Merry Random Christmas

by Julia Kent

  Being loved on the outside, from the sweet gestures of respect and thoughtfulness like a hot cup of coffee brought to you in bed to the sensual lovemaking that stretches across a forbidden weekend that shuts out the world, solidifies the words. Trevor and Joe could have said all the right things on this insane night and I’d have felt better.

  That they said all the right things and offered up all the right skin, the right touch and look and feel and ah—that made the love complete. Whole.

  Integrated.

  Soapy fingers lathered up my hair as I turned my face to the shower, letting the water wash over me like a ritual bath. Coconut and lime filled the steamy space and two hands caressed my scalp while two more lingered across my torso, my upper thighs, my breasts and back and ass and all the parts of me that needed attention.

  That needed tending.

  By the time we ran out of hot water we were clean and drained, so tired our eyelids drooped as we toweled off, too exhausted to dress, too depleted to care. And yet, we knew what came next.

  Us.

  I climbed into bed and the guys flanked me, one on each side. The ceremonial feel to this moment made me smile. We knew each other so well. Two and a half years of being together, through thick and thin, and this was my life now.

  This.

  Not Ohio. Not Mama. Not Peters and not anything else. I lived in Boston with my guys and managed their band, worked for my aunt Josie, and I loved these men with a timeless ache that just grew stronger every day.

  I would never, ever have enough of them. You would think that being so young, we’d stray. My eyes certainly had at times, but there just wasn’t anyone who held the promise of something better. Even curiosity wasn’t enough. I have friends who think the grass is always greener on the other side of the Brazilian landing strip. They’re wrong.

  Trevor’s taste was on my tongue as he kissed me, a slow, languid kiss that assumed we had all night. A clean, naked body and warm flannel sheets combined with the nude bodies of Trevor and Joe was the only hallelujah I needed on Christmas.

  “I love you. I’m so sorry. What a night.” Joe’s words were a healing balm, an assurance that confirmed my own sense that the world had turned into a whirling dervish. Sometimes I felt like an entire ecosystem inside my skin, like a self-contained biosphere. From the outside, it was neat and orderly, systems functioning as expected and carrying on with a mind of its own.

  Scratch the surface, and chaos reigned.

  The warm wall of Trevor sank into my side, his knees nudging against my calves, his hip hard against my yielding curves, the swoosh of sheets and skin and heat as I rotated to seek out his mouth like a soundtrack for this sacred moment.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered, saying it once but meaning it twice.

  I let them tend to me, their need to comfort and arouse as great as my need to receive and be aroused.

  “I might cry, you know,” I added softly. “Just so you know.”

  Joe kissed my neck, the press of his lips so perfect it felt like fate. “That’s okay. Feel what you feel. We’re here.”

  “Just don’t take it personally. It’s not a commentary on the sex.”

  Trevor chuckled, the rumble reverberating into my breasts and belly as I faced him. “There is nothing, not one damn thing, you could do to upset me in bed.”

  I laughed, the feeling genuine and robust, making me feel more secure. “I could fall off a Sybian and send poor Joe crashing through a window.”

  Joe grunted, his hand on my inner thigh halting. “Please don’t.” He flexed one wrist, the tiny bones snapping like cracked knuckles. “It was bad enough having Alex come and see my naked ass with gerbil claws in it, but do you know how hard it is to go six weeks with both forearms in a cast? Try jacking off like that.”

  The three of us descended into a muted, whispered kind of amusement that was cut short by the breathtaking pulse of desire. I was meant to be here. So were they. The ravages of the night, from handing out Mama’s sleeping bag winnings to my jail time to Joe’s confrontation with his mama—and so much more—all felt like we’d loaded it on a boat and it drifted out to sea, still tethered to us by a long line of rope, but distant enough for us to look at it from different angles.

  And see it more clearly.

  Joe’s nose traced a line from my collarbone, his lips dragging up my neck to my ear, warm mouth suckling gently as he took in my nipple, teasing between tongue and teeth, the sensation rolling through me with an undulating pleasure that made me sigh, as if exhaling all my troubles. Fireworks and supernovas were fabulous for sex most of the time, but sometimes I wanted this, even though I didn’t realize it until right now.

  This moment.

  This release.

  Slow, explorative fingers made their way to my folds, widening me for strokes that lit my clit with a smoldering heat, turning me into a wet pool, ready to receive. Four hands meant my arousal came faster than for most, the rhythm of their movements never choreographed and yet somehow, Joe and Trevor always knew how best to get me where I needed to be.

  The kiss from Trevor was so achingly fulfilling, his hands busy giving my body connection, all three of us needing nothing more than the slow build to nirvana. Joe kissed a crooked line down, spreading my legs, his mouth sending electric tingles through me that made the looping worries that plagued my thoughts disappear. I became his touch. I became his tongue. The climb to complete oblivion was a tall, steep one, but we took it step by step, breath by breath, and as waves of climax rippled through me I found them tamer. Muted. Glorious in their never-ending swell, one after the other, each so pleasurable I begged for more, never wanting this to end.

  Orgasms during sex were normally the peak. The goal. The final destination and the finish line. The trophy, the ribbon, the coup de grace. And then you’re done.

  This was so different. Rolling through me like blood filled with love, each release was pure in its essence, the sound of Trevor’s mouth against my ear, the nudge of his cock against my lips, the feel of Joe’s mouth giving me these delicious waves was like no other lovemaking we’d ever experienced. I could tell they felt it, too, a kind of reverence for what we were creating with our bodies, hearts, and breath filling the room with something so special I could never name it.

  Taking Trevor into my mouth, I took as I gave, wanting to share what made me feel so much, my mouth eager to lick and tease, to lave and envelop, the hiss of his breath and the rigid pleasure of his limbs going tense, then flooding with release tasting like sugar in my mouth. The tangy rush of his climax felt like a gift. I gave him that.

  And he gave right back.

  Joe prowled, his abs brushing against mine, chest dragging as he kissed his way back up to treat me to a taste of myself, entering me with a push that made me groan with a sound that said, It’s about time. Trevor stretched out next to us, his body so warm and solid, his hands stroking every part of me Joe wasn’t touching, and as Joe began to go deep, hips pushing down, arms on either side of me, muscles flexed with concentration and that divine moment where all you are is one, combined pulse, I knew my place in the universe.

  Right here.

  Right now.

  I tightened against him, his skin soft and hard, the muscles underneath stretching his tanned, smooth expanse that felt so sweet on top of me. My thighs pressed against his hips, urging him closer, and then his breath quickened, his body and mine entering a vortex where we just went to an inner self that had no end.

  Every day we found more of each other’s inner lives, and as Joe’s hoarse cry of my name blended with my own moans, Trevor holding me as I shook, I let go of my worries about jail, about being charged with a crime, about not being with Mama and not being invited on Joe’s family ski trip, and just let myself fall into them both.

  Because I knew they would catch me.

  And they did.

  Chapter Eight

  Trevor

  “What the fuck? TREVOR! Why is there a god-damne
d chicken in my bed?” Darla screamed.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Oops.

  I set down my coffee and walked slowly down the hall, into the bedroom, to find her in the corner of the bedroom, the sheet clutched around her, as the chicken pecked at Darla’s pillow.

  “That’s Popsicle.”

  “That don’t answer my question!”

  “She’s visiting.”

  “For what? High tea? A Scentsy party?”

  The chicken hopped off the bed and strutted out the door, leash dragging behind it.

  “If that’s Popsicle, then how the hell did she get here?” Darla asked.

  “Hello!” A hand popped into the room, waving. “Nice to see you, Darla.” Tortilla entered, eyes bugging out when he saw Darla’s bare shoulders and wardrobe choice. “Sorry Popsicle woke you up.” He just stared at her, openly gawking, taking in her luscious, just-woken state.

  Protectiveness rushed into my veins.

  “Who are you? Trevor, who the fuck is this?” Darla demanded, tightening the sheet.

  I looked at Tortilla. He’d showered, shaved, and was wearing an old pair of Joe’s jeans and a long-sleeved Random Acts of Crazy hoodie. I’d been right; he was a blonde.

  His face was wolfish, and I was starting to doubt what I’d done.

  “Get your eyes back in your head and get out of here, Tortilla. Quit looking at Darla like she’s something out of a peep show.”

  “If she drops that sheet, she’ll be the best peep show ever.”

  I grabbed his arm, my other hand on his shoulder, and goose-marched him out the door. “OUT!” I growled in his ear.

  He immediately turned into a noodle in my arms.

  “Sorry, Trevor! I’m super sorry, man. I don’t know how to act with nice people any more. Geez.”

  “I’m gettin’ dressed and then you have some explaining to do!” Darla shouted from the bedroom.

  SLAM!

  Tortilla and I made it to the kitchen, where I released him with a slight shove, then got in his face. “You stop talking to her like that.”

  He held up his palms. “Message received, man.”

  “I took a chance on you, Tortilla.” I frowned. “That’s not your real name, is it?”

  “No.” He clamped his mouth shut and wouldn’t make eye contact.

  A slow burn of regret began to simmer in me. Maybe I had made a serious mistake. What if he was a felon? A violent, crazy man who wasn’t just down on his luck with an over-attachment to a pet chicken holding him back from a warm place to sleep?

  Joe had run to a convenience store to get eggs and bacon so we could cook a decent Christmas morning breakfast. We hadn’t planned on a guest.

  That was my fault.

  “TREVOR!” Darla screamed. “I need to ask you a question!”

  Hah. That was code for, I need to chew you a new asshole, you idiot.

  Tortilla’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re toast, man.”

  I looked at him with a glare. “Name?”

  A mix of emotions I couldn’t decipher flashed in his eyes, but he finally said, “Paul.”

  I reached for his hand and shook it. His grip tightened as seconds passed. “Okay, Paul. You stop with the sexual innuendos and Darla. Go drink some coffee and eat more of the apples on the table. Joe’ll be back soon and we’ll have a better breakfast. All we have in the fridge is old takeout and some beer.”

  His face reddened. “Old takeout?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old?”

  “Why?”

  “’cause I ate it already.”

  I grimaced. “That was at least a week old.”

  His face relaxed. “A week? In a fridge? That’s more gourmet than anything I normally eat.” He patted his stomach. “I’ll be fine. Good pad Thai. Thanks.”

  “TREVOR!”

  Apparently, the weirdness hadn’t ended last night.

  I walked into the bedroom to find a fully-dressed Darla furiously tackling her tangled mess of blonde curls, the wide-toothed comb no match for her anger.

  “Explain.” She tapped the bed next to her. I sat down.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night.” I reached for her hand. She let me hold it. “I kept thinking about Tortilla...er, Paul.”

  “That’s his real name?” Her voice went hushed.

  “Yes. And it was cold last night. When we were in Cambridge and talking to him, I kept thinking about how he looked so much like me underneath the street grime. And your story about December 27—”

  She jolted, almost said something, then just closed her eyes and nodded.

  “—it made me think about how much I have. How much I’ve always had.” I gave her a look that said, Please understand. “I know I should have checked with you and Joe before doing this, but it was spur of the moment. An impulse.” I shrugged, completely unable to convey the overpowering emotions I’d felt last night, post-sex, staring up at the ceiling while Joe had snored lightly, Darla’s leg cushioning mine, her body sticky and sweet and such a luxury.

  My entire life was a luxury compared to most of the world.

  “You invited a chicken into our bed because of upper-class suburban white boy guilt.”

  Darla always found the swiftest way to get to the point.

  “Something like that. I found Paul sleeping in a Dumpster, explained he could come here and shower, shave, sleep on the couch, and that maybe he could go with us to a nice farm where Popsicle could stay for that week we were talking about.”

  Darla gawked at me. “You talk to Joe about that?”

  “Not yet.’

  She snorted, then glanced sharply at me. “He’s going to kill you.”

  “No. But his mom might.”

  “Naw. She’ll keep you alive so she can verbally torture you about this for the rest of your life.”

  “Right.”

  The bedroom door flew open, and Paul stood there, holding Popsicle in his arms, face radiant.

  “You guys have a Wii U! Can I play?” He looked like a ten-year-old boy on Christmas morning.

  Darla and I exchanged a smile.

  “Sure. I’ll show you how to use it.” I stood and walked over to him.

  A sloppy hug with a chicken wiggling between us came next.

  “Thanks,” he whispered in my ear, his breath a sour rot that made me recoil. “And by the way—you’re out of beer now.”

  Joe

  Convenience stores on Christmas Day are a sad, sad place. I grabbed eggs, bacon, and a box of cider donuts and got in line.

  Customer #1 bought a giant tube of lube, a twelve-pack of condoms, a box of super-absorbent tampons and a spatula.

  Customer #2 bought one hundred scratch lottery tickets and three packs of Marlboro light 100 menthols in a box.

  Customer #3 bought a tube of hemorrhoid cream and one of those giant plastic candy canes filled with chocolate candy.

  I was customer #4.

  “Happy holidays,” the clerk said to customer #3 as he grabbed his bag of purchases.

  “Don’t you mean Merry Christmas? Christ is the reason for the season!” Mr. Preparation Candy Cane growled. “You atheists are ruining this country!”

  As he stormed out, the clerk screwed up her mouth and glared at him. I knew she wanted to flip him the bird, but I guessed that if you’re working at a convenience store on Christmas Day, you probably don’t have a lot of career options. Getting caught on camera giving a customer the middle finger was grounds for termination.

  As she rang up my items, a giant dose of reality flowed through me as if injected into my bloodstream.

  That clerk was basically Darla.

  Three years ago, Darla worked at a gas station convenience store. That was her career. That was her life in Ohio.

  Unreality permeated my pores as I watched the clerk’s hands, the nails ragged from being chewed, put my eggs, bacon and donuts in a white plastic bag. She looked up and made eye contact, a rarity in a convenience st
ore.

  “The donuts are on sale. If you buy another box, you get half off. You want another one?”

  I just stared. Brown hair pulled back in a messy pony tail. Bags under her eyes. No make up. She wore a blue vest, part of a uniform, and her mouth was small. Tight. No upper lip, and dark, thick eyebrows that were perfectly sculpted.

  She was about my age and wore a crooked name tag that read “Carrie L.”

  “Hello? Sir?” The word “sir” was laughable, so incongruous that it shook me out of my stupor.

  “Yeah? Oh. Sure. Another box of donuts.” I took three steps, grabbed the first one on top, and tossed it on the counter.

  She rang up. “That’ll be $13.29.”

  I gave her a twenty and grabbed the bag, headed out the door.

  “Your change!”

  “Consider it a tip.”

  “But I can’t have tips!”

  “You can now.”

  “Thank y—”

  My legs pumped fast, getting me the hell away from that store as quickly as possible. I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find Trevor sitting at the kitchen table and that bum, Tortilla, sound asleep on our couch, his chicken curled up in his arms.

  Trevor had a bleeding heart, apparently. Darla rubbed off on him.

  Darla rubbed off on both of us, clearly, and not just during sex. Ants crawled all over my body, my jaw clicking as I stretched it, my body tense and tight, as if bracing myself from truths that would attack in formation.

  There is only so much craziness a person can take in any given time frame.

  And I’d had my fill.

  As I approached the apartment door, I heard loud voices, then the very clear sound of my bass, hooked up to an electric amp, being strummed.

  Opening the door, I was greeted by the sight of Tortilla, now shaved, bathed, and in Trevor’s old clothes, fucking around with my instrument.

  Wait. Were those my jeans he was wearing? Damn it.