to read between the lines, I bet. And he must kind of get it, even though I know he has no clue what’s really happening. Because he says, “Sure. I can wait. And besides, I got you a present too. And I don’t want to wait, so I’m gonna give it to you now.”
He walks away, goes up the stairs to the second floor, and disappears inside his bedroom.
I grab both our glasses of champagne and refill them to give myself something to do.
When he comes back he’s all smiles and he’s got his hands behind his back. He motions to me with his head. “Over here. In front of the fireplace.”
The fireplace is double-sided and separates the living and dining rooms. He walks over to the polished marble hearth seat on the living room side and motions with his head again. “Sit here.”
I have no idea what to expect right now. But I walk over and sit, placing our glasses of champagne on the seat next to me. He sits too, and then brings out a turquoise blue box with a white ribbon tied around it.
I smile. “Tiffany’s?”
“Women go crazy for Tiffany boxes, right?”
“We do.” I laugh. “Even girls like me.”
“Well, don't jump to conclusions,” he says. “It’s more than it seems.” He hands it to me and I take it. It’s not a ring box, it’s bigger than that. About eight inches square. And it’s very light. “Open it,” he says.
I pull on the white satin ribbon and let it fall into my lap, then lift the lid off the box.
It’s empty.
I furrow my brows and look at him expectantly.
“It’s not empty,” he says.
I look again. But yes, it is.
“It’s filled with everything, Chella. Every possibility. You can put whatever you want in that box. It doesn’t even need to fit inside, it will still count. Whatever you want.”
I look at him and… have a small revelation. Just like I did last night.
“I’ll get it for you. I asked you what it would take to make you forget Bric and Quin. And I mean it. Whatever it takes. I can put it in there for you. To some people life is about survival. I’ve been there. Not by birth, I had to find that part of living by myself. And I’m betting you’ve been there too. I don’t know how, or when, or why—since your family is obviously wealthy. But I have a feeling you’ve been in survival mode before. But life isn’t really about survival. It’s about living. It’s about meeting people, and going places, and feeling things you don’t normally get a chance to meet, or see, or feel. It’s about being aware of what you’re doing, and why. It’s about opportunities an
d possibilities. It’s about experiences, Chella. So my gift to you is whatever you want. Put whatever you want in that box, and it’s yours. Courtesy of me.”
“The dream?” I ask.
But he shakes his head. “No, it’s not about the dream. It’s about the want. The longing, Chella. You remember the longing?”
“The book?” I ask, still slightly confused.
“The message inside the book. Longing. A yearning desire. A burning ache in the heart. Something you hunger for. Thirst for. Something you want so bad, it’s killing you slowly not to have it. That’s what goes in the box. And I realize the box is small and these things feel big, but they have no boundaries. They are ethereal. Like a mist or a spray. Or that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know you lost something and can’t get it back. I will give you that, Chella. I will fill in the deep, dark hole you’re so desperate to cover up with whatever it is you’re doing here with us, and I will make your longing go away. That’s my present.”
Chapter Thirty-One - Bric
Quin is pouting as he stares down into his whiskey glass as we wait for Smith and Chella to arrive at the Club. “Three years,” he says. “This is the first Christmas without her in three years.”
I roll my eyes because he’s not looking at me. But I try to be patient. “I hope to God you do not start with this shit tonight, asshole. This is for Chella, understand? She’s not interested in your stupid broken heart. So suck it up, be a man, and shut the fuck up. I can’t take any more of your whining.”
I’m not really known for my patience but that was me trying. Hard.
Quin looks up at me. “Don’t be a dick.”
I take a deep breath. “Focus, Quin. On the here and now. Let her go. She’s gone. Perhaps one day she’ll come back, but the chances are low, so don’t get your hopes up. And I’m sorry if this is harsh, but you’re being a pussy.”
“You are a dick. You don’t know what love feels like because that cold, black heart of yours is two sizes too small.”
“You were watching The Grinch on Saturday morning cartoons again, weren’t you?”
Quin smiles, but tries to hide it. “Saturday morning cartoons don’t even exist anymore, dumbass. And you are the Grinch.”
I point to my outfit. “Do I look like the motherfucking Grinch?”
He laughs this time. Usually Smith plays Santa at the Christmas Eve party—that’s his deal, right? I’m gonna give away all my money. I’m gonna be the goddamned fairy godmother to the world. But he’s with Chella, and this is a surprise for her. So. Yeah. I’m Santa.
There are a shitload of kids here. I’m not into Christmas. I let the staff decorate the Club two weeks prior and it all comes down before New Year’s Eve, because that’s the holiday that counts as far as I’m concerned. New Year’s Eve is a man’s holiday. A party holiday. Not the kind with that sickly sweet eggnog. The kind with the eggnog that knocks you on your ass. The kind of party with foil hats and masks—we like masks here at the Club, regardless, but we especially like holidays that advocate masks—and a ton of confetti and balloons coming down from the ceiling. New Year’s Eve is the only time we allow Club activities on the first floor.
It’s hot as fuck in here on New Year’s Eve, and I’m not talking about the furnace. Naked women everywhere, dirty sex going on all over the place. We close all the outside shutters on the building for this party. The only night of the year we do that. Everyone in by ten, no one leaves until after midnight. It’s not a long party, but it’s one every member comes to.
Seven more days, Bric. Seven more days and this bullshit is over for another year.
Or at least until Valentine’s Day. Which I refuse to think about right now, because I hate that holiday too.
But the Christmas Eve party is for families. We don’t even close the inside blinds on the windows for Christmas Eve parties.
“I can’t take this screaming,” I say. “Fucking hate kids.”
“How do you hate kids?” Quin asks, shaking his head. “Like for real, man. That’s just wrong.”
“Do you hear them down there? Running around like sugared-up maniacs?”
“You mean all that joy?” He almost snorts at me. “If you’re gonna be an asshole, I’ll be Santa, for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m already wearing the fucking suit,” I growl.
There are a grand total of sixty-five Club kids. Sixty-five. How? We only have forty-two members. I don’t understand how people can have more than one. And each kid gets a personalized present from Santa. Which means I have to sit on that stupid throne all night handing out gifts. Thank God they tire quick and start throwing tantrums. The parents usually take them home around nine-thirty and by ten, I’ve blocked the whole thing out with some single-malt Scotch.
“Aww,” Quin says. “There they are.”
I lean over the banister and look down into the lobby to watch Chella’s face as she comes through the revolving doors. I bet she thought Smith was bringing her here for a sex party tonight.
I do smile at that. Chella’s a nice girl. I like her a lot. She’s smart, and funny, and totally normal. So not what I’m used to. Still, it’s good to venture out of my comfort zone every once in a while. And she’s pretty. She’s very pretty.
“OK,” I say as I stand. I pull the white beard up onto my face and straighten out my giant black belt. “I feel ridiculous, but I’m taking one for the team to make our Chella happy. Smith owes me.”
Quin and I start down the stairs and before we even hit the landing where the elevator is, the maniacs are screaming, “Santa! Santa!”
“Suck it up, you pussy,” Quin whispers, laughing. “Be a man and shut the fuck up.”
“No more swearing, asshole. There are kids here.”
I start the whole thing out with some “Ho-ho-hos,” and go right to Marcella Walcott. Smith is smiling so big, it might make all my humiliation worth it. I take Chella’s hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her a little more seductively than Santa should. But hey, I’m not gonna apologize. Quin hands me three presents in Tiffany-blue boxes. “Hold out your hands, Marcella Walcott, I’ve heard you’ve been a very good girl this year.”
She giggles. Actually giggles. Which should embarrass her, since she’s thirty years old. But instead she shoots me a look that says she belongs on the naughty list. I place the three boxes in her outstretched hands and do my best not to push her up against the banister and fuck her, because she looks stunning in that dress. Smith didn’t choose a PG-13 outfit for her tonight.
Chella is beyond happy. She’s like a little girl on… well, Christmas. And for a moment I feel sorry for her. That she missed out on the holidays for most of her life. Sure, I hate kids. And I’m an atheist. But if I had a kid, I’d definitely do the whole Christmas thing up right.
I can’t stay with them because the maniacs are back, tugging on my coat, pulling on my belt, trying to grab at my beard. I am herded over into the White Room, where Santa’s one-night workshop has been set up.
At least I have some female elves to appreciate while I spent the next three hours dutifully lifting each kid into my lap and handing them a present with their name on it.
I don’t see Chella again until Santa’s bags of goodies have been emptied and the tantrums are starting. It takes me ten minutes to get past all the sticky fingers trying to touch my suit, and then…
Bliss. As I drop into a chair in Smith’s bar and pull my beard down to drink.
“You,” Chella says, coming to sit in my lap—she kisses me on the cheek as she wraps her arm around my neck—“are loved.”
“Aww.” I smile.
“Thank you,” she says, looking at all three of us. I wonder if Smith is getting jealous that she’s in my lap. Because I’m having some very dirty thoughts about her right about now. “I love this night so much, you have no idea.”
“Open your presents,” Quin says, pointing to the three packages on the table. “These two are from Bric and m
e, and this one is from hotshot over there.” He hooks a thumb in the direction of Smith, who is across the room, leaning against the bar.
“You guys, I really don’t need gifts,” Chella protests.
“Everybody needs gifts, Chella,” Smith says.
Her eyes linger on him for a moment, wondering if he’s mad, probably. I’m wondering the same thing myself. His happiness at her joy seems to be wearing off and the reality of what’s gonna happen tonight has set in.
Chella takes the first small present. It’s either mine or Quin’s. They are identical, so it doesn’t matter. The bow is untied carefully, like she’s savoring the moment, and then the lid comes off and she whispers, “That’s beautiful.” She takes the diamond cuff out and Quin helps her fasten it around her wrist. It’s tight, as it should be.
“This is mine,” Quin says, kissing the underside of her wrist.
Chella looks at the other identical box, then finds me. I smile. She already knows what we’re doing here. She reaches for my package, unties the bow—less carefully this time—and then I help her fasten that cuff around her other wrist.
I can be dramatic. So like Quin, I kiss the underside of her wrist and say, “This one’s mine.”
Chella holds her wrists out in front of her and smiles like a child. “I love them, you guys. Adore them. Not because they’re Tiffany and not because they’re diamonds. But because they come from you.” She gets up and kisses both of us on the cheek, and then sits back down and reaches for the last box.
It’s bigger, not by much, but she has to know it’s not a bracelet. She’s run out of wrists, at any rate.
“Is this from you, Smith?”
He nods from across the room, and I’m just about to snap at him, tell him to pull himself out of this funk he’s in and get his ass over here, when he sets his drink down on the bar and walks over to stand behind Chella’s chair. “Open it,” he says.
Chella does, even quicker than the second present, and gasps as she pulls the diamond choker out of its box. “Smith,” she breathes. “This is… stunning.”
Smith leans over her shoulder, takes it from her hands, unclasps the mechanism, and then fastens it around her throat until it really does look like she’s choking on diamonds.
