by Skye Warren
I pick up my suitcase, full of confidence. Full of anticipation. Full of holiday spirit.
I smile at Bradley. “Let’s Merry Christmas.”
THE END
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Part IX
A Family Affair by Jade West
A Family Affair
“So, Little Miss Type-a-Lot. How about you help us settle a bet?” Dominic says, flicking his shaggy blond fringe from his forehead.
I look from him to his identical brother, trying to convey just how disinterested I am in their stupid bet. These two are jokers, still cruising around like they’re in private tuition courtesy of Daddy, when they should have grown up ages ago.
Just like the rest of us had to. Those of us without Mr. ‘Moneybags’ Davenport as our meal ticket.
They’re both grinning at me, and it grates on me to no end that these two spoiled little rich boys landed all the looks as well as all the money. Sun-kissed, blond, perfect white smiles… dicks.
I bet they have perfect dicks as well.
I bet they’re perfect dicks with perfect dicks.
Sebastian grins at me, elbowing his brother as he pulls a sprig of mistletoe from behind his back. “Settle a bet, or give us a kiss. What’s it gonna be?”
“How about neither?” I glug back more champagne. I may as well since it’s a free bar, and oh, how grateful we should all be, us minions. Drinking up courtesy of Davenport Enterprises. The greatest technology company this side of the universe. At least, that’s what they think, the people at the top.
Believe me, I should know. I work for Mr. Davenport himself. Directly.
I’m his personal assistant.
“Come on, Chloe.” Dominic’s grin is so fucking cheesy. “Take the stick out of your tight little ass for one evening at least. It’s supposed to be a celebration.”
“Yeah,” Seb chimes in. “Where’s your Christmas cheer?”
“I think it’s wedged in my to do pile upstairs. Maybe you should ask your daddy, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you why I’m not all ho ho ho. A board meeting on Christmas Eve, late afternoon…” I down the rest of my glass. “…who even does that?” I mutter under my breath.
“Sounds like Pops.” Seb laughs. “No wonder Mum left the bastard. He’s such a fucking dick.”
“I think he does it on purpose,” Dominic says. “Just to be a cock.”
And he is a cock, their father. He’s been a cock ever since I joined the company eighteen months ago. A fifty-hour work week minimum in his presence and he’s barely graced me with a Thank you, Chloe in all the time I’ve been here.
Not only that, but he’s arrogant. Really arrogant. Part of the rich boys’ club, the kind that pat each other on the back and congratulate each other on making another cool million every week over golf.
Typically, Mr. Alexander Davenport is graced with looks as well as money.
He’s a rich prick, and a beautiful one, even if he is greying at the temples. Still, the prick thing is the only attribute of his that matters to me.
I mean, everyone knows the guy’s an asshole, I just didn’t know that knowledge stretched to his own immediate family. What’s left of it after the divorce I helped file the paperwork for.
“You shouldn’t say that about your father,” I tell them, but I can’t keep the smile from my face.
Seb leans in, hangs the mistletoe over my head. His breath is hot on my ear. “He’s a cock. A real fucking dick.”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” I laugh, and realise the champagne has gone to my head.
Dominic leans in to my other side. His lips touch the tickly spot just under my jaw. “He’s a prize fucking jerk.”
“You shouldn’t tell me this.” I wag a finger at them. “I’m his personal assistant. It’s my job to report what people think of him.”
“But you won’t,” Dominic says, “because then we’d have to tell him what you really think of him.”
“At least I wouldn’t have to spend Christmas Eve kissing his ass when I should be eating mince pies and chugging back the brandy.”
Sebastian grabs a couple of fresh glasses from a passing waitress, hands me one with a wink. “So, make up for it now. Chug back the champers, and help us settle that bet.”
I roll my eyes. “What bet is this, then?”
They stand before me, two gorgeous specimens of definitely don’t fuck them, and the drink has undeniably gone to my head. That’s a certainty. Because these two hot guys, these two idiots, are giving me shivers in places they really shouldn’t.
They smirk at each other, and it’s so clear they have that twin mind-reading thing going on. That gives me shivers too.
“Which one of us do you think is hotter?” Dominic says. “Me or Seb? I bet it’s me…”
“Fuck off, Dommie,” Seb sneers. “It’s definitely me.”
“And that’s your bet, is it? Which one of you I fancy more?”
They nod, cracking a grin. Matching grins. These guys really are identical, bar the fact that Seb’s fringe is messier. They’re even wearing the same goddamn tux, matching red bow ties, matching everything.
I wonder if they have matching cocks.
I really shouldn’t want to find out.
“It’s a stupid bet,” I tell them. “You’re asking me who is hotter, Tweedledum or Tweedledee? You’re identical, idiots. How could I possibly fancy one of you more than the other?”
Another look passes between them, and it’s unnerving, being on the outside of this super-twin thing.
“We’re identical idiots, are we?” they say in unison. That twin thing again.
“If the dunce cap fits…” I’m trying so hard not to laugh.
“I’ll let you into a secret,” Seb says. “We’re not identical.”
“Not everywhere,” Dominic adds.
“Don’t tell me, one of you has a mole on your ass that looks like a dick and the other one has a mole on his dick that looks like an ass,” I say, and I do laugh this time.
“We’ll show you, if you like?” Seb says, and he’s not laughing.
I’m not going to answer that. Definitely not. No fucking way.
And I don’t need to, because George Ryan, our Vice Chairman, is clinking his glass and calling everyone to order. Secret Santa time and my stomach does a nervous flip.
Oh yes, it’s my moment. My secret moment of glory.
It’s a shame nobody will ever know it.
“Hold that thought,” Seb says.
“You haven’t settled the bet yet,” Dom adds.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Whatever, guys. Find someone else to bug.”
I head for the gathering crowd beside the foyer Christmas tree, determined to find a prime viewing position for my secret moment of triumph, and the twins follow me, pressing tight to my sides as we take position at the front.
Seb’s voice is just a whisper in my ear. A voice that sounds way too sexy for a fool like him.
“We don’t want to find someone else to bug,” he tells me. “We’re only interested in you.”
In me. Me.
It’s the way he says it. The way I feel him smiling.
His fingers touch my naked back and I regret my choice of evening outfit. Backless and low cut was a risqué combination, but I was having a day off from being Miss Prim and Proper when I ordered it online.
I take another sip of champagne and focus back on George as he begins to dish out the presents.
I could have thanked my lucky fucking stars when I pulled Mr. Davenport himself from the lucky dip. Oh yes. Secret Santa was going to be a real fucking hoot this year.
I don’t even know why Seb and Dommie are in the Secret Santa. They aren’t even proper employees, they just swan around like they own the place, sticking their noses into board meetings that really don’t concern them.
Theirs are called early on. Seb has a stupid beer drinking hat, and Dommie has
a remote controlled aeroplane. Regular. Boring.
They pretend to be grateful, tell the crowd how awesome their presents are with fake laughs and smiles.
I’m not even bothered when my name is called, just step forward with my professional smile and take it graciously.
I feel the crowd looking, waiting with bated breath for me to open the same old presents as the year before. Some toiletries, no doubt, maybe some chocolates. Maybe a silver-plated fountain pen I’ll never use.
But this year the wrapping paper is different. Clearly the work of a man from the looks of it, because a woman would never use so much goddamn tape. I manage to wrestle open a corner as the whole office looks on, and I’m graced with a picture of tits.
I feel my cheeks burning as I shoot the room a smile, and there’s Seb again, his fingers dancing up my spine where nobody can see them.
“Open it,” he whispers. “It’s from me.”
Oh fuck.
And I know it. I know he’s stitched me up.
My stomach lurches at the realisation that I’m going to be opening something totally obscene in front of my professional associates.
Touché.
Fate strikes back, dishing out the retribution for my own fucking prank.
I take a breath and tear off the rest of the wrapping, and there it is, big and bold for the whole room to see. I hear the ripple of laughter.
Nipple clamps. Sparkly ones.
They adorn a pair of big cardboard tits, and before I can stop him Dominic yanks them from my hands and presses them to my chest.
The ripple of laughter grows louder. The drunk guy from accounts steps forward to take a stupid picture on his phone.
Nice.
I’m stuck there, with a stupid gormless grin on my face, trying to laugh off the fact that my boss just saw me with a pair of nipple clamps held up to my own ample cleavage. He saw it, and his look was one of utter disapproval.
Just like always.
Cocksucker.
“You’re a jerk,” I hiss to Seb when the next present is dished out.
“But you’d look so good in them,” he says, and there’s that tone again. “Dommie picked them out, you can blame him.”
“For a pair of tits, from a pair of tits,” I mutter, and they laugh. They think it’s fucking hilarious.
I try to ignore them completely, turn my attention back to the gift ceremony with those stupid cardboard tits hidden behind my back, but I can’t shake it off, Seb’s stupid comment. You’d look so good in them.
He’s pictured my tits in nipple clamps. He’s pictured my tits. Clearly they both have.
I hadn’t even a clue they’d noticed me beyond the little secretary who scribbled notes in the corner of the meeting room.
“You still haven’t settled the bet,” Seb whispers. “Who’s hotter?”
I shut him up with a wave of my hand as the pile of presents whittles down to nothing. They always give Mr. Davenport his present last, just because he’s so important. He has to be the star act of every performance, even the Secret fucking Santa.
Sure enough, his is the last present dished out. He does the whole fake-surprised thing, as though anyone would have forgotten his gift. Only this year he’ll wish they had.
My heart is racing. Mouth dry as I picture the expression on his perfect face when he tears open the wrapping.
I’ve made it so tasteful, so neat, that posh paper with the silver pinstripe, the folds so crisp and professional. Yes… this is going to be such a win. I just hope the idiot from accounts still has his phone to hand. I’ll savour this picture forever.
He steps out in front of the crowd for maximum attention, because his ego is genuinely that huge. All the better. All the fucking better.
I can’t hold back the grin, it’s already blooming across my face as he inspects the wrapping. My legs are a little shaky, and my nerves are spiked, and I feel all churned up in my belly, but I’m grinning, I’m really fucking grinning.
He tears it open in one motion, and it takes him a moment to register the prize in his hands.
I hear a gasp through the crowd, nothing short of horror. Then silence. Clearly nobody wants to be the first person to laugh, and I don’t either. I’m holding it in, choking back the giggles with everything I’ve got. Waiting, just waiting.
It comes from my side, the first laugh. Seb’s loud roar of hilarity rips through the foyer, and Dommie’s follows soon after.
Mr. Davenport doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile as the rest of the gathering collapse into hysterics. He just turns the package over and over in his hands.
A big black veiny dildo. The monster they called it online. It’s slick and glossy and oh so realistic. The girth is impressive. It really is a fucking monster.
I watch his eyes as he registers the sticky note, and I’m so glad I got my best friend, Amy, to write it for me on a lunch break. It’s still sticking to the back of the packaging, all pretty and pink and lined up neatly.
Go fuck yourself the note says, with a row of kisses underneath.
He’s still staring at it as accountant man steps forward and snaps a photo. It’s a perfect moment, captured forever, and my heart swells with glee.
I don’t even realise how hard I’m laughing until Seb squeezes my shoulder.
“Perfect!” He laughs. “That’s so fucking perfect! I’d love to fucking know who bought him that.”
“Genius!” Dom laughs. “That’s seriously fucking awesome. Serves the prick right!”
The devil in me wants to tell them, wants to claim victory for my epic stunt, but I can’t. I know I can’t.
Instead, I laugh along with them, looking from one to the other, and it feels so good to know they are taking as much joy from his embarrassment as I am.
Maybe they aren’t such jerks after all.
Everyone is still rippling with amusement as the crowd disperses. I try to keep my pride under wraps, play it cool as I head back to the edge of the room. I take another champagne and dump my stupid cardboard tits on one of the reception coffee tables, then fire off a message to Amy telling her Secret Santa was an epic success. I only wish I had the photo to attach, she’d enjoy that.
I groan as Seb and Dommie head in my direction, but it’s for their benefit more than mine. I want to maintain they’re nothing but stupid dicks, but there’s something about sharing an enemy that makes for a bonding experience. That’s definitely why I’m warming to them, nothing whatsoever to do with the tits comment.
Seb’s still got his mistletoe, he dangles it over my head, and he has that grin again. It’s so cocky, that grin. It shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is.
“Answer time,” he says. “Me or Dom? Kiss the hottest.”
He puckers his lips and I laugh. “You’re confident.”
“Always,” he says. “It’s clear I’m the hottest. And I got you a present, you owe me a kiss just for that.”
“For nipple clamps and abject humiliation?” I say. “Like hell I owe you a kiss. You can kiss my ass, Sebastian Davenport.”
His eyes are so fucking blue. They sparkle so perfectly under the Christmas lights. “Alright,” he says. “If you insist.”
I let out a stupid squeak as he grabs for my skirt, and a couple of admin girls look in my direction. They shoot me a glare, and I realise, in one awesome moment, that they’re jealous of me.
How ridiculous. Like anyone would even want this kind of joker attention.
But of course they want it. They want it really bad.
“Jeez,” Seb groans. “Make up your mind, girl. Lips or ass? I’m easy either way.”
“I’ll take the ass,” Dommie says. “If it’s a choice.” And he sounds so dirty.
I tell myself I’m burning up because it’s hot in here. Because I’ve been drinking since the party opened at seven. Because it’s almost 10:00 p.m. and I’ve taken far too much advantage of the free bar.
“Nobody’s kissing me anywhere,” I say, and I wish I
sounded more sure of that. Bloody champagne.
“It’s the only way to settle the bet,” Seb tells me.
I raise an eyebrow. “How so?”
Dominic smiles. “It’s quite clear. If you can’t make a decision on who’s hotter just by looking at us, we’ll have to find a way to differentiate ourselves.”
“Kiss us both,” Seb adds. “Best kisser wins.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t pink through my foundation. “Totally ridiculous.”
“It’s the only way,” Dom insists. “What will it hurt? I mean, aren’t we Tweedledum and Tweedledee? Surely you aren’t worried your knickers are going to fall down because of one measly kiss?”
“They’ll never just fall down,” I say. “Not even for the best kiss in the universe.”
“Put your money where your mouth is.” Seb is grinning. Sparkly eyes again.
I sigh. “If I kiss you both, and tell you who is the best, you promise you’ll fuck off and give me some peace?”
“Sure,” Dom says. “Unless your knickers fall down.”
Seb laughs. “Kiss us, decide who’s hottest, and if your knickers don’t fall down we’ll leave you to enjoy the company of Mr. Fiddle over there. He’s been eying you up all evening.”
I look over Dom’s shoulder at Mr. Fiddle. He’s actually called Ted, and he’s in charge of building maintenance. They call him Mr. Fiddle because apparently he groped a cleaner in the supplies cupboard last summer.
They’re right, too. He has been eying me up. I’ve been avoiding him all night.
“That’s the stupid deal, is it?” I ask, and I can’t believe I’m considering it. “I kiss you, my knickers don’t fall down, and we’re done with the stupid contest?”
“If your knickers don’t fall down,” Seb says.
And if my knickers do fall down? The question is in my mind faster than I can stop it, and there are those ridiculous shivers again.
I really shouldn’t have any more champagne, but I take one as the waitress passes anyway.
It’s been months since I got laid. One of those friends-with-benefits situations that invariably goes tits up. I’ve been gagging for it for weeks, relieving work frustration with my glittery vibe every evening while trying not to think about Alexander Davenport’s smug, self-righteous face.
