Kentucky Christmas

by Sarah Title

  Holidays were no fun for Andrew, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that Billie’s Kentucky Christmas Extravaganza was changing his mind. He tripped over an errant garland—or was it a cat tail?—as he stumbled up the stairs behind Billie, her walking backward, tearing at her layers of winter clothes, him trying to walk and hold on to the railing and hold on to every new patch of more-exposed Billie at the same time. She was wearing a lot of layers, but when she got down to a red thermal underwear shirt, he was pretty sure she was near the end. Before his brain totally turned off, he made another mental tally of his luck in Kentucky. His car was still totaled (but, somehow, fixable), his job still sucked (although his cousin had been generous enough to give him one), it was freezing (but the snow had stopped), Christmas was annoying (but Billie looked really, really cute in her red thermals). In the plus column, he added Billie in her underwear, the fact that the dogs had pooped out in the snow and were now quietly sleeping the night away in their crates, Billie in her underwear, Dr. Monroe’s overnight call, Billie unsnapping her jeans. He almost put the fact that she was wearing thermal underwear under her jeans in the negative, too—would he ever get to see that girl’s skin? Maybe she was in some kind of weird Kentucky cult where women lured men off icy roads and into warm, aggressively festive houses, and then harvested their brains for science and satanic rituals. At least he wouldn’t have to make sales calls anymore. But he liked his brain. He didn’t want to give his brain to the devil.

  Suddenly he tripped over Billie’s jeans. His last act as a thinking man was to mentally give his brain over to whatever scientific cult experiments she wanted. He caught himself on the top step and looked up in time to see Billie laughing, turning, bouncing down the hall. For a small woman, she had some good bounce.

  He followed her, a little less bouncily, into her room. He wanted to take a moment to soak in the atmosphere, find out what kind of stuff Billie liked to surround herself with. But then she bounced onto the bed and he figured he could get to know what made her tick later. He followed her—he’d probably follow her anywhere—and immediately his hands were on her, running over that thermal underwear while hers fought with his clothes.

  She jerked up. “Your hands are cold.”

  “Sorry! Sorry.” Dammit, he really, really wanted to touch her.

  She rested her forehead on his. “It’s OK.” But then she flinched as he touched her again.

  “Maybe if we get under the covers,” he suggested.

  “Yes,” she said, toeing off her big wool socks and climbing over the bed. But he couldn’t resist, so he pulled her hips back toward him and kissed her again. He forgot all about his cold hands and ran them up under her shirt. She gasped against his mouth.

  “Sorry!”

  “Forget it,” she said, and twisted so his body was flush with hers.

  They were both kneeling on the bed, his pants half undone, her shirt up above her waist. She tried to twist her legs with his, and he tried to pull her under the covers. They fell in a tangle of limbs and half-discarded clothes.

  “We have to work together,” Andrew said, breathless.

  She laughed into his neck.

  “Come on,” he said, climbing over her and pulling the quilt down.

  She laughed even harder.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked. He was straddling her hips, the sheets tangled next to her.

  She shook her head, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “What? You think I’m funny?”

  “No,” she gasped. “I don’t know—” she began, then cut off with a fresh peal of laughter.

  This was not going the way he wanted it to. Dammit, this was supposed to be sexy. So he pulled his shirt up over his head.

  She stopped laughing.

  “Wow.”

  That was much better, Andrew thought. He knew he looked good—at least he hoped he did. He spent so much time at a desk that he worked out pretty hard every day. He was suddenly very grateful for the home gym in Ed’s garage.

  Ed vanished from his head as Billie ran her hands over his chest. He leaned down over her, close enough to kiss her, but far enough away that she could still touch him. He liked her touching him.

  As her mouth opened under his, he figured his hands had probably warmed up. He ran a hand up her side and she shivered. “Cold?” he asked. She shook her head so he kept going, gently kissing her mouth, running his hands up over her waist, over her breasts. She sighed against his mouth and raised her arms up. She sat up a little and he pulled her shirt off.

  “Wow.”

  It wasn’t so much the view of her breasts, although there was certainly nothing wrong with them. In fact, he was finding it pretty easy to find things right with them—a perfect handful, pale and soft. But the real surprise was the way they were encased in a red satin bra. With Christmas trees on it.

  “The panties match,” Billie said.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said. Partially to flirt, and partially because, honestly, he didn’t believe that a store existed in this world that sold a matching set of red satin underwear with Christmas trees on it. They were really, really ugly.

  He had to get them off her.

  Billie was wiggling underneath him, and it took him a second to realize that she was shimmying out of her thermal pants. It was true. Her panties did match.

  Before he could get too far in his ugly-panty-removal mission, though, her hands were at his waist, working his jeans over his hips. He knew he wasn’t wearing ugly holiday underwear, but he wanted to be helpful so he lifted his hips and kicked his pants and boxers off.

  “Merry Christmas to me,” he heard her mutter as her hands explored the lower half of him. He gasped as her hand encircled him, and he pressed against her. She was still wearing those stupid panties, but she was driving him so crazy with her hands that he didn’t think he could get them off. He had to slow down, it was too much. He rested his head on her chest only to be assaulted by those horrible satin trees. He kissed the top of her breasts, each side, then pulled that stupid bra down and kissed the whole thing. She gasped and loosened her grip on him, her hands coming to the back of his head. That was nice, so he reached around to undo her bra. With more violence than he meant to, he pulled it down her arms and flung it across the room.

  Perfect. And he dipped his head down to show his appreciation. Perfect.

  Billie gasped and squirmed under Andrew. His mouth was . . . it was a Christmas miracle. His hands were roaming up and down her sides, warming her skin, edging her panties down. She wanted to touch him, to explore his body the way he was exploring hers, but it was all she could do to hold on to his shoulders. Damn, those shoulders. His muscles bunched as he moved over her. His biceps flexed as she grabbed on. She couldn’t take it anymore. He had to stop; he had to give her more. She pulled him up for a kiss but his hands kept working, pulling her panties down to her knees, his fingers exploring and making her really hot now.

  “Do you have . . .” he gasped against her mouth.

  “Drawer,” she gasped back.

  He fumbled in her nightstand and came back with a condom, one of the stupid novelty Christmas ones Katie had given her last week as a joke. She cringed at Andrew’s reaction, but he’d have to get over it. She ripped it from his hands and tore the foil open. She reached down between them and Andrew’s face changed—ha, not so unhappy now—and he kissed her again. He kissed her and kissed her and nudged her legs apart and she opened to him, gasped as he filled her, held on to his shoulders as his hips met hers. She had never felt anything so good as Andrew pressed against her, whispering in her ear that she felt so good, so warm. She’d never felt so calm as desire raged through her, not wild and out of control, but a strong arc that pulled her hips up to Andrew’s, that met his pace and made her wrap her legs around his hips and shout against his mouth as he shuddered into her.

  Chapter 8

  Billie woke to the sound of the front door opening, then footsteps. She looked over at the c
lock: five AM. She sighed and rolled over, snuggling back into Andrew’s arms. Whenever her dad came home from an all-night call like this, he would poke his head in her bedroom door, then tell her that he was just checking up on her, no need to get up. But she always woke up when she heard the front door, no matter how tired she was or how late he got home. So he would inadvertently wake her, check on her, and she’d get up and make him warm milk because it helped him sleep after a long, hard night with a sick animal.

  She suddenly tensed, her body going rigid next to Andrew’s. Andrew. Her dad. Oh, God.

  She shook Andrew gently. Maybe if they hurried, he could get to the guest room. Or under the bed. But he was out like a light—well, he had worked hard all night—and there was no moving him. She was about to scramble out of bed herself when she heard the doorknob catch, turn, open. It was so ominous, Billie thought it could be an axe murderer. She sort of wished it was.

  So, OK, she thought. Two ways to play this. I can face him like an adult and force him to accept the fact that I am a sexually active woman who enjoys activities that involve safe, consenting adults and are none of his business. Or I can close my eyes and pretend not to hear him.

  She shut her eyes and lay back down, just as the door opened. She could just picture her dad poking his head in, like he always did. This time, she heard his soft “Oh,” and the door shut quickly.

  Billie buried her face deeper in Andrew’s chest. He slept on, damn him, but at her shifting, he tightened his arms around her. She wanted to stay here forever, against this warm, solid chest where she wouldn’t have to face her father’s disapproval. She flashed back to that night in high school, she and Katie drunk and caught, her father’s quiet reaction, his sad eyes.

  Billie heard him puttering around in the kitchen. He didn’t know where she kept the pot she made his warm milk in. That’s OK. He can just use another pot, she thought. Even though he’ll probably burn the milk and ruin the pot. Or, she thought, I can be an adult and go down and help him out like I always do, and we can have an adult conversation about my adult life.

  Being an adult sucks, she thought, as she climbed out of bed and pulled on her pajamas. She piled on the bathrobe and slippers, too, then padded down the stairs.

  He was in the kitchen, and he was about to pour milk into the wrong pot.

  “Here, use this one,” she said, pulling the warm-milk pot from under the sink.

  “I couldn’t find it,” her dad said, stepping back to let her near the stove.

  “I know. It’s sort of hidden because I don’t have to use it that often.”

  “No, not anymore.” He still had his scarf around his neck and his coat was on the back of the chair. She figured he had left his snow boots by the front door, gloves sticking out of them like he always did.

  “Sit. I’ll do this,” she said, pushing him into a chair, pulling a mug out of the cabinet.

  “I still think of you as my little girl,” he said, “even though you’ve been taking care of me since you were in high school. Since you really were a little girl.”

  “Dad,” she said, stirring the milk in the pot on the stove, “we take care of each other.”

  “I always wondered if I was asking too much of you.”

  “Dad . . . ”

  “I loved your mother so much. I knew how she was when I married her. She was such a different person when she drank.”

  “I know.”

  “I always thought, that’s not the real Debbie. The real Debbie is sweet and loving and funny. But when she was drinking, she became . . . ”

  “Different.”

  “She was selfish.”

  Billie flinched.

  “I don’t say a lot against her, but she did us wrong, you and me. When it was just me, I could handle it. But I thought, when you came along, that she would, I don’t know, snap out of it. When she was pregnant with you, she didn’t drink at all.”

  “I know. You’ve told me.”

  “But when you started preschool, when she had all that time on her own . . . ”

  “Dad, I know. We’ve talked about this before. You can’t change who she was, remember?”

  “I know, but sometimes I just want to kick myself for how I made you suffer.”

  “I didn’t suffer. Not really. Not because of you.”

  “Especially around the holidays, the way you go out of your way to make it special for me.”

  “Well, it’s not entirely for you. I do love all of this sparkly crap. Sorry, Andrew’s words.”

  “I just think how different your life would have been if you didn’t have to be a grown-up so early.”

  “Well, I would probably be a really bad cook.”

  “You might have passed calculus.”

  “Dad, I think we both know that no amount of extra study time would have made me pass calculus.” He laughed and Billie smiled. She’d wanted him to laugh.

  “I love you, baby girl.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  “When I saw you, just now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “it made me realize a few things.”

  Billie wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what.

  “First, I should have put a lock on your door.”

  “Dad,” she laughed.

  “And when I was sitting down here, trying to find the pot you use to make warm milk for me, I realized something else. Do you know, when I think about retiring, the first thing I think is, what am I going to do with my time? And the next is, what will Billie do if she doesn’t have to take care of me?”

  “Oh,” she said, focusing her attention on the heating milk.

  “And now that I know, I’m not sure I should ever retire.”

  “Dad!” She handed him his mug and he blew across the top of it.

  “But you’re a grown woman. I’ve been treating you like an adult, but I still think of you as my little girl. Does that make sense?”

  “Dad, I’ll always be—”

  “No, no. You’ll always, always be my daughter. But you’re not my little girl anymore. You haven’t been for a long time. I just didn’t want to see it. But I’ll try, OK?”

  “OK. Thanks, Dad.”

  “Good,” he said, setting down his mug. “So, if you’re not my little girl anymore, I can go return those Christmas presents I bought you.”

  “Ha. Nice try.”

  He stood up, enveloped her in that big Dad-hug of his. She would never get too old for that.

  “Go back to your young man. I’ll clean up here. No, don’t say anything else. In fact, the less we talk about that, the better.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Good night, sweet girl.”

  Andrew woke up when the bed shifted. He thought maybe it was the cat—he’d woken up several times in the night to find PeeWee sitting at a different post near the bed, staring at him. But no, even in his barely awake haze, he could tell it was Billie. Cinnamon. Warm. Clothed?

  “You OK?” he asked, though he wondered if she heard, his voice was so groggy.

  “Yeah, sorry to wake you,” she whispered, crawling into his arms.

  “You didn’t . . .” Andrew started to say.

  And then Andrew was blinking against the morning light streaming through the curtains. It took him a second to recognize his surroundings—unfamiliar wallpaper, cat staring at him, warm weight against his side. Then he remembered. Kentucky, PeeWee, Billie. Billie’s hair and arms were splayed across his chest and she was wearing flannel pajamas with penguins on them. Penguins in Santa hats. Why wasn’t she naked? He was naked. She’d been naked when they finally went to sleep. He should probably try to fix that.

  There was a faint buzzing coming from a room down the hall. It sounded like an alarm clock, but . . . familiar. Like . . . Mariah Carey? Crap, his cell phone. Eddie had gotten hold of it before Andrew went on the road and changed his ring tone to that grating, overplayed cheesefest “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

  And Andrew would nev
er admit it in a million years under pain of torture, but he kind of liked that song. It was catchy, dammit.

  But his phone was ringing, he was in Kentucky with a woman who’d been naked when he went to sleep, and his pants were under a very angry cat. He grabbed Billie’s robe—red and green plaid—and slunk next door to the guest room. It had stopped ringing, but he knew if he waited a second . . .

  When Mariah Carey started up again, he dug his phone out of the pocket of his messenger bag.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Where are you, young man?”

  He sighed. Young man. That meant he was in trouble. Not as much trouble as when she called him Andrew, and certainly not as much as Andrew Joseph. But when she called him “young man,” she was definitely displeased.

  “I’m in Kentucky.”

  “Kentucky! What are you doing in Kentucky?”

  Andrew shut the bedroom door, as if his mother’s shouting would wake the whole house. “I told you, Mom, I’m on a sales trip for Ed.”

  “Eddie told me you would be back in plenty of time for Christmas. That’s tomorrow.”

  “I know. I ran into some car trouble.” He didn’t need to tell her that he ran into a bar.

  “Fine. I’ll manage without you.”

  “I thought you were getting help for the store. That’s what you said before I left.”

  “I hired some college kid. She had no idea what she was doing. Eddie’s been helping me. He also said you should have been back from this trip a week ago. Now you tell me you’re not even going to be back for Christmas?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mom—”

  “I understand that the holidays are not cool and fun, and you have your own more important life to lead, but your family needs you. Eddie has been running himself ragged trying to get things set up for the kids, and that wife of his is no help at all.”

  Ed’s wife, Tina, was pretty much a clone of his mother, which had implications Andrew didn’t like to think about. She married Ed right out of high school and immediately gave birth to three boys. Adorable, precious, angel boys, according to Andrew’s mother. So even though Andrew grew up without much Christmas, as soon as those boys were born, all bets were off. Christmas explosion. And, according to his mother, Tina did everything wrong. Not wrong enough for his mother to pitch in, but still. Wrong. Tina was ruining Christmas for those precious angel boys.