Mayhem Under The Mistletoe

by Nina Auril

  PROLOGUE

  Beauregard

  They say we have more than one life.

  No, none of that existential stuff. Actual lives.

  I only have two.

  Two homes.

  Two different people I… tolerate.

  Two different names.

  Okay. Hi.

  I think I have to introduce myself.

  So, let’s meet.

  Do you see that coffee shop in the corner? It has the best smelling thing in the world, but that’s not why we’re here. See the girl sitting with her friends by the window, the one with the curly hair and red dress? She’s a pretty one. Oh no, that’s not me. Now, look at the table behind that girl. There’s a guy laughing with his friends. A big guy with bulging muscles. Yeah, the one fingering his girlfriend under the table, see that? Good. That’s not me either. Anyway now, look beside him. Yes, to the girl in the flowery dress. She’s giving the guy dreamy eyes, did you notice? I think she likes him, but he likes the girl he’s busy fingering in the middle of the coffee shop. Anyway, I’m getting distracted. Okay, back to the flower girl. She’s ordering her chocolate mocha now, see that? Good. Then you can see the cashier having a hard time suppressing her smile.

  Perfect!

  She’s not laughing at the girl in the flowery dress or her pathetic platonic crush on her best friend’s boyfriend. That’s scandalous, not something to laugh at.

  The cashier is laughing at me.

  She’s watching my video on her video under the countertop as she works. I can’t blame her. I’m pretty awesome. And what better way to spend a boring day in a coffee shop, than watching my cute face and killer body?

  Oh, you want to know what the video is about?

  Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving video in which I was dressed up as a pilgrim by my artistic owner.

  Are you confused?

  Well, let’s go slower so your human brain with its limited intelligence can catch up.

  I've been called many things in my life. Asshole. Nuisance. Bad luck. Socks. Mr. Wigglesworth. Shudder.

  My first name is Beauregard Orville Bentley. And I’m a cat. Get it? Bob the cat? Bobcat. I know, ridiculous but as long as I'm fed and warm, my human can call me whatever he wants.

  I’m currently waiting for him in this coffee shop as he tries to decide which pastry he’ll get with his coffee. His name is Hendrix, but that doesn’t matter. He’s a mess most of the time, doesn’t even separate the clean and dirty dishes from each other, but we work just fine together.

  He’s not so bad.

  Ophelia is the other one. She calls me Austin. She’s a sweetie. Crazy, dirty-minded, and has very loud nightly activities performed mostly alone, but she feeds me well.

  Like I said before, they’re both tolerable and it’s hard to choose between them. I’m not as young as I used to be. This whole moving from one house to another is exhausting.

  So, I have to find a solution. Something to bring my two lives together.

  And I heard Christmas is a good time to get people together… especially if you push them toward the mistletoe.

  Now go away, I have plans to make.

  Sigh.

  Why are you still here?

  What are you looking at?

  Seriously, what are you waiting for? For me to roll over and play dead?

  You’re confusing me with a dog. Filthy, idiotic creatures.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hendrix

  I stumble from the bedroom towards the kitchen, desperate for a caffeine kick. I wipe a hand over my eyes that are refusing to open and regret it once they do. The bright morning light shining through the windows sends a sharp pain through my pounding head reminding me, once again, that I can't party like I used too.

  Last night, I may have imbibed more than I usually do though, but it was a special occasion. I had just signed a lucrative merchandising deal. I can hardly believe the turn my life has taken in only four short years.

  Shuffling my socked feet over the hardwood floors of my apartment, I reach the kitchen.

  “Mornin’, Beau.” I ruffle my cat’s fur where he's lounging on his favorite spot by the window. He gives me a disapproving look and then goes back to licking his butt. “Love you too, buddy.”

  After switching on the coffee machine, I rifle through the dishwasher for a clean coffee cup. Why bother packing these dishes away when you're just going to get them dirty again, am I right?

  Beau jumps off his perch at the window to rub his furry body on my leg. I'm not deluded enough to believe it's because he loves me, the little bastard is just looking for breakfast.

  “Not now, buddy. Daddy needs some caffeine first.”

  “Talking to the cat again?” Carter, my best friend, and partner says as he lets himself into the apartment. Not that kind of partner. Business partner. I'm a heterosexual male with an intense love for the finer things in life. And by that, I mean the female of our species. Nothing finer in this world than a woman. “You know how weird that is, right?”

  I roll my eyes at him and then cringe at the pain it causes. “You talk to him more than I do.”

  “Only to tell him to fuck off.” He shrugs.

  “He’s the reason you get to wear those three hundred-dollar sneakers, asshole.”

  “No, your artistic talent and my business sense is why I get to wear these,” He counters and starts opening his Mac on the counter.

  Maybe he has a point, but I do still feel like I owe this cat everything.

  Four years ago, I was an out of work illustrator living on ramen and stale bread, when Beau found me and made himself at home. He sparked the idea for my webcomic series, featuring Beauregard the hipster cat and his adventures in Seattle. Now, I'm living the high life with royalty checks from my three best-selling books. Not to mention, the income from advertising, conventions and now this merchandising deal Carter has managed to swing. Beau’s face is about to be plastered on cups, t-shirts, and magnets all over America.

  “So,” Carter says as he starts clicking away at his keyboard. “We need to get those Christmas prints signed and mailed out ASAP, you have one last signing at that bookstore downtown, and we need to arrange a Skype call with the manufacturer in China about those plush…”

  “Dude,” I hold up my hand to stop his yammering. “Too early. Coffee first.”

  “It's ten a.m., Hen. Most hookers have had their third hit of heroin by now.” He gives me a disapproving glance, but I ignore him and stare at the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster.

  “What happened with that girl last night?” He asks.

  “What girl?” I mumble in response.

  “The one in the sexy elf suit who insisted her name was really Candy and promised to get you on Santa’s naughty list.”

  “Wasn't into it,” I shrug, feeling his eyes bore into the back of my head.

  “Why? Your dick fall off?” I grunt and ignore him. The truth is, I wasn't into it. There was a time when, yes, I used to stick my dick in everything that was willing. That's what happens when you grow up being the weird artsy kid. Not the cool, mysterious kind, that girls throw their panties at. Nope. I was the gangly comic book nerd, who used to draw manga characters on his notebooks, and started rambling utter nonsense when a cute girl, so much as smiled at me.

  It was only in college when my body started filling out, and I found out what gym equipment was for. Girls started noticing me, and I got better at hiding my awkwardness. I started drawing on myself instead of on notebooks, and turns out, girls like dudes with muscles and tattoos.

  Now, I'm bored of all of it. The whole dating scene has become an endless cycle of flirting and fucking. Nobody cares about gett
ing to know a person anymore. They just want quick flings and instants gratification. Paint by numbers. Rinse and repeat. Just like my life.

  Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for everything I have. I get to do what I love, and make an excellent living from it. I have great friends, a fancy apartment, and a family who loves me. It's just… well, lately, it just all feels so… empty. What I wouldn't give for…

  Maybe that's the problem. I don't even know what I want.

  “Thank god, at last,” I say as the coffee machine pings it's alert that my coffee is finally ready. After filling my cup, I set it on the counter and open the fridge to get the creamer. I grab it and turn to pour some into my waiting cup, but Beau winds his body around my feet. Before I know it, my head hits the floor, and I'm lying in a puddle of milk.

  “Don't worry. I’m ok,” I say sarcastically, when nobody asks. I turn my head to the side and narrow my eyes at Beau lapping up the milk next to my head. If I didn't know better, I could swear he tripped me on purpose. Cats aren't that smart, are they?

  “You know,” I look up to where Carter’s head peaks out from over the counter, an amused look on his face. “You're lucky you look the way you do, or your clumsy ass would get no play at all.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ophelia

  “Austin, where are you?” I hollered through the apartment, hoping my cat will grant me the privilege of his presences, but no luck. He likes to play hide and seek with me, but the only problem is I can never find him. He decides when he is ready to come out.

  Austin came with this apartment. When I moved in, he was hiding in one of the cupboards and refused to leave. Since then, he has been my constant companion, even though I never planned on having a pet.

  Turning on the coffee pot, I walk toward the wall of floor to ceiling windows that surrounds my living room. This apartment is a result of all my hard work. All those sleepless nights furiously typing on my computer and chasing the inspiration for the fictional world, and characters that have now become my family. My books have not been made into movies, I am not that big of an author yet, but I have hit the New York Times Bestsellers List a few times, and that was enough for me to buy this apartment. When the coffee timer sounds, I fill a big cup to the brim and open the doors leading to my balcony. I walk barefoot along the cold tile floor. I am not a summer girl, I like winter, maybe because I was born in the winter.

  Sipping from my mug, I roll my eyes at the sight of my neighborhood. The streets, buildings, and shops have all been decorated for Christmas, and it makes me want to puke. I don't understand the fuss about Christmas; maybe it’s because we never celebrated it like in the movies as a family. My parents are die-hard business professionals, both working in finance. Their focus was always on material things, like the dollar situation compared to pounds sterling or which the best way was to invest their client’s money. Christmas was just a ridiculous holiday for them, and me at the time. I also have another reason to dislike Christmas. Since my birthday is December 24th, people tend to buy me presents with a Christmas theme. I do not have one birthday memory that was not ruined by a Christmas themed scarf or socks.

  I shake my head at the thought and take a deep breath of chilly air. It wakes me up and sets the inspiration company in my brain to work. When my coffee cup is empty, and my arms are covered in goosebumps, I walk inside and put my cozy socks on. I grab another cup of coffee, a granola bar for breakfast, and head toward my office. With a deep breath, I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. The blank word page is staring at me, holding unlimited possibilities, but I can’t write any of them because I have to write a Christmas story. Yes, me. Yes, I must write a Christmas story because my publisher demands it. A fucking Christmas story. I curse myself a thousand times that I did not pay attention to number 16 in my contract, which gives my publisher the right to choose my next project.

  I’m a dark romance writer, and I have no interest in Christmas or writing a story about it. She wants a sweet, warm, and romantic story that is the exact opposite to my writing style, but she insists that this will be the best way to bring in new readers, and surprise my loyal ones.

  I place my hands on the keyboard but have no words to type onto the blank page. Finally, I push away from the desk and rest my head on the back of the chair. Closing my eyes, I count to ten, and when I open them, I see the most handsome man I have ever seen. He has tanned skin, dark hair, tattoos that lick his muscles, making his arms pop, black-rimmed glasses… yeah, that are my neighbor. He is the inspiration for most of my fictional heroes.

  My knowledge about him ends there, sadly. I’ve been living here for almost two years now, and I’ve been watching him from afar all this time, but we have never talked or even had a reason to. My stalker tendencies only include me watching him, and making him the star of all my fictional fantasies, or the ones I have late at night alone in my bed. He must be out for his daily morning run. I watch him until I can no longer see him. I decide to write until he comes back. As I start typing, I don't know what this story will turn into, but I just give up control and let it decide its future, and my own.

  After about an hour, I manage to write 1,500 words, much to my surprise, and if I wasn't so distracted by my sweaty neighbor’s return, I could have written more. I stand up and walk toward the window to get a better view with my coffee cup in hand. I freeze when he turns his face, and stares right at me. I cough as the coffee goes down the wrong pipe, shocked at being caught ogling him. I never thought he would see me, or even give me a second thought. When I manage to stop coughing, I look where he was a moment ago, and he is still standing there with a smirk on his face. My cheeks burn as I look at him like a deer caught in headlights. He winks at me before jogging into his building. I stare shamelessly at his ass. My hot neighbor caught me checking him out, and he winked at me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hendrix

  I’m still chuckling when I open the door to my apartment.

  “What’s so funny?” Carter asks as he passes me, a cup of coffee in hand, to take his seat on the couch again. I ignore him and walk over to the window to see if she’s still staring at me.

  “Aaaah.” Understanding dawns on him, and amusement is evident in his tone. “Stalker girl.” He comes to stand beside me, slurping from his cup.

  We both stare at her as she’s furiously pacing her apartment, talking to herself. I wonder what she does all day. Besides always being on her computer. She must be a writer or lifestyle blogger or something. I don’t know anything about her aside from the fact that she’s always staring at me and likes comfy socks.

  “Kind of cute, though,” Carter says from beside me. Our heads tilt to the side as we take in her blonde head and curvy body.

  “Mmm,” I murmur in agreement. “But I’m not entirely sure she’s not entirely screwy.” We’re quiet again as we watch her stop to gesture wildly at something, and then start pacing again .

  “Maybe she’s on a voice call?” Our heads tilt to the other side. She must realize we’re both staring at her because she stops suddenly and looks our way when she sees us she freezes and then dives behind the couch. I keep watching as her blonde head peaks out from behind it, and then ducks back. I chuckle and shake my head. What a character.

  “Anyway, I gotta hit the shower, and run some errands.” I slap Carter on the back, and head to the bathroom. When I’m clean and dressed, I grab my wallet off the kitchen counter and head out toward the street again. I consider taking my car but even though we don’t get much snow in Seattle, the roads are slick from the light sheen of downfall we got last night. I decide to walk downtown instead.

  I love this time of year.

  There’s just something about Christmas time that warms the heart. Shop windows and streets are decorated with twinkly lights, and there’s just a general sense of excitement in the air. People tend to be friendlier too. Perfect strangers who would never so much as say hello will wish those around them happy cheer over the season. And
then there’s the food. Christmas pies, cookies, candies, turkeys, honey glazed ham, and beef roasts. Families make an effort to see and tolerate each other, promising not to let another year pass before seeing each other again, over cups of eggnog. Also, presents. And who doesn’t like getting presents?

  I mentally go over the list of people I need to buy presents for as I enter the shopping mall. There’s my mom and dad, sister and brother-in-law, their two adorable hellions, and I should probably get something for Carter too.

  I’m humming along to the carols playing in the center as I pass a pet shop. I come to an immediate halt when I spot the Christmas themed pet outfits. I enter the store, and make a beeline for the outfits. There’s an entire assortment of costumes from Santa suits to elves to snowflakes and even reindeer. I get one of each. These are going to be hit on Beau’s Instagram feed. His followers are going to eat these up.

  I’m cursing my poor decision making when I’m done with the bulk of my shopping. My hands have no feeling in them once I reach my building, having lugged the heavy bags all the way back home again. Granted, I may have gone a bit overboard, but there is no way I would have attempted taking the bus with all these bags. I drop the bags outside my door and let myself in, hoping Carter will still be here to help me carry it all in but no such luck.

  I drag the bags inside myself, and then go in search of Beau. I find him stretched out on my bed, licking his back paws. He doesn’t put up much fuss when I dress him in his reindeer outfit, and even lets me snap a few pictures on my phone. I know I’m a grown ass man, but you try not to giggle when you see a cat dressed as a reindeer.

  I make sure to give Beau an extra treat after his evening feed, just for being such a good sport. After he cleans out his bowl, he stretches and makes his way to the door. I watch him struggle and eventually push through the cat flap. I just don’t get it. He’s consistently put on more and more weight over the last couple of years, no matter what or how much I feed him. I get comfortable on the couch and flick the TV on as I contemplate taking him to the vet. Maybe he has some kind of kitty thyroid issue.