Ghosts of Christmas (Steamy Bwwm Holiday Romance)

by Kenya Wright

  Okay. What’s the game plan for this evening, since I’m bailing out on my charity dinner.

  I shook my head, getting more annoyed with my father. Perhaps, I could have gotten security to drag him out of there. But then that image would be on Page Six in the morning. Gossip columnists always sniffed out a good story.

  Don’t think about Dad. Fuck Red. Head back home. Make sure everything is packed and then get some rest.

  Sadness filled my chest, knowing that I would miss my gala dinner and designer auction for the first time in the three-year history of this event.

  You figured that you had me cornered, Dad? Thought that I would have to talk to you now? Never. Leave me alone!

  I grabbed my jacket and purse from the back. I spotted a box of champagne set out for the dinner’s final toast. I seized three bottles, put on my hat, and left the church.

  Fuck. Now I’ll have to change my number for the hundredth time. Who the hell keeps giving it to him?

  While Dad tried to contact me at least once a month, he always pestered me the most around Christmas. It was the worst time of the year for both of us.

  That was winter for me. Snow fell from the sky. Wreaths went up on doors all over New York. My father called over and over, hoping one day I would forgive him and answer.

  Never. If Mom were alive, she would high-five me.

  When I made it outside the church, the wind chilled my skin. In blue and white robes, the Haven’s Baptist youth choir stood at the parking lot’s entrance practicing songs. They would be entering the dining hall in ten minutes and singing to my gala attendees.

  All this work I put into this event and I’ll miss it because of him. Because I can’t stomach being on the same property where that man stands.

  I stopped and stared at the young kids, remembering when I was that age—bright and full of hope. Snow fell around me. I watched those little faces and drank in their sweet voices as they sang, It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas.

  One of the little kid’s mother was near. She clapped as they continued the song. Sorrow knotted my heart. That was what Dad took from me—moments like this—memories with Mom.

  Well. . .you won’t take away anymore.

  Mom had made the mistake of loving him too hard. She had no rules or limits with her heart. She just gave it to him—the whole organ—without one thought to the consequences.

  And now she’s dead.

  My phone vibrated.

  I checked the screen and spotted Dad’s number.

  “Yeah. It really is beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Complete with the Daddy issues and rising depression over Mom.” Pushing my mother’s face out of my head, I let out a long breath and went to my car. “Let’s hope Red can fuck it all away.”

  Chapter 1

  What Christmas Means to Me

  In my dream, old memories played.

  I woke up and opened my eyes as a younger version of me, wearing little white pajamas.

  Stevie Wonder’s song What Christmas Means to Me filled the air. I didn’t know how long it had been going on. It was right at the end and then it started all over again.

  “It’s Christmas!” Excitement rushed through me. I grabbed my teddy bear and climbed out of my bed. “I know he got it for me. I know he did!”

  I’d written twenty letters to Santa, asking for a red bike. At ten years old, I was the only kid in my class to believe in him. No matter how much I tried to convince my friends they were wrong, they were certain Santa Clause was a myth. Sure, parents bought presents too. But Dad told me that Santa delivered the special ones.

  “I’ll show them! Watch! I’ll ride that bike down the street and do circles around them.” I giggled and searched for my pink bunny slippers. Mom would trip if I didn’t have something on my feet. I sang along with Stevie Wonder, “All these things and more!”

  I stumbled over my slippers as I hurried out of my bedroom.

  I wanted to wake up Mom. I’d overheard her crying last night after Dad left. They’d been arguing about someone having a baby. Whoever it was, the news made mom so sad. I wasn’t sure, but I think Dad had broken her heart again. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t sure how I should feel about that. I loved him so. But this year, all he did was make her cry and fun times shifted to sad ones.

  Clutching my bear tight, I tip-toed into the living room and took in all the presents under the Christmas tree. “Yes!”

  I widened my eyes. If not for Mom sleeping, I would have screamed out loud. Boxes and boxes piled all over the place—under the huge tree, near the fireplace, and some stacked the couch.

  “I know he brought it. I know he did.” I searched for the biggest box in the room. Some were wrapped in my favorite color of gold. Others had red and green paper on it. Each one displayed big bows.

  The song ended and started over again. Stevie Wonder’s voice rode the upbeat lyrics.

  I spotted the biggest box in the room and ran over to it. “This has to be it. It must be!”

  I sang with Stevie Wonder and tore through the wrapping paper.

  A weird feeling rushed over me. As if someone was in the room watching me. I paused from singing and looked to my right. Nothing was there, but more presents. I grinned and ripped more of the paper off. The image on the box greeted my eyes. A little blonde girl with pigtails rode a big red bike.

  I tore away the paper. “He did it!”

  Still, that weird feeling hit me—like someone was watching.

  I turned to the right and froze in horror. The wrapping paper left my fingers. My teddy bear fell from my arms.

  I screamed. “Mommy! Mommy!”

  My body shook. I didn’t know how to process. My brain shattered into pieces. My heart pounded in my chest. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. All I could do was scream.

  “Mommy! No!”

  There, my mother hung in the doorway leading to the kitchen. A rope held her up by her neck. There’d been a chair kicked to the side on the floor. The rope had been hammered into the top of the wall by hundreds of nails.

  The Stevie Wonder song ended, and then played again.

  Trembling, I urinated on myself. The warm liquid spilled down my legs, wetting my pajama pants and bunny slippers. My body spasmed as I stood but I didn’t know what else to do.

  The word burned my throat. “Mommy!”

  My mother’s legs dangled. Her eyes were popped open. Her light brown skin had shifted to a brownish gray.

  “Mommy!”

  Knocking sounded from the front door. “Ivy, baby. Open the door. Ivy!”

  “Mommy!” I screamed as I continued to stand in my own urine. My feet felt hammered into place like the rope nailed to the wall. And I couldn’t stop looking at her. I couldn’t turn away. I couldn’t think about what, how, or why. All I could do was scream.

  “Mommy!”

  The door burst open. I turned to see my father rushing in with the neighbor’s kids—Holly and Saint.

  “Mommy!”

  “What’s wrong, Ivy?” My father hurried my way, noticing the urine around my legs. “Baby, let’s get you cleaned up—”

  “M-mr. Smith.” Saint tapped his arm and pointed to Mom.

  My father cried, “Jesus! No, Gloria! No!”

  He let go of me and rushed off to her.

  Holly screamed in horror.

  Something shook me.

  A deep voice sounded off in the distance. “Ivy, are you okay?”

  I turned to my Christmas present showing the bike. “No. I’m. . .not. . .”

  “Ivy?”

  Waking up, I rubbed my eyes. “W-what?”

  “Ivy?” Red gathered me into his arms. “You were screaming for your mother and talking about a bike.”

  Blinking, I scooted out of his hold. “What?”

  “You must have been having a nightmare—”

  “Sorry. I. . .I slept here.”

  “That’s not a problem.

  “Sorry, I woke you up.” I sho
ok my head and sat up in bed.

  “You were yelling for—”

  “Sometimes I have nightmares like that around this time.”

  Concern covered his face. “You have nothing to be sorry about. What was the dream about?”

  I checked his clock on the nightstand and then climbed out of bed. “Fuck. I can’t believe I spent the night. I have a plane to catch this morning.”

  “What? Wait, Ivy.” Red hurried out of bed too, not even covering himself. “Where are you going?”

  I picked up my pants from the floor and began dressing. “My best friend’s wedding is this week, right on Christmas Eve.”

  “It is?”

  I yawned and stepped into my pants. “Yeah.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “Finland.” I grabbed my bra. “Why?”

  “Because we’ve been fucking for three months now and I don’t know anything about you besides what I can Google.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s your social media persona. I would like to get to know the real Ivy like what are your—”

  “Red.” I snapped on the bra and then searched for my shirt. “We’re just a fun situation. There’s no need to make it bigger. You like to fuck. I like to fuck. We fuck together—”

  “But there’s more to this now.”

  Stunned, I stepped back. “Is there?”

  “I would like to think so.”

  Sighing, I checked the nightstand. “Where the hell is my shirt?”

  “Ivy, there is more to us.” He picked up my shirt on the lampshade. “Here you go.”

  “How did that get over there?”

  “You arrived here pretty drunk off champagne and did a striptease.”

  “What?” I took his shirt. “Fuck. I must’ve blacked out for that part.”

  “You kept singing ‘It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas.’”

  I put on my shirt. “God. Sorry for that—”

  “Stop apologizing for being yourself and letting me in.” He walked over and handed me my panties. “Before you go, I have a present for you.”

  Shocked, I stepped back again. “Umm. . .so. . .listen. I’m so sorry, but I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

  “You’re Muslim or Jewish?”

  “Yep.”

  “Which one?”

  “Pick either one.” I gave him a weak smile, grabbed the panties from his hand, and headed to the other side of the room. “However, the present is super thoughtful. Thank you so much—”

  “Ivy, can we talk?”

  “I have a plane to catch. If I didn’t, I would stay.” I shoved the panties in my pocket. “Red, you’re a really great guy, but I’m not interested in more than sex.”

  “Because I’m a model?”

  “What? No. Why would that be a problem?”

  “Some designers don’t like to get entangled with models—”

  “That’s not my reason. It’s just that. . .I’m not into the whole relationship thing.” I patted his shoulder. “So, let’s just keep this how it is.”

  He frowned at my hand. “Just fucking?”

  “I like to fuck. You like to fuck.”

  “I like to do more than fuck, Ivy. I like to talk and go to the movies and even know who the hell I am fucking.”

  “You know me a lot more than most.” I rushed over to my coat and purse.

  “I don’t know what makes you laugh or cry—”

  “That’s good. Trust me. I’ve got serious issues. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “Mommy issues?”

  Horror surged through me. I spun around. “What did you say?”

  “You screamed for your mother over and over—”

  “Listen.” I held up a shaking finger. “Forget about that.”

  “What happened—”

  “Red, leave it alone.” I put my back to him, put on my coat, and grabbed my purse.

  “Okay, but we could at least start going on dates or something.”

  Whoa!

  “I would love to show you more about me.”

  “Sounds good.” I picked up my shoes, didn’t put them on, and hurried out of his bedroom. “I’ll have my assistant set up something.”

  “What?”

  “See you later.” I rushed to his front door and left.

  Holy Mother Mary. Why am I always fucking the commitment guys? Where’s the ones that just want me for my body?

  I’d read so many articles about women having a difficult time trying to find Mr. Right. Men were full of shit. When women came on strong, they ignored and mistreated them. When women ignored and simply used them for their bodies, then they wanted something more. I bet if I wanted to be with these guys, they would sing another tune.

  Poor, Red. I thought we had at least another month of sex.

  I turned on my phone and dialed Park.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hello. I’m at the gate waiting for our flight. I don’t see you. I hope I don’t have the wrong—”

  “I’m late. I’ll be there soon.” I checked my watch and went to the elevator. “How did the dinner and auction go?”

  “Dinner was fabulous. Everyone was worried about your absence. It was announced that you were sick and couldn’t attend. There were all sorts of gossip that went around the rest of the night.”

  “Gossip?” I pushed the button. “Like what?”

  “You’re pregnant. You overdosed backstage. You’re being investigated by the FBI and they were there to arrest you.”

  “Typical.” I rolled my eyes. “How much did we raise?”

  “Close to a million dollars. I’ll have to go over everything again. But there were several store contracts offered for the pants suits and the crystal-embellished gowns.”

  “Good shit.” I stepped on the elevator. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

  It took me a little over an hour to get home, shower, grab my suitcase, and arrive at the airport. I hurried through the security and ran to the gate. Another five minutes and I would have missed the plane.

  Park and I boarded the plane and sat in First class. The seats cost 5k each. We could lie them as flat as a bed which would be helpful for the fifteen-hour flight.

  Park got comfortable in her seat. “You missed the private lounge at the terminal.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “They served caviar and champagne.”

  “Good. They’ll serve some on here for us too.”

  She grinned. “All right. I can get used to this.”

  As more people boarded the flight, the stewardess handed us champagne.

  I grabbed mine and winked at Park. “Not bad at all.”

  She took hers and cheered my glass. “To a fun wedding.”

  I nodded. “And lots of work getting done.”

  Park kept quiet and took a long gulp of her champagne.

  I sipped mine and placed it down. “Speaking of work, let’s get some done now.”

  Park stirred in her seat and then set her glass down. “I’ll get out my laptop.”

  During the beginning of the fifteen-hour ride, we planned out the schedule for next year—fabrics and trims would need to be selected, the delivery of sample garments needed a date, and I wanted to hire a new design team. This year, I decided I would head in a different direction with my brand.

  We made more plans. Once I finished next year’s Fall/Winter designs, Park would have to oversee all production on the designs. I walked her through all those duties. She took excellent notes.

  Next, there would need to be several flights booked. I had to attend other designers’ fashion shows for support and inspiration. There were also prediction fairs where many forecasted possible future fashion trends. The best happened in London, New York, Paris, and Rome. Park would make all our travel arrangements and schedule my work around international trips.

  After a few hours, stress covered Park’s face.

  “This is a lot, but you’ll be fine.”

 
Some designers worked from 9 am to 5 pm. As a self-employed designer, I extended my hours to stay ahead of the competition. That was why once I landed in Finland serious work would need to be done. Although we were in the Winter season, I had to produce Fall concepts, make some sketches, and develop patterns. Fashion was split into four seasons—Spring/Summer, Fall/Winter, Resort, and Pre-Fall. The two major seasons for me were Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter. Spring/Summer started in January and ran until around June. Fall/Winter started in July and ended in December.

  By the fourth hour, Park fell asleep in the middle of me talking.

  “O-kay.” I shook my head.

  Damn. I hope I don’t burn her out too soon. This will be my sixth assistant in five years.

  I reached over, saved the work she’d done on the laptop, closed the device, and put it up.

  Poor Park. Is she regretting working for me? No. I’m tripping. She’ll be fine.

  I placed her laptop in the bag and put it in her compartment.

  Sleep well, Park.

  I shut off her overhead light and put my laptop up too.

  The stewardess came by and kept her voice low. “Do you need anything?”

  “I would like rum and coke, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  I leaned back into my chair but didn’t turn off my overhead light. While it might have been easy for Park to go to sleep this Christmas season, I would not face the same luck. As soon as December rolled in, dreams of my mother always began. Last night, the moment I found her hanging had come to me.

  Next would be other nightmares. One year, I had recurring dreams where my mother hammered the rope to the space above the doorway. And I was ten years old again and begging her to stop. But for some reason, a solid, thick glass wall separated us. While I could see her, she could not hear me. And so I watched her kill herself over and over each night.

  Pain hit my temples.

  I thought I got rid of those damn nightmares.

  But how could I get rid of something that had become a part of my life—a part of me? These nightmares had morphed into living beings. Monsters with sharp teeth and claws, gnawing at my soul.

  Sometimes the dreams stabbed at me so hard that I woke up paralyzed and unable to speak. Other times, I opened my eyes and cried into my pillow, wishing that I died that Christmas morning and not my mother.