Twisted Christmas

by Sara Cate

  Pulling out a chair, I take a seat at the island, watching him intently. I do most of the cooking in our household, because I love it. Cooking is my favorite thing, baking in particular, and I love trying out new recipes on my guardian. I get no protest whatsoever from James, since he loves to eat, same as me. We have powerful appetites between the two of us.

  But if it were left up to James, we’d eat bacon and eggs for every meal, because it’s pretty much all he can cook. Maybe that’s part of the reason I learned so young. I wanted to make sure he got a proper meal. And myself, too… But I guess I just enjoy doting on him.

  My jaw tenses, reminding myself for the millionth time that it’s strictly familial. Nothing more.

  The room is devoid of conversation. The only sounds are those of the food cooking and James cleaning up as he goes. When he’s done, he brings over two plates, setting one down in front of me, then taking a seat himself across the island with his own, immediately digging in.

  We eat in silence, as usual. James isn’t a big talker. He never has been. If I want his words, I need to drag them out of him. Kind of like last night, though I have no desire to bring up the relationship topic again.

  James finishes his food first and stays seated at the table until I’m done. We’re not a typical family in any real way, but we do have our traditions. Like eating together, for one. James has insisted, since I was a child, that we always sit down for our meals together, when we’re both here. Regardless of whether we do it in silence, apparently having this family time is important.

  Speaking of traditions… “So we’re watching A Christmas Story tonight, right?” I ask him, glancing up while nibbling my last bite of bacon.

  His lips quirk in a casually placating way. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  My stomach does a weird hop thing I ignore as I stand up and bring our plates to the sink. I also tend to do most of the cleaning and housework, just because James works hard, and I like for him to come home to a clean house.

  And yes, I realize the more I reveal with this inner monologue, the more I sound like a housewife. I swear to God, I’m not trying to be this way. It’s just what I do.

  As much as I say James is a loner, I’m sort of the same. I have a few friends I hang out with on weekends, or occasionally after school. But I’ve never even needed a curfew because I just… love coming home.

  I like spending time here, alone… or with him. I probably sound like the ultimate hermit too, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I’ve spent my teen years going to school and getting good grades. I’ve taken a few culinary classes, and I think if I were to go to college, it would definitely be for baking. But I’m eighteen and I haven’t even applied to school. At the very least, I’m taking a year. Just to figure myself out, I guess.

  To see if I’m even capable of cutting the cord and leaving James. Honestly, I fucking hate the idea.

  The thing about my adoptive father is that he doesn’t push. I’d like to think he does so because he wants me around, too. But the more likely reason is that he’s not that kind of dad. He’s told me before that he raised me the way he thought my parents would have.

  It makes me happy and wrenches my gut at the same time.

  Busying myself with the dishes, I ignore how hyperaware I always seem to be of his presence in the room. It’s like I can feel him when he’s close, and I miss the feeling when he’s not. I’m a fucking whacko. I need to get a grip.

  Prime example being how when his thumping footsteps move in closer to where I’m standing, my back goes rigid.

  “Going outside to gather more firewood,” he says, his brogue assaulting my back, so startling in its nearing vibrations, I actually flinch. He places his coffee mug in the sink, arm brushing mine as he does. I have goosebumps. I can fucking see them. “It’s supposed to start snowing more in a couple hours.”

  “Mhm, okay.” My voice sounds annoyingly breathy as I scrub the same spot on the pan I’ve been doing for minutes now.

  James is still standing right the fuck next to me, and I can feel him staring at the side of my face. I’d love to turn and see what he wants, but I just know I don’t possess the means to do so normally. If I look at him right now, I fear he’ll be able to see all the sickening perversions living in my brain.

  So I just keep washing as he finally slinks past me toward the back door, his scent lingering in the air even after he’s gone.

  It’s mouthwatering. Masculine and heady, like hemp and citrus and fire. I’ve been smelling it my whole life, and now it’s my favorite smell.

  Ugh. Someone call the shrink.

  That’s probably the other reason I stopped going to therapy. I was always terrified that I’d accidentally blurt out something alluding to my hidden ravenous crush on my guardian. And I can’t have that. No one can know.

  It’s my dirty, shameful secret.

  As I finish up the dishes, my gaze lifts to the window above the sink. James is outside, carrying wood from the shed and piling it up on the back deck. I can’t see the deck from right here, but I already know that’s what he’s doing. From here, I can only see him when he trudges through the snow to the shed in his big work boots, deep chocolate brown suede coat, gloves on his hands, and a hat I bought him for Christmas last year resting atop his mane of dark, shaggy hair.

  I bite my lip, hands washing on auto-pilot while I’m swept up in yet another trance watching him. The hair on his angled jaw and down his throat is growing out. I love it. He’s fuckhot in many ways, but none more than with a few days of stubble turning into a barely-beard. It looks rough and rugged…

  Imagine how it must feel on bare skin…

  Blinking hard, I shake myself out of it as best I can. But it doesn’t quite work, and I’m still staring at him. Hauling a pile of wood in his arms like a sexy Paul Bunyan, muscles surely constricting beneath all his layers of clothes. It’s freezing outside, but he might be sweating a little from the exertion…

  The cut up lines in his chest and abs dewy and glistening.

  I swallow down a soft moan that wants to erupt from my throat as my cock swells in my jeans.

  And then a sharp slice of pain tugs me back to reality when I realize I just cut myself on a knife in the sink.

  “Fucking bitch…” I grumble, at myself maybe more than to myself. Because I’m sitting here ogling my goddamn father, and not paying attention to what I’m doing.

  It’s not that deep a cut, but still, droplets of blood fall into the soapy water in the sink. Bringing my finger to my mouth, I suck it for a second while grabbing a paper towel to wrap around my wound of stupidity.

  “You’re a moron,” I whisper, shaking my head while applying pressure to the cut.

  I shut the water off in the sink just as the back door flings open, the large form stomping in, bringing the cold air with him for only a brief second before he slams the door.

  He takes one look at me and his brow furrows. “What happened?”

  “Um, nothing,” I stutter, head shimmying back and forth. He cocks his head and lifts an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me. It’s his trademark look. “Just a little cut,” I sigh. “No big deal.”

  James drops the wood in his arms over by the wood stove, then stalks up to me while sliding off his gloves, not waiting for me to consent before he grabs my hand. He removes the paper towel to check out the cut.

  “It’s not too deep.” His gray eyes lift to mine. “Does it hurt?”

  I have no voice. I wouldn’t even know what words to use if I could produce some, because he’s standing so damn close to me, holding my hand. His are freezing, but I think the chills I’m getting aren’t necessarily from that.

  God, if I thought his scent was powerful before, now, it’s getting me high. As are the tingles charging through his skin directly into mine.

  My head shakes, subtly. Stupidly, like a deer in headlights who’s trying to answer a question for some reason before he gets run the fuck over by a big sexy
Mack truck.

  James eyes me for a moment, obviously not picking up on any of the tension that’s completely one-sided. It’s good that he can’t tell I’m fumbling and my dick is two seconds from becoming visible in my pants. But it also makes me feel like even more of a sick, perverted loser, lusting after someone who so clearly would never even consider the majorly fucked up shit that goes through my mind on almost a minute-ly basis.

  “Keep the pressure on it,” he says firmly, giving me my hand back as he stomps across the room.

  I already know he’s going for the First-Aid kit, which is what I should be doing on my own. I’m eighteen goddamn years old. I’m not four. I don’t need him to kiss my boo-boos.

  But then… That might make it better.

  Ew, shut up, you fool.

  James comes back with a Band-Aid and some antiseptic ointment. He dresses my cut, and when he’s done, he actually gives me a rare, pleased smile.

  My heart is jumping like a complete psycho in my chest.

  Until he rasps, “Good as new,” and taps me on the chin with his knuckles, before stalking away, back to his wood.

  Jesus…

  Absentmindedly, I run my thumb over the Band-Aid on my index finger. You’re his kid. His fucking son.

  Cleanse the creepy, Jess.

  Chapter 5

  James

  * * *

  Snow is falling outside. Again.

  It’s been coming down for hours. I’ve already shoveled the driveway once, but at this point, I figure it’s Christmas Eve.

  Time to relax.

  Jesse and I just finished dinner. He made lamb chops with roasted potatoes, squash, and salad. It was fucking amazing.

  The kid can cook. Seriously, it’s like a God-given talent he also happens to work really hard at. I know it’s his favorite hobby, and also something he’d like to make into a career one day. And I just want to be supportive of that, because it’s a smart, achievable goal.

  When Jesse told me he wanted to take a year off after graduation to figure out his next steps, I was on board. I know some parents might look at college as the only direction after high school, but I respectfully disagree. I never went to college, though I did take an online business course, which was tremendously helpful. But I just don’t think everyone needs to go into staggering debt for a piece of paper you hang on your wall.

  In some professions, sure. It’s necessary. But Jesse could easily work his way up in restaurants and then maybe open his own someday without a college degree.

  Regardless of all that, though, I just want to support him. In whatever he chooses to do with his life. And if that choice happens to keep him at home for at least a little while longer, well then… great.

  Because not that I ever admit it out loud to anyone, I don’t want to think about what my life would look like without the kid here.

  I’m not sure I even know who I am without Jesse…

  A business owner, yes. A friend? Maybe, to a couple of guys who still put up with me. Other than that, though, I’m a father to an eighteen-year-old, and that’s a huge part of my personality. If Jesse leaves, he takes a significant chunk of me with him.

  The thought is all too real, so I stuff it away and grab a couple glasses. It’s eight at night, and our tradition is about to start.

  Every Christmas Eve, we light up the fireplace and drink eggnog while watching A Christmas Story. We’ve been doing it since Jesse was old enough to hold a cup. It’s not a lively or exciting event, but it’s ours and I enjoy it.

  If I had gone with Leslie, I would’ve missed out on our tradition for the first time in ever…

  No, that’s unacceptable. It never would have worked.

  Although we were together for two years, Leslie never spent Christmas with me. And I can’t for the life of me picture her here now, snuggling up on the couch next to us with a cup of eggnog. She doesn’t even consume dairy.

  I roll my eyes while pouring eggnog into each glass. Truthfully, I can’t picture anyone else on that couch. Except maybe Trent and Himla. But even so, the memories I have of them are so distorted now, that picture doesn’t quite fit either.

  It’s just Jesse and me. The two of us against the world.

  Reaching up into the cupboard, I grab the bottle of brandy, pouring some into my eggnog. Then I pause, taking only a couple of seconds to consider it before I add some to Jesse’s glass, too.

  He’s eighteen, after all. I’m sure he’s drank before. Hell, I gave him a beer once or twice.

  It’s Christmas Eve and this can be a new addition to our tradition, now that he’s a man.

  The thought warms my gut as I bring our drinks into the living room. Jesse is already nestled up on his side of the couch, feet buried in his Christmas Rick And Morty socks this time, resting on the couch cushion. The kid always takes up the entire couch, which isn’t very big as it is.

  Waltzing over, I plop down, sitting on his toes.

  “Rude,” he huffs, pulling his feet back, though there’s a visible grin sneaking out with the word.

  Handing him a glass, he takes it, holding it up for a toast.

  “Merry Christmas Eve, kid,” I tell him, clinking on his glass.

  We both sip at the same time, my eyes going to the movie, which has just started. But the sound of Jesse gurgling brings my gaze back to him.

  “What the hell is in this?” His face scrunches.

  It reminds me of when he was little and he tried liver for the first time. Let’s just say that’s one protein that has stayed far off the menu since.

  “Little brandy in the nog never hurt anyone.” I smirk at him. “It’ll put some hair on your chest.”

  “I don’t need hair on my chest,” he grumbles. “I have it everywhere else.”

  A laugh bubbles from my throat. “Congratulations.”

  He continues smothering a smile, taking another sip from the glass. “This is actually really good.” His cheeks are growing pink already. “Strong.”

  Grinning, I turn back to the movie, resting my head on the back of the couch. “Take it slow, killa. I don’t want you getting sick.”

  “I’m sure I can handle a little brandy,” he mumbles, and when my eyes flit to him once more, half the glass is gone.

  Narrowing my gaze, it’s occurring to me that Jesse is usually the forthcoming one of the two of us. He’s the one who tells me what’s going on with him, and he’s also the one who drags information out of me. I’m a closed book, but Jesse isn’t like that. He enjoys sharing, and now I feel like kind of an asshole for never asking him stuff.

  It also makes me wonder about the things he hasn’t been as open about…

  “You know, if you drink at parties, you can tell me.” I go for casual with my tone, focusing on the TV screen while I watch him in my peripheral. “I wouldn’t be mad. I mean, how could I? I did the same thing at your age.”

  A year before I became a father, and grew up eye-blink fast.

  “I’ve had a few drinks before.” He shrugs, innocently enough, and I know he’s not lying. Jesse’s a terrible liar, so he rarely does it. At least, not to me. “Usually just beer. Maybe a shot or two. But I’m not one of those kids who likes to get shitfaced at parties and embarrass myself.”

  I nod along. It makes sense. I was the same way when I was young. Latent insecurities make it hard enough to socialize, especially when you’re worried the whole time that people are mocking you behind your back. I’d rather keep a clear head. And I realize that sounds strange coming from someone who grows marijuana for a living. But I really just like the plants. I rarely smoke it myself.

  Growing things has always been a passion of mine.

  “I get that,” I tell him. “You want to stay cognizant.” My mind begins to drift… “Like if you’re on a date or something…”

  His eyes fling to mine, rounding as they do. The shine in the gold of his irises tells me he might be getting a little buzz already.

  “Guys at parties can’t
be trusted,” I add.

  “I’m not… I don’t…” His voice stammers and he clears his throat. “I don’t date guys at parties.”

  “Do you date at all?” I ask, suddenly curious, because we’ve literally never talked about him dating before. He’s never brought anyone home, or told me anything about his love life.

  The flush in his face is much more prominent now. “Um… not… much?” He says it like he’s asking me, which curves my lips.

  “You’re still interested in guys though, right?” I keep pushing, mainly because now his awkwardness is entertaining to me. “Or have you added girls to the mix?”

  He shifts in his seat while I try to contain my evil chuckles. “No. I only like men.” His brows zip together as he stutters, “Boys… Guys.” He lifts the glass to his mouth and chugs the rest of his drink.

  Pressing my lips together, I force myself not to react. He’s dying right now, and it’s pretty adorable.

  “Okay, just double-checking,” I sigh through a grin. “You don’t talk to me about this stuff, so…”

  “You don’t talk to me about your relationships,” he bites back, finger tapping on his empty glass.

  I sip my own slowly. “Well, aside from Leslie it’s not a very thrilling story. Not that she was exciting either.”

  “Why were you with her, then?” He mumbles his question, and when my eyes dart to his, they widen in remorse. “I’m sorry…”

  “No, it’s a valid question.” I blink, pausing for a moment while considering my words. “I guess I was just… waiting to see.”

  “To see what?” His voice is quietly curious. As if he’s intrigued.

  My shoulders slump. “If I could end up loving her.”

  We’re both quiet this time, for at least a full minute, before he asks, “But you didn’t?”

  I shake my head, solemnly, though I’m not exactly upset about this fact. I think it just means I might never fall in love… with anyone.

  I finish my drink while we watch the movie in silence, the only sounds in the room from the TV and the crackling fire.