Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club)

by Denise Grover Swank

  “More like position,” I say, my gaze on my plate. “And yeah, Monday.” I’m trying hard to focus on what Roger is saying, but my mind keeps skipping back to Mary, which is a bad idea. A terrible idea.

  For one thing, she’s only interested in me because her boring husband likely never went down on her. I’m a “safe” bad boy she can use to get her groove back before moving on to another guy in a suit.

  For another, I like Aidan, really like him, and if I’m going to be his buddy again, it’s a fucking disastrous idea to get involved with his mother. Then again, Butterfly Buddies hasn’t called me back. Maybe Mary has decided it’s safer to keep me away from both of them.

  “You nervous about it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

  “No,” I say, realizing he’s scrutinizing me. “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re acting different. Like something’s bugging you.”

  “I keep thinking about Aidan.” Which is a half-truth.

  “Your buddy?”

  “Yeah…well, maybe not. Ms. Duckworth hasn’t gotten in touch, so maybe Mary changed her mind again.”

  “I thought everything went great yesterday,” he says in surprise as he stabs a meatball. His hand is shaking so much he has to lean over to bite it off his fork.

  “It did.” I frown. “Did you call the doctor?”

  “I called ’em yesterday, thank you very much,” he grumps. “I have an appointment next week.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “No. One of those ride services for elders is going to pick me up. I already reserved my time.”

  “If that doesn’t come through, let me know. I’ll get off work and take you.”

  He waves his hand dismissively, then promptly sets it down on the table so I can’t see the way it’s shaking. I know he’s embarrassed by it. Roger used to work in a warehouse, driving a forklift and lifting heavy boxes. I’ve seen photos of him when he was younger, and to be honest, he looked a lot like me. I get why it would be hard to go from being a strong, physically fit man to the shell his body had become. It must feel like a betrayal.

  “Maybe his mother got busy and didn’t have time to call,” Roger says.

  “Yeah, maybe.” But I know I crossed a line yesterday. I shouldn’t have touched her, yet it’s hard to be sorry.

  Mrs. Rosa comes in soon after, carrying a key lime pie. After I eat two slices, I realize I’m going to need an extra-long workout. Who am I kidding? I planned on going for a punishing workout after dinner anyway. It’s better than sitting here, fantasizing about a woman I can’t touch.

  Roger and Mrs. Rosa get into a spat about the best mayonnaise brand, and since I have nothing to contribute, I get up and put the dishes in the dishwasher and feed Bingo. He seems needier than usual tonight, rubbing his side against my leg as I set his food bowl down. I scratch him behind the ear, and he lets out a soft purr instead of his usual hiss. Maybe he knows I need some kind of physical contact.

  The revelation catches me off guard.

  Not that Bingo wants a rare moment of affection, but that I need it. I spend my life around other people, but we rarely touch. Roger’s not the type to hug it out, and I respect Mrs. Rosa’s space. Maybe that’s why holding Mary’s soft hand affected me so much. And touching her long, graceful neck, her jaw. And Aidan’s surprise hug.

  Maybe I’m just desperate for some kind of human contact.

  The thought runs through my mind like a quickly moving stream, and I’m still pondering it as I change into my work clothes, listening to my friends’ spirited discussion of the best ketchup brands.

  I leave Roger and Mrs. Rosa at my kitchen table, now debating whether a hot dog is a sandwich, then drive to the gym I joined soon after I moved to town. While my job is physical, I still need workouts to burn off my excess energy and frustration, a habit forged in prison. And it’s not too busy on a Friday night, so I don’t have any trouble gaining access to the equipment. After I finish my lifts, I get on the treadmill and start a run. I prefer to run outside, but it’s dark and cold, and there’s a college football game on one of the TV screens to hold my attention while I listen to a playlist on my phone with earbuds.

  I’m two miles in at a punishing pace when the music in my ears is interrupted by an incoming call. My first thought is that something happened to Roger. It’s a sad reflection on my life that there aren’t many other reasons someone would call me at nine on a Friday night.

  I’m caught off guard when I see Mary’s name appear on the screen. Part of me panics, thinking something must have happened to Aidan for her to call, but the rest of me hopes she called for another reason. One related to her new pink vibrator. I stab the stop button on the treadmill and answer, straddling the conveyor belt as it comes to a halt.

  “Mary?” I ask in concern.

  “You answered,” she stammers, sounding shocked.

  “You didn’t want me to answer?” I ask, my voice breathless from my run. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. I thought you might be out. On a date.” She gasps. “Oh, my God. Maybe you are on a date. Is that why you sound out of breath?”

  I laugh. Does she think I’m in the middle of having sex? “I’m not on a date, Mary. Just working out. I don’t usually answer calls when I’m on a date. I prefer to give my attention to the woman I’m with.”

  “Oh.”

  After several seconds of silence, I ask, “Did Aidan get off to his grandparents’ okay?”

  “Yeah.” She’s silent again, and I almost ask her why she called, but it’s obvious this isn’t an emergency, and I’m worried she’ll end the call before she gets to whatever prompted her to dial my number. “I bought a painting.”

  “Oh?”

  “I thought about what you said. How you saw Aidan in his room but none of me in mine. So I bought a painting,” she says in a rush, her words a little slurred.

  Has she been drinking? Because that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why she’d call me to tell me she bought a painting.

  Guilt rushes through me as I think about that judgmental comment I made about her bedroom. “Mary. I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of line.”

  “No,” she says softly. “You were right. And it’s not like I just went to Target and bought a picture of a cow skull. It’s an actual painting.”

  I step off the treadmill, grabbing my bottle of water, and snag a hand towel from a nearby stack. After wiping the sweat from my face, I say, “I should hope not. A cow skull doesn’t seem like you at all.”

  “What does seem like me?” she asks, her voice low and seductive. Does she mean to sound sexy, or is it the influence of the alcohol that has to be flowing through her bloodstream?

  A laugh rumbles through my chest. I walk over to a wall and lean my shoulder against it. “I don’t know. Something soft and gentle. Maybe a landscape.”

  “That’s not what I got,” she says. “I think it’ll surprise you. In fact, my sisters are going to be shocked.”

  “Let me guess,” I say with a grin. “It’s a jackalope.”

  “What’s a jackalope?”

  “Come on,” I tease. “You’ve never seen a jackalope?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s obviously not a jackalope, unless you bought a picture of a rabbit with antlers without realizing what they’re called.”

  “There are rabbits with antlers?”

  I laugh again. How can such an intelligent woman be so naive? If I said that aloud, I’m sure she’d take it as an insult, although I don’t mean it as one. But man…she’s lived a sheltered life, and I find myself wanting to draw her out of it.

  “You should come see it,” she says, her voice low and seductive. “Come see for yourself.”

  Jesus. The blood rushes from my head straight to my cock. I take a long drink from my water bottle to help cool me down, and cover my crotch with the towel. “I just finished working out. I’m all hot and sweaty,” I say, stalling for time. Everythi
ng in me wants to get in my car and race to her house, but I’m not sure that’s the smart thing to do.

  “I still want you to come over,” she says, sounding less confident.

  Fuck. I want her to believe she’s a beautiful, sexy woman, and if I say no, I run the risk of confirming what Glenn the Prick made her believe. “Okay. But I need to shower first.”

  “Oh.” The lilt of her voice suggests she’s thinking of what I’ll look like in the shower.

  My cock twitches. Jesus. I haven’t been this turned on by a phone conversation since I was in high school. And we haven’t even been talking dirty.

  “Do you still want me to come over?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says in a breathless rush that has me heading for the locker room.

  “Okay. See you in a bit.”

  I hang up and open my locker, grabbing a towel and shampoo out of my gym bag. I don’t usually shower at the gym, but I keep a few things in my bag for just-in-case situations. Like this one. No, not exactly like this one. This is the first time I’ve been pulled away from the gym because a woman entranced me on the phone.

  After a quick shower, I get dressed in an extra pair of gym shorts and T-shirt from the bag. It’s forty degrees outside—not shorts weather—and I briefly consider stopping by my place to get a pair of jeans, but I’d run the risk of Roger asking me where I’m going. I feel the need to protect Mary’s reputation, as ridiculous as that seems.

  So I get into my car and drive to her house, torn between the base need to see her and the desire to protect her, from me, it seems. It’s not like I plan to hurt her. In fact, I would never knowingly hurt her, but I don’t want to be the kind of rebound she’ll regret.

  When I pull into her drive, her front windows are lit up and her porch light is on. I start to get out of the car, but then I lean over and pop the glove compartment and grab a handful of condoms from the box I keep in there for the rare occasions I have a hookup. It feels sleazy stuffing them into the pocket of my gym shorts, like I’m going in expecting Mary to put out, but there’s no denying the pull between us. Better to be prepared than to have to run outside later to grab one. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I hurry to her porch. The need to see her is overwhelming.

  I can hear music as I approach her front door—loud music. It’s familiar, and while I can’t remember the name or the artist, I know it’s alternative rock. Something older. I knock on the door, then ring the doorbell when she doesn’t answer. Leaning to the side, I see shadows moving against the sheer curtains.

  After another knock goes unanswered, I send Mary a text.

  I’m outside on your porch.

  When she still hasn’t answered about ten seconds or so later, I try the doorknob, surprised when it turns. Mary definitely seems like the lock-her-house-up-tight type of person, so now I’m worried something’s wrong. Maybe she’s not answering because she can’t. I push the door open, prepared to face anything. Or at least I thought I was prepared to face anything.

  There’s no preparing for the sight of Mary O’Shea dancing in her living room.

  Except she’s not dancing like most people do. She’s dancing like those people on that show my sister loved to watch—So You Think You Can Dance. I’m mesmerized.

  Her back is to me as her arms reach out in front of her, and then she wraps them around her chest and tucks her head. The music begins to build, and she spins, lifting her arms up high. Her eyes are closed, but the pure joy on her face catches me by surprise. Her leg darts behind her, her toes pointed, and she leans her body back as one arm sweeps over her head, her hand flexed. She’s so graceful, so…magical. That’s not a word I tend to use, but there’s no other way to describe the way she’s moving.

  Her back is arched, her head tipped back, and suddenly she opens her eyes and sees me.

  And screams.

  She straightens and wraps her arms around her chest as she turns to face me, hopping on one foot, the other leg bent at the knee, her foot a few inches above the floor. “How long have you been there?”

  “Not long.” I’m standing in the open doorway, letting the cold air in, but she looks so panicked that I’m not sure I should shut it behind me.

  “You saw me?”

  “It was beautiful, Mary.”

  She tries to put her foot down and winces.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” I ask in alarm.

  “It’s just a cramp.”

  Since she hasn’t kicked me out yet, I shut the door behind me and close the distance between us, scooping her up into my arms.

  “Jace!” she protests, but even as she says it, she wraps an arm around my neck. “What are you doing?”

  “You shouldn’t walk on that.” I carefully place her on the sofa, her back against the arm. I sit down on the middle cushion and let her legs drape over my lap. “Let me see.” I push her legging up to her knee and wrap a hand around her calf. Sure enough, the muscle is hard, so I gently knead her flesh with my fingertips.

  “Wha…what are you doing?” she stammers.

  “Helping get rid of your cramp.”

  “That’s not why I asked you to come over,” she says. Her hands are on either side of her body, gripping the sofa arm as though she’s bracing herself for something.

  My fingertips are pressing and circling her calf. Touching her after seeing her dance like that is making my blood hot with need. The scent of her shampoo mixed with the faintest hint of sweat fills my head, and I want to touch more than just her calf.

  “Why did you ask me to come over?” I rasp.

  “I…” Her breath is coming in short pants as she stares at me, her eyes full of fire.

  I hold her gaze as one of my hands slowly slides up her calf.

  Her eyes widen, and she swallows.

  “Where did you learn to dance like that?” I press my fingertips into the back of her leg, above her knee, kneading and then stroking through the fabric of her black leggings.

  “School…” She shakes her head. “Dance lessons. From when I was three until my senior year of high school.”

  “Is that why you asked me over, Mary? So I could watch you dance?” It seems unlikely, yet she knew I was coming over. Even if I caught her by surprise.

  “I…I had a margarita at dinner.”

  I smile at her, but it feels predatory, my smile, even to me. I feel a strong urge to claim this woman as mine, and I’m struggling to rein it in. “You called me because you had a margarita.”

  “And most of a glass of wine.”

  My hand inches higher, midthigh now. My cock is twitching against her other calf, and she draws in a sharp breath.

  “I was drunk…I guess, and I…”

  Is she drunk now? I want her badly, but I won’t take advantage of her. If we do this, it’ll be because we both want it. Then again, the way her body moved just now was better than any sobriety test. If she’d been drunk, she would have stumbled or fallen.

  There might be enough alcohol in her to have given her the courage to call me and let me touch her like this, but she’s not drunk.

  “Were you thinking of me?” I ask, inching my hand up a little farther.

  Her legs part slightly. An invitation?

  Jesus. The thought makes me light-headed as all my blood is shuttled to my dick.

  She licks her full bottom lip as her gaze holds mine.

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “You’re like an angel,” I say as I reach up to cup her cheek with my free hand. My thumb brushes her soft skin, and she leans into my touch, closing her eyes. Her hair, a mix of brown and auburn that never looks the same color, is a bit wild, and it surrounds her head like a halo.

  If I were a better man, I’d get up and go sit in a different chair, but I’m not a saint and have never claimed to be. I slide my hand up her outer thigh and cup her ass as I pull her closer and lower my mouth to hers.

  Her lips part with a small exhalation of surprise, and I kiss her lightly, trying to h
old back so I don’t scare her off with the wildness building inside me. With the need to possess her.

  But she cups my face and pulls me closer. I angle her head back, giving myself better access, and my tongue strokes hers, soft and coaxing. She begins to respond, as though she’s been asleep and my kiss is awakening her.

  The thought that I’m bringing her to life is intoxicating, and some of my control slips. I growl, digging my fingers into the flesh of her ass, and my lips and tongue begin to devour her.

  “I want you, Mary,” I grunt as I pull away, looking into her eyes. “But you need to tell me what you want.”

  “I want it all,” she moans. “I want you to give me everything.”

  Jesus. My vision becomes hazy as my cock turns rock hard. I want to give her everything.

  I scoop her into my arms and carry her into her bedroom. The lamp on her bedside table is on, illuminating the space. Still holding her in my arms, I kiss her gently, showing her how much I cherish her and this moment.

  Her arms are around my neck, and they tighten slightly as she takes over the kiss, her tongue darting into my mouth, becoming bold in its exploration.

  A jolt of need hits me, and I groan into her mouth.

  “I’m trying to be gentle, Mary,” I say when she pulls away, “but you’re making it so goddamn hard.”

  “I don’t want gentle,” she says, her face flushing. “I’ve had gentle and safe my entire life. I want more.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jace

  I drop one knee to the bed and lay Mary on the mattress, her head on the pillows. Then I straddle her hips, keeping most of my weight on my knees, and gather her wrists in one hand and pin them over her head. “I want to ravage you. I want to taste every part of you and then come inside you while you scream my name. Is that what you want?”

  She gasps, obviously shocked by the coarseness of my statement, but instead of pulling away, her eyes hood with lust. “Yes. Please.”

  It’s all I can do not to strip her naked and plunge my cock deep inside her right this moment, but I suspect Glenn the Prick barely knew how to make her come, and I’m determined to have her writhing in those sheets many times before we’re done.