A Very Dirty Christmas

by Sabrina Paige

  Her eyes go wide. “You think that’s what’s happening?”

  “No. It’s not. Calm your tits down.” Still, I scroll on the phone until I hit Jo’s number. The phone rings a bunch of times before going to voicemail. I dial it again.

  I swear, if I have to go back to that party to track this fucking chick down, I will strangle someone. A female answers the phone. “Is this Jo?” I ask.

  “Yeah, who the hell is this?”

  “Jo!” Kate yells. “It’s Caulter.”

  “Oh. Caulter.” She hushes someone in the background. “Hang on, I’ll be right there, Maverick.” Maverick? Are we in New Hampshire or a fucking eighties movie?

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

  Now I’m irritated. “Are you still at the party?”

  “As if it’s any of your business, I’m hanging out with someone.”

  “So you left your friend at a party alone to go screw some guy?” Kate reaches for the phone, and I move away. “She’s trashed. What the hell did you give her?”

  “I thought she was hanging with someone,” Jo says, her mouth away from the phone as she talks to the dumbass she's there with. “What’s your friend’s name? Dan? Derek?” She pauses. “She was hanging out with Dan. She wasn’t drunk; she only had a beer.”

  I’m breathing deeply to keep my voice calm, despite the fact that I want to reach through the phone and rip Jo’s fucking head off. "What exactly did you give her?"

  "What's your problem?" She laughs. "Kate was right, you are a real asshole. She took some anxiety medication to calm down before the party. She'll be a little loopy but she'll be fine."

  "And then you gave her beer," I say. Deep breath. Calming breath. I'm practicing that yoga shit my mother is constantly doing.

  "One beer," she says. "It's not going to kill her."

  "And after that, you left her at a party with some guy whose name you don't even know," I say. "Are you fucking stupid? Do you know what could have happened to her?"

  "Calm down, cowboy," Jo says. "I think she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

  "You stupid bitch." I throw the phone across the room, incensed with Kate's so-called friend, before I whirl around to look at Kate, where she's lying on the bed.

  Naked.

  The red dress is in a crumpled heap on the floor, her bra and panties casually tossed on top of it. Kate is lying on her stomach, her legs kicked up, her cheek against the pillow, looking at me over her shoulder.

  I have the impulse to walk over to the bed and grab her thighs, to pull that perfect curvy ass up onto my lap and slap her flesh hard, for being so colossally stupid as to trust that friend of hers. I'm so livid I can barely breathe.

  "Come here," she says.

  I shake my head. "Not tonight, Kate."

  She pouts. "I'm naked, lying on the bed, telling you to come over here because I want to suck. your. cock." She punctuates each of the words.

  Groaning, I shake my head again. "It's not happening, Kate."

  My words come out harsher, gruffer than I intend, and she rolls over, sitting up on the bed, her tits bouncing.

  Those fucking tits. My mouth practically waters at the sight of them. They're perfect. The girls out in Malibu have fake ones, even chicks my age. It's like a joke -- get a pair of tits for your sixteenth birthday, you know? It’s the same thing in New York, except no one’s getting implants -- they’re just skin and bones, starved to the point of being so rail thin there’s nothing there, ass or tits.

  But Kate’s tits aren't like other girls’. They're perky, on the smaller side, but I like the way they fit in my hands, a handful of perfect flesh. They make the tits on the girls I usually screw look just...tacky.

  And they're right there, staring me in the face.

  Kate is giving me this look of complete and utter disappointment, like I'm rejecting her. Shit, if she knew how hard it was for me not to go over there right now and slide my cock into her warm willing pussy…

  “You’re going to turn down a perfectly good blow job?” she asks. Hearing goody-goody Kate, her hair disheveled and her words slurred, say blow job makes my cock so hard it feels like it’s going to explode.

  “You’re drunk, Kate,” I say, angry. “Sleep it off.” I need to get out of here before my resolve weakens, but I’m wondering if she’ll be okay.

  She pouts. “You called my friend a bitch.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I look at her sharply. “That girl who gave you pills and booze and left you there is not your fucking friend.”

  “You shouldn’t use that word.”

  “It was the only thing that came to mind.”

  Katherine gets on her hands and knees, crawls forward across the bed, and grips my waist, unbuckling my pants. “My father isn’t going to be home tomorrow,” she says, looking up at me with big eyes, her mascara smudged along the edges. “You can fuck me as loud and hard as you want tonight, and get up tomorrow and fuck me again.”

  I cover her hands with mine. “Cut it out, Kate.”

  She wrenches her hands away from mine and slides her palm down the front of my jeans, rubbing it along the length of my hard-on. “You’re just as ready as I am.”

  Peeling her hand from my crotch, I take my shirt off and hang it over the end of the chair by her bed, then slip out of my jeans. “Get in bed,” I order.

  She rests back against the pillow, leaning on her forearms, her back arched so her tits are high in the air. “I knew you’d see reason.”

  “I haven’t seen reason,” I tell her, flicking off the light before I slip into the bed with her. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t stop breathing tonight.”

  “But I haven’t washed my face or brushed my teeth,” she whines. "And I'm not ready to go to sleep."

  “Neither have I,” I tell her. “Deal with it. I’m not getting out of bed now, and I’m not kissing you.”

  “You’re just mean tonight.”

  “Says the girl I rescued from a predator at a party,” I say.

  “So, that’s a no then?” she asks. Her hand finds my chest, and she rests her head on it, sliding her hand lower until she finds my cock. “You’re wearing underwear?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Now get your hands off my dick.”

  She does, and it’s not more than thirty seconds before I hear her breathing become heavy and rhythmic.

  And I'm the one lying there wide awake, wondering what the hell I’m doing, holding the hottest naked girl I’ve ever seen while I've got the biggest case of blue balls in history.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Katherine

  Yellow sunlight streams through the balcony door, and the cool morning air hits my skin. I look over to the empty space in my bed that Caulter occupied last night, then out through the open balcony door. He’s not there.

  Not that I would expect him to be after what happened last night. I’m mortified. I’m going to be too embarrassed to look him in the face, after the things I said, how I threw myself at him -- and the fact that he, the guy who sleeps with anyone, turned me down.

  I slink down the hallway, grateful to remain unnoticed. After I brush my teeth and shower, I feel considerably better. But not about the thing with Caulter. One of the unfortunate downsides of last night is that I remember the whole thing clearly.

  I’m dressed and back in my room when Caulter shows up on my side of the balcony, coffee in hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “Completely humiliated.”

  Caulter’s face is expressionless, which makes my heart skip a beat. He probably hates me. “Here,” he says, handing me the coffee. “Are you hung-over?”

  I shake my head. “No. The pill she gave me just made me pretty out of it, I guess.”

  Caulter laughs. “Fucking amateurs.”

  “Shut up. I’d never taken anything like that before.”

  He smiles. “Well, you might not want to, ever again.”

 
“I’m not exactly planning to.” I pause, sipping the coffee. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  Caulter shrugs, leaning against the wall. He’s wearing this blue t-shirt that looks soft and weathered. It makes me want to touch it, but I just sit there. “Not a big deal.”

  “It kind of is,” I say. “Sorry for...um...acting like an ass and stuff.”

  Caulter walks over and stands in front of me. His crotch is at eye level, and I want to rip off his jeans, but I don’t, because I’m a chickenshit. But he slips his finger under my chin and pulls my face up. “As I recall, you took off your clothes and threw yourself at me.”

  My face flushes. “I was drunk. Or high. Whatever it was. Sorry.”

  “Are you sorry?” he asks. “I’d be very disappointed if you were.”

  I bristle at his words, even as he takes his thumb and slides it along my lower lip. I want to wrap my lips around his finger, but I don’t. “You’re the one who blew me off last night. I throw myself at you and tell you I want to suck your cock, and you say no.”

  He groans. “You were drunk, Kate.”

  “So?” I ask. I’m angry but I don’t move his hand, don’t tell him to stop it when his thumb catches on my lower lip, pulling it down. I want his lips on mine. I ache to feel his touch, the desire is even more amplified by the fact that I spent last night pressed up against him.

  “Is that what you want, Kate?” he asks, leaning down and placing his hands on the sides of the chair I’m sitting in. His face is close to mine, our lips nearly touching, and I’m immediately holding my breath, my heart racing. “You want me to fuck you when you’re so drunk you don’t know what you’re doing? Or do you just want me to fuck you at your beck and call, whenever you're feeling horny?

  “No,” I protest. “That’s not what was happening.”

  I arch up and touch my lips to his, the movement gentle, but Caulter grabs my jaw, squeezing my face as his mouth crashes into mine. The act is so hard it’s painful, somewhere between exquisite pleasure and absolute agony.

  He yanks me up to a standing position, unbuttons my jeans, and shoves his hand down the front of my pants. With one hand, he yanks my jeans down over my ass and buries the fingers of his other hand inside me, the movement rough, but aided by my wetness.

  “Is this what you want?” He breathes the words into my ear. “You want my fingers in you, my cock inside you whenever you’re horny?”

  Waves of pleasure rush over me, my body’s automatic response to his touch. I’ve missed his touch. I’ve longed for his touch. “No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “Yes. I’m not sure. That’s not it.”

  He looks at me, his face screwed up in anger. “That’s exactly it, Kate.” Then he slides his fingers out and pushes me away, the void between my legs excruciating.

  “You’re mad because you wouldn’t fuck me last night?” I ask. I don’t understand.

  “Yeah, Kate,” he says. “That’s it. Or maybe it’s because you got all dressed up so you could go pick up other guys and then when no one put out, you came home and thought you'd screw your dear ol' step-brother."

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I say, my voice going higher. I button my jeans, furious at myself for letting my guard down with him at all. He’s insane, I tell myself. He's hot and cold all the time. I don’t need this shit. “Some guy was rubbing up on me at a party and now you’re jealous? I'll wear what I want and go where I want.”

  “Yeah, Kate,” he says. “I'm totally jealous. That must be why I didn’t screw you last night.”

  “Why are you being such a jerk-off now?” I ask. “Last night, you were nice. That’s the thing about you -- one minute you act like you give a shit, and the next minute you don’t.”

  “Of course I give a shit, Katherine,” he says. “You’re a nice piece of ass.”

  It’s like he’s purposely trying to be a dick. “That’s all it is, then?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m just a nice piece of ass, then. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, right, did you think I was going to be your Prince Charming or something?” he laughs. “We’re having a little fun, that’s all.”

  “Get out,” I say. I bite down on my lower lip, because I think I might cry. It’s not like I’m in love with Caulter or anything remotely that stupid. But does he have to be such a jerk all the time? His mood swings, between nice guy and asshole, are exhausting. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

  “Whatever you say, Princess.” He turns and leaves through the balcony, the way he came in, and I hear his glass door on the other side slam shut.

  I sink into my chair, unable to hold back the tears that spill down my cheeks. I’m more angry than anything else.

  It’s more than a few minutes later that I see my sketchpad lying on the desk, the one I usually keep carefully tucked under the mattress. Except for last night. Last night, I’d shoved it under the pillow when Jo had shown up in my room early. How could I have forgotten?

  I’m so mortified I just want to crawl into a hole and hide. The thought of Caulter seeing the sketches of him...of his cock, holy shit, how many are there of his cock? It makes me want to vomit. He probably thinks I’m obsessed with him, some pathetic virgin who got laid and can't let go.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Caulter

  “Oh, darling, you look so elegant.” Ella says, her hand covering her mouth. “It’s a wonderful tuxedo. What do you think?”

  “I think that it’s better than the leather pants I was forced to wear for the wedding with Nick, your tween lover,” I say, my voice bitter. Her wedding to the former boy band member was ridiculous.

  It’s not even Ella that I’m irritated with. The thing with Kate has me so on edge. I’m completely avoiding being in the same room with Kate, except at dinner, when I sit in sullen silence. Ella thinks it’s because of the engagement party.

  “You could see fit to muster up some kind of happiness for me,” she says.

  “I’m thrilled that you’ve found someone to hitch your wagon to,” I say. “Your dreams of finally being legitimate might come true.”

  I’m shocked when she slaps me across the face. Ella has done a lot of things, but she’s never actually slapped me. The stylist doing the fitting quickly exits the room, making an excuse about taking a call. “At some point, you have to grow up, Caulter, and stop acting like a spoiled little shit.”

  “Well, you raised me, mother,” I say, rubbing my face. “I’m your son, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

  “I didn’t raise you to act like a complete ass.”

  “No,” I say. “You didn’t raise me at all. You send me off to rehab and military school and then Brighton, so you could live out your teenage years all over again, partying with rock stars. Now you’ve met someone who’s powerful and influential, whose arm you can hang on and pretend to be concerned about issues that matter. So you need me back in your life to play the good son role.”

  “That’s not true, Caulter,” she says. “I didn’t know what I was doing with you -- I was a kid myself.”

  I shrug. “You made your choices,” I say. “Just like I’m making mine, holding out for the trust fund. I’ll play along, but after summer is over, I’m done.”

  ***

  “Bourbon.” The bartender looks at me, shaking his head. “You’re the Senator’s kid, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Ella Sterling’s kid.” This goddamned tuxedo is practically cutting off my air supply, choking my neck. It’s stifling, despite the fact that the evening air is cool. “Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “You’re in high school. I can’t serve you.”

  “I’m not in high school,” I say. “But fine. Whatever.” Turning around, I lean against the bar, looking out over the crowd gathered in the backyard. The party planners have been at this for two days, and Ella has gone all out for the engagement party. The yard has been transformed into something that looks like white lights and flowers ha
ve been vomited everywhere.

  But minimalism isn’t Ella’s style, despite her prior weddings. The marriage to the rock star involved a tiger, so at least that one was more entertaining.

  This one is just...blah. That is, until I see her. We’ve been in a state of deep freeze since the argument in her room.

  She should have at least made an attempt to hide the sketches of me. I was lying in bed, trying to will away my boner that night, when my hand touched the notebook.

  Page after fucking page of pictures of me. Me, leaning on the balcony smoking. Me, shirtless, my pants unbuttoned at the top. My face. My chest. My dick. Drawings of me, staring me right in the face.

  I mentally chastise myself for ever being stupid enough to screw a virgin. I got caught up in the pursuit, but this goes no further. Owning her pussy is one thing, but she's obviously infatuated with me. I never expected that.

  Kate is talking to a guy I recognize from school, a lacrosse player I think she dated before. Those fucking lacrosse players and that Brighton Bingo game piss me off. I clench my hands into fists, considering smashing his face in, when she makes eye contact with me.

  She's wearing this white dress, one of the ones Ella's stylist sent. I regret giving her the dresses now that the guy she's next to is leering at her the way he is. The dress is short, barely touching the top of her thigh, and covered in this gold floral pattern that catches the light when she moves. She's wearing white sandals and gold earrings, her hair piled on top of her head, little pieces falling from the up do, across her forehead and down the sides of her face. The whole effect makes her look like a Greek goddess. She has no idea that she catches the eye of everyone around here.

  Kate laughs at something he says, and touches his arm, and that’s it. It’s fucking enough. At least if she’s going to flirt with some other guy, I don't have to watch it happen right in front of me.

  I storm through the backyard, weaving through the crowd of people. Ella says something to me, but I shrug her off, escaping into the house, through the kitchen.