Monica Jackson - Merry Christmas, Baby

by Merry Christmas, Baby

  Sharyn had dressed and taken off as though those misty sword-wielding demons on the cover of Sin’s Blazing Fury were after her. She’d mumbled that she’d be back in an hour or so.

  The Dragon had screeched after her, “It’s your fault if he rapes me!” I wished that somehow Mrs. Silvers would disappear and I’d be left alone with Sharyn so I could do my best to tempt her to violate my person, but those kinds of miracles just don’t happen.

  Anyway, I knew why Sharyn had abandoned me to the not-so-tender mercies of the Dragon.

  She was embarrassed about the little bit of heaven she’d shown me when her robe had fallen open. I shut my eyes at the memory of that luscious curve of brown breast topped off by that hardened berry of a nipple. I’d had to bury my hands in my pockets to hide my erection as if I were a teenage boy.

  When I’d followed her to the kitchen, it had taken every ounce of willpower I had to play the gentleman I once believed myself to be. Because I was no gentleman now.

  Gentlemen don’t want to sweep the kitchen table bare and throw a woman they don’t even know on it. They don’t want to shove that woman’s robe above her waist while their tongues play around and their lips pull at her succulent nipples.

  Gentlemen don’t want to bury their fingers in her warm, wet slickness between womanly legs and tease, tantalize and touch until she opens wide, begging and pleading me to slide inside and stroke…oh, God, I was losing my mind.

  I certainly had, because I found myself standing in her room in front of her computer, my hand on her mouse.

  Match4Luv.com.

  CHICCHERIE, 25 years old, Atlanta area. Lonely lady seeks friend for chat, maybe more.

  I might have lost my mind, but this was a mighty interesting find.

  Sharyn’s timing was uncanny. She walked in through the door just when I had finished the rather unpleasant and involved job of helping her mother out of the bathroom.

  “So, Mama, I assume your virtue is intact?”

  “I suppose so, but that boy has a special way with a hand and a bottom wipe.”

  I felt my face turn red and I wished again that the earth would open up and swallow Mrs. Silvers. As always, the ground stayed as solid as ever, and so did the Dragon, Mrs. Silvers.

  “Could you see me to the door?” I asked Sharyn. I had to have a word with her in private. I simply had to know if—

  “Have you taken ill, boy? Why do you need help to the door all of a sudden?” the Dragon demanded.

  “Uh, I need to ask Sharyn something.”

  “Something about what?”

  “Um, billing?” Please, Lord, let me strangle her, just a little bit.

  “I handle my own bills around here, damn it! Spit it out, boy.”

  “Mama, let me see the man to the door,” Sharyn said. “For heaven’s sake, I’ll be right back.”

  “I know Mama can be a handful,” she said, as soon as we got out of earshot.

  “A handful? More like a dump truck full of cement,” I muttered. “Look, I wanted to ask you if you had any free time this week so I could stop by and take you out for a drink.”

  She crossed her arms and leaned back. “Are you asking me on a date, Nick Cohen?”

  “I believe that’s the official term if you’re into labels.”

  “I don’t date my mother’s therapists.”

  “Not even a cup of coffee?” I had to take another shot.

  “Is that all you asked me out here for? I’m freezing.”

  Since it was, I really didn’t have a reply.

  She gave me one of those looks and closed the door rather firmly between us.

  I wished I hadn’t left my coat in the car. I was freezing—in more ways than one. Sharyn cut me cold.

  Why? I knew I wasn’t ugly. And like most men, I could pick up the scent of female sexual interest from a mile away. She’d been nervous but interested. Very interested.

  So why wouldn’t she go out with me? Psychically bleeding from the pain of rejection, I skulked to my Jag and pulled out my cell phone. I’d received seven calls—three from the office, one from a buddy and three from fine babes more than willing to soothe my pain. But they weren’t like Sharyn at all, and for some damn stupid reason, she was the only woman I wanted right now.

  Was it only my hormones talking when I knew that I’d do almost anything for her? But why, oh, why did that have to include braving the Dragon?

  Then I remembered Match4Luv.com and smiled.

  Her Third

  It was past midnight when I got home. Mama was sleeping, her snores audible as soon as I walked through the door. I peeled off my scrubs and jumped into the shower to rinse off residue of my work shift at the hospital.

  I dried off and pulled a flannel nightgown over my head, warm bunny slippers on my feet and padded to the kitchen for a snack. It always took me time to wind down after work. I usually didn’t get to sleep until two or three in the morning.

  I hadn’t been able to get Nick Cohen out of my head all day. It was worrying me to death. The man looked good, was professional, clean, polite, educated, more than well dressed—Barker blacks, for God’s sake. So why the hell did I turn him down flat?

  I sighed. I knew why, I just didn’t want to name it. A part of me wanted to step up to Nick Cohen’s plate and take what he had to offer. But, to be honest, I wasn’t looking for a white guy. Especially a white guy I’d flashed all my goodies to on the first meet.

  I knew Nick Cohen wanted to taste this dark chocolate real bad. It was written all over his face. How could I ever know where I stood with him? How’d I know for sure whether I was just an exotic new sexual flavor he wanted to try and discard or a woman he’d possibly consider for the long haul?

  I never would know unless I was willing to take that leap, to risk my heart if the chemistry between us took its natural course. I knew I was still too bruised to be able to easily do that.

  It had taken me a while to admit to myself how badly Patrick had hurt me, but once I did, I also had to deal with how sore I was, limping around from the aftereffects. I needed a break.

  This was the first holiday season in five years I’d be without Patrick at my side. We were supposed to marry. The invitations had already gone out, the marriage plans in place.

  I’d thought I was lucky. Patrick was a corporate lawyer, and most importantly, I’d thought he had class, a quality black man. He’d done those things important to a woman—little things like opening the car door, surprising me with an unexpected bunch of flowers and attending church with me on Sundays.

  But I wasn’t lucky at all. The way I’d found out was a cliché. I’d caught him in bed with my best friend, my would-be maid of honor. I swear the ugly, jealous bitch had set me up to see it.

  Then I’d found out Patrick had screwed every female with a pulse that had moved within a yard’s radius of his manhood, all the few friends I had.

  They’d turned on me and then they’d turned on each other. Somebody was pregnant. Somebody didn’t know if Patrick was the daddy of her child. Somebody said she’d had an abortion. My life had turned into a freakin’ Jerry Springer special overnight.

  Patrick had sat back and enjoyed the spectacle of all these fool women fighting over his magnificent member. And, believe me, in hindsight I realized that the member in question wasn’t all that in either quality or quantity.

  In the end, I had no man. I had no friends. And Mama got sick.

  Mama told me the whole mess was a blessing in disguise. She said if I married a mad dog like Patrick, his bite might have killed me. I guess Mama was right. But since I didn’t have the sense to know a good dog from one who’d turn on its owner, I’d been wary about entering the dog pound since, you understand?

  But don’t get me wrong; I’m a woman who likes the company of a man. It’s just that, after Patrick, I needed to take it slow and easy next time. And there was nothing slow or easy about the sexual chemistry between Nick Cohen and me.

  I sat in front of my
computer and clicked the messages link of the Match4Luv site. My mailbox was full, but one message caught my eye. For one thing, he actually knew how to construct a sentence, understood comma usage and how to spell the word and. Also, unlike most of the other guys, he didn’t demand a photo immediately.

  I clicked on the chat-room window, and lo and behold he was there! I opened the window for personal chat and clicked his handle GH0ST30

  CHICCHERIE: Hi. I liked your note.

  He answered immediately.

  GH0ST30: Your profile seemed like someone I’d like to get to know. Especially the part about taking it slow.

  I opened his profile, but it was sparser than mine, which was pretty sparse. He hadn’t posted any photo of himself, either. He’d listed his profession as an “entrepreneur”. That was broad. He’d listed his interests as wood working, cabinetry, camping, hiking, mountain climbing, skydiving and mountain biking. Yep, a white guy for sure.

  CHICCHERIE: You sound intriguing. Why are you interested in taking it slow?

  GH0ST30: I’ve been on the market for a while.

  CHICCHERIE: That doesn’t sound like a good thing. Are you like a too-small fish? Are the women throwing you back?

  GH0ST30: I don’t think so. I’m ready to get real, but all the fish I’m meeting are a tad tiny. My reasoning is that if I start fishing a little slower, maybe I’ll start catching bigger fish.

  CHICCHERIE: Touché. So what are you looking for?

  There was a pause before he answered.

  GH0ST30: I want to fall in love.

  Oh, snap. Stop pounding, oh heart of mine.

  CHICCHERIE: Why no photo on your profile?

  Ghost30: Why none on yours?

  CHICCHERIE: I’d like someone to get to know what I’m all about without getting all wrapped up in my appearance.

  GH0ST30: Me, too.

  CHICCHERIE: But that could tip either way in the looks department. It’s a risk.

  GH0ST30: You mean I could be either a three-hundred-pound wheelchair-bound dwarf or a Calvin Klein underwear model?

  CHICCHERIE: Don’t get me wrong, I’m not shallow, but I hope you resemble the underwear model more.

  GH0ST30: So do I.

  CHICCHERIE: I don’t blame you for wanting to look more like a sexy underwear model more than a three-hundred-pound dwarf.

  Okay, time to put him to the test. I laid it on him before he got the chance to tap out an answer to my teasing.

  CHICCHERIE: Can I ask you a question?

  GH0ST30: Are you going to ask me what I look like?

  CHICCHERIE. Not quite. I was wondering what you’re wearing right now.

  I giggled. Okay, so I was a bad girl. But this brought out the guys who were only about cyberslutting right away.

  GH0ST30: :-D . Would you be disappointed if I told you that my black negligee is in the wash?

  He had a sense of humor! This could be promising.

  CHICCHERIE: No, I can deal with it, since mine has been sitting in the dirty clothes for days. Seriously, what do you look like? Stats, I want stats!

  GH0ST30: I’m six foot one, average weight, with brown hair. I’m pretty average looking overall. My great personality is my claim to fame.

  CHICCHERIE: Ha! What if I said that? Would you assume I was a three-hundred-pound dwarf?

  GH0ST30: Undoubtedly. Now it’s your turn.

  CHICCHERIE: I’m five two, a hundred and ten pounds, with black hair. I could almost be a dwarf compared to you.

  GH0ST30: You left the lottery question blank.

  CHICCHERIE: What?

  GH0ST30: The question on your profile that asked what you would do with the money if you won the lottery.

  CHICCHERIE: Oh. You left that question blank, too.

  GH0ST30: You noticed. I’m flattered. So what would you do? I won’t tell anybody, I promise.

  CHICCHERIE: Okay, I guess I can tell you, then. First I’d buy a new house with a separate wing for my mother and I’d get my mother a live-in maid. Maybe two maids. Then I’d pay off my all my brother’s debt, including his mortgage, and set up a trust to send my nieces and nephews to college. Finally, I’d quit work to write novels full-time. That’s it.

  GH0ST30: No Rolls, no private jets, no mansions, no bling?

  CHICCHERIE: Nah. I’d have an ace investment firm on it, though. I hate taxes. Your turn.

  GH0ST30: I’d buy an EarthRoamer—that’s a very expensive, environmentally correct, self-contained RV—and I’d take off to the wilderness. I’d build a house with my own hands and be entirely self-sufficient somewhere naturally beautiful, off the grid. I’d do woodwork and cabinetry and give the rest of the money to charity.

  It sounded rather romantic, albeit exhausting. The Adam-and-Eve angle was sort of appealing to me. I hated to admit it, but down deep—okay, waaay down deep—was a craving to get back to the basics. A good man, a simple home, hard work, babies. Was that enough? Was that all I really wanted? I stifled an urge to make the sign of the cross to ward off my sudden insanity.

  CHICCHERIE: Everybody’s got a dream. What does “off the grid” mean?

  GH0ST30: It means not connected to utilities.

  No electricity? No air-conditioning or refrigerator? Now that’s crazy.

  CHICCHERIE: What about your computer?

  GH0ST30: There’d be one. There’s solar energy for power. There’s wood. There’s biodiesel. We could have most of the amenities you have now.

  CHICCHERIE: Thank goodness for alternative energy.

  GH0ST30: So basically you want to write, help your family out and get away from your mother. I can’t blame you for wanting to get away from your mother.

  What was his deal with mothers?

  CHICCHERIE: Why? Do you think most people want to get away from their mothers? Do you want to get away from your mother?

  GH0ST30: My mother passed away.

  CHICCHERIE: I’m sorry.

  He must have had Mama issues. Oh, well. Nobody’s perfect.

  GH0ST30: It was a long time ago. What do you want to write? Horror?

  CHICCHERIE: Why do you think I want to write horror?

  GH0ST30: My favorite horror novel is Sin’s Blazing Fury, but it’s been a long time since I read it.

  CHICCHERIE: I’d hope so, since Sin’s Blazing Fury is a historical romance.

  GH0ST30: You’re kidding. There’s a dead woman on the cover!

  What weirdness was this? Did this dude have a romance-novel fetish? He was sounding crazy, which was too bad, because I was kind of enjoying him so far.

  CHICCHERIE:?

  GH0ST30: You mean she wasn’t dead? She sure looked dead to me.

  CHICCHERIE: Right. Ha-ha. You’re pretty funny.

  GH0ST30: A sense of humor is the name of the game. Are you going to be online tomorrow? Same time, same place?

  CHICCHERIE: Sure. I’ll be back. Same time, same place.

  Okay, so GH0ST30 was a little strange, but so far I enjoyed passing the time with him. I might as well see where this went, if anywhere.

  His Fourth

  I’m a bonehead and I blew it. Why did I have to bring up Sin’s Blazing Fury? Was I fixated on that book or what?

  I wanted to show we had something in common; I wanted to impress her. Instead I came off as foolish. Crap. I drained my beer bottle and threw it in the trash, scoring a perfect two points. It made me feel a little better.

  I bet she wouldn’t show online tomorrow night. What would I do then? I’d actually considered taking over Betty Silvers’s case personally, that’s how much her daughter turned me on. But there was no way I could do it regularly with everything else I had to do.

  So I kissed profit goodbye and paid the case out at such a high rate I had therapists clamoring for the opportunity to put up with the Dragon. Cash helps anybody get along.

  We needed to keep that case. Just a few weeks more and the ink would be dry on the papers to sell and I’d be free, heading out West in my newly delivered EarthRoamer RV.


  I wasn’t lying about what I’d told Sharyn. What I didn’t tell her was my dream was almost coming true. All that was missing was the woman I imagined accompanying me. I’d been looking for her the past couple of years, but I hadn’t met her yet.

  I knew I’d recognize her when I saw her. Don’t ask me how I knew, I just knew.

  I’d never believed in love at first sight. I still didn’t, but I felt as if I had a chance with Sharyn—we’d work everything out, you know? It wasn’t that I expected that everything would be smooth between us—in fact, I was sure it wouldn’t. I just knew somehow we’d get through whatever. And I knew if we ever got together, we’d probably stay together.

  But that’s stupid. There’s no such thing as soul mates. My overwhelming attraction to Sharyn had to be nothing more complicated than intense sexual attraction.

  I shouldn’t overthink things. The woman simply revved me up. Once we got to know one another better, things would follow their natural course and that would be that.

  If Sharyn wasn’t online when I signed on tomorrow, I’d create a new persona. Sooner or later, I’d find a persona that clicked.

  Then what?