What Happens During the Holidays: A Holiday Anthology

by Lucy Gage

  He holds up his hands and jerks his head back. “Hey, I don’t have to say anything. I was just being friendly.” A double tap on the bar and Tad is there. “I’ll have a Corona.”

  Tad looks to me and I shake my head. I need to go easy. I don’t want to end up being carried out of here. My dark eyes drift to the right, to the leather jacket being laid over the back of the bar stool. To the toned, veiny forearms beneath a rolled-up Henley. You wouldn’t know it was winter the way my skin suddenly heats up. I finger the neckline of my shirt, trying to get a handle on my libido.

  After that, there’s no more talk. Just a silence so heavy, it makes me want to fucking scream. But that’s what I get for being an asshole. Makes total sense why I’m sitting here—alone. And not just alone—but lonely. So if I can’t fuck, I guess I can talk. It beats twiddling my thumbs and watching football with Tad.

  I suck in a breath and scrape a hand through my short mess of brown waves. I’m sure I look like hell after the long day I’ve had, but there’s not much I can do about that now. And then I spout the first thing that comes to my mind. Because really, I don’t know what the fuck else to say. I just know I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.

  “Merry Christmas Eve,” is what I choose. Not the most creative pick-up line, I’ll admit. But hey, I’m not good with words. Obviously. I almost want to shrink in my seat. That’s how bad it sounded. Even my delivery was flat, uninspiring. Maybe I should’ve thought that one out a little more.

  “Oh, you ready to talk now?” He shifts, and the edge of his mouth curls. “I was kind of enjoying the solitude.”

  “Yes, that’s why you came out to a bar on Christmas Eve,” I say dryly.

  He gestures around the bar with a wave of his hand. “A nearly empty bar.”

  “Right. Because we’re the losers who have nothing to do on Christmas Eve.” It’s not until the words exit my mouth that I realize how bitter they sound. How bitter I sound.

  “Speak for yourself.” He takes a long pull of his beer. “I have plenty to do. I just don’t feel like doing it. I felt like rebelling tonight. So here I am.”

  A rebel. Yeah, I’m down with that.

  “Rebelling against what?” I ask, nosy as hell considering I don’t even know his name.

  “Life, family, expectation. You name it, I’m rebelling against it.” He chuckles. “It feels pretty damn good, actually.”

  I nod my head his way. “You got a name?”

  Preferably one I can moan out while my dick is in your mouth.

  “Yeah, I got a name.”

  My brows rise in expectation but I get nothing in return. “Would you like to tell me what it is?”

  “Not particularly, no,” he deadpans. “I don’t feel you’ve earned it.”

  Now that peaks my curiosity. “And how exactly would I do that?”

  I swear his gaze drops. At least I’m pretty sure it does. Okay, maybe it’s wishful thinking. “Let me think on that and I’ll get back to you.”

  I want to tell him to take all the time he needs if it means he’ll be on his knees in front of me with that full mouth open wide, taking every inch of my cock. But of course I just nod. My cock, on the other hand, is straining behind my zipper, desperate to be set free. I guess we have that in common.

  Following our brief and unsatisfying exchange, it’s too damn quiet. The TV at the bar isn’t holding my attention, and finally I decide to bite the bullet. Certainly beats the alternative. Going home and jacking off—alone.

  I extend my hand in his direction and wait for him to turn. “I’m Dash. And I’m sorry if I was a little bitter. It’s nothing personal.”

  “A little?” he retorts, staring at my hand for several beats before giving it a quick shake. His grip is firm, and my mind wanders again, picturing that strong hand jacking me off. “What kind of a name is Dash anyway?”

  “You got a better one?” I snap.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” His lips twist. “But at the rate you’re going, you’re never going to find out.” His cocky laugh fills the air before he returns his gaze to anything other than the bitter asshole next to him. If I’m looking to get laid, I’m going about it all wrong. But then again, charming was never my middle name. “Maybe you need another drink, man. You’re awfully tense. And on Christmas Eve, no less.”

  A drink isn’t going to solve what ails me. But him blowing me would certainly be a good start.

  “Unfortunately, the holidays mean jack shit to me.”

  He smirks. “Looks like we might have something in common, then.”

  “Oh yeah? Why is that?” I ask, getting comfortable in the stool for what I hope is a long explanation and the possibility of getting his name.

  “Now who’s asking all the questions,” he chides, and an inconvenient smile crosses my lips. What can I say? I’m a fan of verbal sparring and this guy seems to be a master at it. “There’s too much expectation around the holidays and family, everyone getting together. I don’t have an issue with it, as long as it’s like that all year round and not just on one day.” He pauses on a heavy sigh. “So this year, I’d had enough. Decided not to show. What about you?” he questions, finishing off his beer. I watch with rapt attention as he parts his lips, honing in on the bob of his throat as he swallows. It’s a damn good view.

  “My parents disowned me two years ago. Ironically, it was on Christmas Eve.” I spit out the bitter taste the words leave behind. “I guess you could say they didn’t like the way I lived my life.”

  He offers me a sympathetic glance. “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Eh, no skin off my back. I didn’t like the way they lived their lives either. Plus,” I throw in, “their asshole quotient was off the charts, so fuck ‘em.”

  A laugh bursts from his throat and I feel it rumble around in my chest. It softens something inside of me. A difficult task, yet somehow this guy has managed to achieve it in record time. And when a similar sound leaves my own mouth, it feels fucking good. It feels a bit like freedom.

  “The name’s Cain,” he supplies, and I nod. “Thanks for being honest.”

  Should I go a step further? I mean, if he likes honesty so much. Nah. Not yet. I don’t want to scare him away. Especially since I’m not sure if he’s into guys. But God damn, I hope so.

  “Cain,” I repeat. “As in, relating to the bible?”

  He chuckles. “Nope. Not even close. My sisters and brothers all have names starting with C, and I guess by the time my parents got to me, that’s all they could think of.”

  “How many are we talking?”

  “Ten all together. Five sisters and four brothers.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah, my parents were pretty busy. And my mom always wanted a big family because she was an only child.” He exhales a big breath. “Cristin, Catherine, Charlotte, Claire, Courtney, Cole, Christopher, Cal, Cameron.” He grins. “And me.”

  “That’s…quite a mouthful.” I polish off the rest of my bottle. “So where do you fall in the ranks?”

  “I’m the youngest. And the one who always did what he was told. But I’m no longer big on following the crowd. So here I am.” He casts me a look. “You have any siblings?”

  “Not as many as you.” I smirk. “Just one, actually. My brother, Trent. Lives in Hawaii.”

  He toys with a silver ring on his right hand. “Hawaii at Christmas certainly beats Manhattan, doesn’t it? What are you doing here?”

  “Surf and sand isn’t my thing.”

  “Oh, no? What is?”

  Dick. Lube. No, wrong answer.

  “I prefer the faster pace of a city. The energy is different.” I shrug. “You can get lost here.”

  “Getting lost is easy when you have nine brothers and sisters,” he explains.

  “True that.” I watch as he continues to twirl the silver around his finger. “But family reunions must be kick-ass.”

  “Oh yeah. It’s one big party
.”

  “But not tonight.”

  “Nope.” His smile dissolves and he stares at the bar top. “Not tonight.”

  Hmph. I wonder why that is. I want information. And what better way to get it, then with the truth serum also known as alcohol. “Hey, I’m up for a private party if you are. No rules, no expectations. Whaddya say we knock back a few shots?”

  He hesitates, and for a second I think he might turn me down, but then he shoots me a glance. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

  That’s my plan. And he won’t even know what hit him.

  Two tequila shots down and he doesn’t seem to be loosening up much. Maybe he has a high tolerance for alcohol. Or maybe he’s not too forthcoming with information. I mean, how hard is it? It’s a pretty simple question. Do you like dick? A) Yes, or B) No.

  Probably a little too forward. I’ll start out simple instead.

  “So how long have you lived in Manhattan?”

  He exhales a laugh filled with air and I can’t figure out what’s so hilarious about the question. “Let’s just say not long.”

  Evasive at best. “Okay, how long is not long? A week, a month, a few months?”

  He looks up from his drink and flips me a one-eyed glance. “One day.”

  My brows draw in. “One day?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Where are you staying then?” I tap on the counter so Tad will bring me another shot. Either I’ve developed an immunity to alcohol or this tequila is weak.

  “Don’t know yet,” he replies, staring heavily at the corner of the bar.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Despite my language, the question doesn’t come out harsh, more curious.

  “It means exactly what I said.”

  “So you’re at a friend’s then until you figure it out?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A hotel then?”

  He turns to me, eyes like blue steel. “Not exactly.”

  “Okay, Cain. You gotta give me something here. I’m trying to get to know you and I can’t do that if you’re vague.” Wait, did I just say that? There’s only one thing I want to know, but I’ve got to start somewhere.

  His breath heaves out in a whoosh. “I was thinking about a bench in Penn Station tonight.”

  “Oh, fuck no. Not on my watch. That place isn’t safe.” The words erupt from my lips before I can rein them in and he actually smiles. Why the fuck is he smiling? There’s nothing funny about being homeless.

  “Relax.” He digs in his back pocket and yanks out his wallet. Under the counter, he opens the flap and reveals a wad of cash, most of which are hundred dollar bills. “I don’t have anywhere to stay at the moment but it’s not because I can’t afford it. On the contrary, I can afford whatever I want, I just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Just wanted to do some things differently, that’s all.” He sucks back another shot and I decide this guy is a fucking enigma.

  “Can you stop speaking in code?” The frustration in my tone earns me another grin.

  “For someone who doesn’t like questions, you certainly ask a lot of them.” Another laugh, and the sound ziplines straight to my cock.

  “Well, hey, it’s just the two of us here, and the night is young. We need some way to pass the time.”

  His gaze swings to mine. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “So is there a reason why you have that much cash on you? Something you want to tell me? Bank robber, jewel thief? I’m all for creative ways of living as long as laws aren’t being broken.”

  He slides a hundred dollar bill from the fold and shoves the wallet back in his pocket. “One more shot,” he calls out to Tad who eyes the money and happily obliges. Once Tad places the shots in front of us, Cain aims his killer eyes at me. “I don’t need to rob banks. I’m rich.”

  “You’re rich.”

  His lips curl up into a devilish smile and my wicked thoughts return. “I am.”

  “But you were going to sleep on a bench,” I utter, and he nods. “By choice,” I add, and he nods again. What the fuck is his deal? “Okay, I’ll bite. How did you get so rich?”

  He rubs at his chin, staring absentmindedly at the small shot glass. “I’d like to say it was by my own hand, but unfortunately, I can’t. You know Hartwell department stores?”

  “Of course, who doesn’t?”

  “My grandparents started those stores.”

  I nearly fall off my stool. “Holy shit. You’re Cain Hartwell?”

  He looks over, the edge of his lip rising with his smile. “The one and only.”

  “Well. Fuck. Me.” His head tilts on an assumed expression that has me wanting him to do just that. “Jesus. Cain fucking Hartwell. How the heck have you managed to keep your face out of the press?”

  “When you have three brothers who are rebels, there’s enough material without ever getting to me.” I can almost feel him loosening up now, the air shifting between us. But then I have to go open my big mouth.

  “Wait, didn’t I hear you were supposed to be getting married on New Year’s?”

  “I was supposed to do a lot of things,” he grits out, and I can tell I pissed him off. Damn it. I’m not sure what to say after that, as a heavy silence thickens the air until he finally breaks it.

  “She wasn’t the one for me, you know?” He slurs a little. “I tried. I really did. But I just didn’t love her, and I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love. She wasn’t my type.”

  “What is?”

  “What is what?” he asks, about to throw back yet another shot. It seems I’m not the only one drowning my sorrows tonight.

  “What’s your type?”

  With the shot glass halfway to his lips, he spares me a glance. But then he places it back down without drinking it. “Not her.”

  His curt response forces me to change the subject. I’m not interested in delving where I’m not wanted. This night is taking a turn for the worse, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. “So you’re independently wealthy and I repair elevators for a living.”

  His head snaps up, surprise overtaking his features. “You do?”

  “Yes, and I fucking love it. New people, new buildings. Never the same thing twice. The money’s pretty good, and shit, do I have stories.”

  He spins in his seat, giving me his full attention, and I decide I like his eyes on me—a whole fucking lot. I’d like to stare into them while I’m sucking his dick. “Oh yeah, like what?”

  “Like catching people in…” I pause to choose my words carefully. “…Compromising positions.”

  “Seriously? I thought that only happened in the movies.”

  “I can assure you that shit is real. There’s something about elevators that causes people to want to get crazy.”

  He drags a hand through his dark hair. “I prefer the stairs.”

  “Well, you’re missing out then.”

  Cain stares, hard, at my face. So much so that my skin flushes with heat. I wonder if he knows that was a subtle invitation. Jesus, the things I’d like to do to him in an elevator. Or against a wall. Or bent over a couch. Hey, I’m not picky.

  “So if you just moved here, then where were you living before?”

  “Greenwich, Connecticut. Ever heard of it?” He glances away, almost looking embarrassed. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why that would embarrass him. It’s the fucking land of rich people.

  “You’re joking, right? Who hasn’t?” I study his profile and his choice of clothing; the casual shirt, ripped jeans, and black Converse. “Shouldn’t you be wearing an Armani suit or something?”

  His glance is sharp. “Shouldn’t you not be stereotyping?” But then he shrugs off his brief annoyance. “I despise suits. Give me a pair of jeans and a Henley any day.”

  “You certainly wear them well.” I didn’t mean for that to slip out. But he doesn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, I think
I see the start of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not a suit guy either. That’s the great thing about doing the elevator gig. I can wear whatever the hell I want.”

  His eyes drift slowly in my direction as he conducts a leisurely inventory of my tan work boots, faded jeans, and white, long-sleeved shirt. I lean an elbow against the bar, opening myself up for his inspection. He arches a brow. “You live close by?”

  Is he propositioning me? Oh, please, please tell me he is. “Right around the corner, in fact. Walking distance,” I emphasize. The tequila is starting to loosen my lips. Foolish, I know, since we haven’t determined if he likes to give head. “And honestly, the idea of you sleeping on a bench on Christmas Eve, or any other time,” I stress, “doesn’t sit well with me. So if you need a place to stay…”

  His expression morphs into a sardonic smile. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

  “I guess you’ll just have to take your chances,” I retort, and he lifts his shot glass in the air.

  “To taking chances.”

  Hell yes. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  The shot glass hits the bar with a clunk and he stands, looking around. “Bathroom?”

  I point a finger behind the bar. “Straight back, then down the hall to the right.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  My brain works overtime after he walks away, a war waging inside my head—and behind my zipper. Fuck it. I let out an anxious breath before I push off the stool and stride toward the back entrance. With each step, my desire for him mounts until it feels like a fucking tidal wave, and I can’t control it. Nor do I want to.

  The hallway is dark and dingy as I stand in the shadows outside the bathroom and wait for him to emerge. Okay, maybe this is a little serial killerish—but fuck if I care. My skin starts to sweat, and I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or my nerves. Part of me is saying to go back out there, forget what’s driving me. But I can’t. Because I want this guy. Although I hope like hell I’m not mistaking those subtle, hungry glances he threw my way. Because this could end up embarrassing the fuck out of me. At this point, though, I’ve got nothing to lose. Because you can’t stand the thought of being alone, that nagging voice says inside my head. I wish it would go the fuck away.