Sold at the Ski Resort

by Juliana Conners

  Jordan’s handed his rum and Coke by the bartender as I lean toward my brother and get his attention. I have it. But just barely. Paul looks about ready to clock out, and we just got here.

  Indeed, my brother just waved down the bartender and ordered another shot.

  “With all the pretty women swarming this place, I’m sure you have a good guess as to why I brought you here, right?” I ask.

  Paul looks unimpressed. Unintrigued by my question to him, as if I’m the most obvious and unoriginal person who’s ever walked the earth. He practically rolls his eyes at me. He spits something into his shot glass. Maybe a bit of lime left over from his shot, as he peruses a gaggle of girls. All in snow bunny fluff.

  “To get laid?” he replies in a bored tone.

  The attitude laced through those three words is so thick it takes every muscle in me not to punch him in the face.

  Not just to get laid, I think, reminding myself that he doesn’t know half of what I do, and that if he did, he wouldn’t be such a dick, to give you something Darla couldn’t give you even if she made a deal with the devil. It’s not this measly trip to the bar. This is just the beginning, brother of mine.

  I’m just about to answer his cocky response with some variation of those thoughts, when Jordan pipes in. “You don’t need just a fuck, man,” he says from over his straw. “If that was enough, we wouldn’t need to take you here to get your mind off your ex.” A pause, as he takes a sip from the small straws feeding him equal parts rum and soda. “You need an experience.”

  “And we’re going to help you get it,” I say, sipping the foam from the top of my beer, before taking a deep drink.

  Of course, my brother remains unmoved. Again, his eyes drink in the sea of beautiful women as if it’s a desert where sex appeal goes to die. Where he would rather die than be for another moment. He shakes his head resolutely.

  “Nah,” he says. “None of these girls are gonna do it for me.” The bartender produces a second shot for Paul and he knocks it back. “I’m 38. I don’t need or want another precious princess.” He grimaces with the burn of alcohol. Savoring and hating it, much like Darla, his ex. “Someone on her high horse who’s going to demand my worship.”

  Paul’s eyes settle on some woman on the other end of the bar. I go to look at what has caught his attention but can’t see anything of note. Nothing but a pink Martini.

  “What I need is a girl who’s submissive, yet feisty,” he continues, ordering a third shot. “And I don’t think there’s any girl here that fits that bill.”

  Part of me wants to break his nose for his unceasing pessimism, but I decide on patting his shoulder instead. Much more conducive to the “brotherly love” I’m trying to show him by bringing him on this trip. By making this about much more than just some time on the slopes, in or out of bed.

  “You let us worry about that, bro,” I say. I actually try for a smile. Some energy in my words to him. After all, he didn’t ask to find his girl in bed with another man. And anyone would be pissed after that.

  Paul downs his third shot as quickly as the two.

  “We’ll help you find the right girl, yo.” That’s Jordan. As I look over, I see he’s halfway through his drink. “By Christmas, you’ll be jingling all the way.” He’s the only one to laugh at his joke, of course. But he doesn’t seem to care. By the glow in his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes, the Coke must be extra heavy on the rum.

  I take out my urge to punch something on Jordan’s arm.

  He says “ow,” but does too much laughing for me to take him seriously.

  “Yeah,” says Paul, getting up from his place at the bar and heading away from us, “all the way home.”

  He looks more depressed after some alcohol, not less, like he’s supposed to. I’m disappointed that so far the whole point of this trip has failed. We brought my brother here to drink away his sorrows, not drown himself in them. But luckily that’s not all we brought him here for.

  “I’ll be waiting outside the lounge. Come get me when you boys are done,” Paul adds.

  “Okay, Dad!” says Jordan, now holding an empty glass and looking very happy for it. He guffaws, even when Paul glares and storms out.

  I want to say something to him, but I can’t think of sufficient words. Paul is always like this when things don’t go his way. When he’s not in control of the situation. Since he’s my brother and I know him so well, it’s obvious there’s nothing I can do except wait for him to come around.

  Next to me, Jordan’s about to order another rum and Coke. I stop him, asking for a beer instead. Something with a little less hard liquor. I have plans for us to lounge around in the hot tub after this, so that Paul can hopefully find a girl in a bikini, and I don’t want Jordan completely smashed.

  When his beer arrives, and I’ve had a few more uninterrupted sips of my import, I say, “Honestly glad this weekend isn’t just about him, Jordan.”

  Jordan clumsily sips at his beer.

  “If it was, I’d be more upset about his piss poor attitude,” I add, picking out a number of beautiful girls from the crowd. “But I’m gonna find myself a girl, too.”

  As I watch the faces of these gorgeous woman, I amuse myself by thinking about how many of these refined creatures have an invite to the exclusive place we’re going to later. How many of these faces— and near naked bodies— I might see up on stage, waiting for me to buy them for a night of out of this world pleasure.

  Jordan burps and hiccups, completely disturbing my thoughts. “Pent-up, huh?” He leans forward. He looks like he’s somewhere between telling me a secret and falling on his ass. “That’s why I keep the snake skinned, at least once a week,” he says, not-so covertly making a jerking-off gesture above his pants. “Keeps me nice and loose.”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “I don’t want to think about anything on you being loose,” I say. “And the kind of frustrations I need to release can’t be done by hand.”

  I let my thoughts wander to what I would do if I could enjoy some leather play. I’d put clamps on the woman’s breasts, thighs and pussy lips before making her wear a horse mask and bridal. I’d then proceed to make her prance around for me, before impaling herself on my cock and riding me reverse cowboy style. “Get me a little leather, a riding crop, and a woman with impeccable manners, and my tensions are a thing of the past.”

  It takes a few seconds, but Jordan finally gets the idea. “Good thing we’re not just relying on your charm,” he says, standing up. The gesture isn’t as graceful as I know he thinks it is. “Half of these babes aren’t going to be into that kind of thing, unless you pay them.”

  I finish my beer and leave a lot of cash on the bar for the bartender. “Yes,” I hiss, grabbing Jordan and walking him out with me, “Which is why I plan to. And you need to shut up about that right now. If anyone starts getting too curious, consider our invitations gone.”

  Paul, as promised, is waiting for us when we exit the bar. He looks saltier than ever. And now, thanks to Jordan, I’m pissed right along with him. I know I have unique proclivities that not every woman enjoys— or thinks she enjoys. (In my opinion, that just means she hasn’t met the right man to introduce her to them— and that would be me.)

  I feel a lot better when I remind myself that I don’t mind paying for a woman who will let me have my way— any way I want— with her. In fact, I prefer it. After all, I’m filthy rich and know that money can buy me anything. Including the satisfaction of knowing that I after I tie her up and leave her pussy nice and raw, she’ll be begging me for more, but I won’t feel bad not giving it, because it was merely a financial arrangement.

  I learned a long time ago that relationship are messy so I prefer the simplicity of an agreement such as that. It works for me, and, from the satisfied coos of every girl I’ve ever bought, as she’s calling out my name repeatedly while she’s out of her mind with lust, it benefits them, as well.

  Chapter 4

  Jane

 
When my phone first starts ringing, I don’t immediately recognize what the sound is. For a dazed second, I wonder what Frank Sinatra crooning White Christmas has to do with nipple clamps and naughty school girls. But then some of my just-had-an-orgasm cloud clears, and I realize it’s my phone ringing. Not only that, but that it’s my Dad’s ringtone. Perfect timing, Dad.

  And just like that, I’m back in the real world. I jump out of bed, and almost trip and fall because I’m all wrapped up in my sheets and the comforter, but a twist of my hips saves me.

  Directly recovering from my near miss, I unwrap myself from the bedding and run into the hallway, following the sound of old blue eyes. It’s coming from my winter coat, which is still piled up in the hallway with my snow boots.

  Quickly, I pluck my coat from the floor and grab the phone from one particularly deep pocket. I slide the “answer” bar over just in time. One more ring, and the call would’ve been forwarded to voicemail.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say, out of breath.

  I suddenly feel a sense of shame, remembering what I had just been doing. Dad still thinks I’m his innocent, good little girl who doesn’t even know about sex. He doesn’t even think I wear dresses like this. What would he think if he were here?

  I blush, knowing exactly what he would think. He would be shocked that his “little princess” would wear something so revealing. Sometimes I don’t quite know what gets into me.

  “Hello, Princess,” he says. “Sorry for calling so late.”

  He sounds relaxed. Tired. Maybe even a little sad? Or is he a little buzzed?

  “It’s not late at all, Dad,” I say, glancing at the clock on my phone as I head to the kitchen. No more hot chocolate, but some milk and cookies would make a great snack right about now. I’m a curvy girl, and proud of it. Someone’s gotta feed and nurture these hips. “It’s never too late to talk to you, you know that.”

  He doesn’t say anything, so I keep talking.

  “What’s up?” Briefly, I let my attention wander to the ski trip we we’re taking tomorrow. His little Christmas present for me, to make up for missing my birthday last month. “What time are you picking me up to go to Aspen tomorrow, Dad?”

  As I’m talking, I’m open the fridge and grab the milk. I then open the cupboards for my favorite milk glass and favorite Christmas cookie plate. The one we always used to use for Santa. I figure that since I have to live life knowing there is no Santa, my consolation prize would be getting to eat cookies off his plate.

  Dad sighs, and that sigh is enough to have me pausing in my reach for my favorite bag of imported Danish cookies.

  “Are you opening cupboards? I hope you’re making healthy choices when it comes to snacks, honey.”

  “Dad,” I groan, not wanting to hear about one of his pet topics of how I should eat better. “Better” meaning, in his eyes, “a whole lot less.”

  But as he clears his throat in that slightly awkward yet still confident way I’ve heard him do before, I realize he’s about to talk to me about his top favorite thing of all time: why he has to stand me up.

  “About that trip, sweetpea,” he begins, “I’m sorry, but…” He doesn’t even need to finish his sentence. I know what he’s going to say before he says it. I flip open the tab lid on my cookies and grab a bigger handful than I initially planned and put them on my plate.

  “You’re not going to be able to make it,” I finish quietly.

  I spread the cookies out on my plate, deciding to look around for some frosting. Normally the fact that he’s busy with work — with a new secretary or intern, depending on which he’s hired recently — doesn’t bug me. He’s done it so much, for so many years, I stopped caring. Or at least I thought I did.

  But tonight, it does bug me. Big time. Maybe it’s because of the disastrous date-not-date with Kyle, but I’m feeling more emotional. More vulnerable.

  “You’re busy with work, right, Dad?”

  Cupboard after cupboard comes open, but there’s not a drop of frosting anywhere. I hate the quiver to my voice, and the sour tremble in my lips, but I guess I really needed him to keep his word this time. To be there for Christmas, but he isn’t. Not this Christmas, or any others.

  I sniff, sucking back tears I don’t want to fall. I mad at myself for getting this upset when I should have known better than to expect him to actually go on the trip with me.

  “Oh, don’t cry, Princess!” My dad sounds genuinely hurt. Distraught.

  At least he’s not saying anything about how many more cabinets I’m opening.

  I hear his leather chair creak, and I briefly wonder whether he’s alone when he’s calling me, or if he is managing to take a break from being with his fling of the week to call and cancel on me.

  “Listen. I am really, really sorry,” he says. “But I have to cancel on you.”

  I laugh-cry. “I know.”

  I swipe away a fat tear from beneath eye, making sure it won’t fall, before reaching for a cookie. After opening every cupboard, I finally find a jar of something to dip it in. It’s not frosting. It’s hazelnut and chocolate spread, but it will do. I sweep the cookie through the sugary goodness, and then take a bite.

  “You’ve got a lot of important work to do.” I don’t mean to, but a bit of venom shoots out along with my words. A sizeable amount of bitterness sits on my lips despite the sweet hazelnut and chocolate coating my tongue. “I guess I know why you let me keep your ticket here for you. Just in case you couldn’t make it, right?”

  He sighs. Groans. “You have every right to be upset with me, Princess. You do. But this really is important work I’ve got to get done. If I want a whole new batch of clients going into the new year, I have to get this paperwork done before Christmas.”

  I hear another sigh, and this one sounds nothing like my dad. A lot like a woman’s, though. I let the sound sit there.

  “I don’t want to go by myself though.”

  If I wanted to spend Christmas alone, I’d just stay here. I swipe another bit of cookie through the dip and eat. I’d go to a bar and pick up a guy. Maybe two and make them open me like a present and stuff me like a stocking.

  I can’t even believe these thoughts are popping into my head. I guess I feel mad enough at my dad that I want to do something really wild and crazy to get back at him—not that he’d even know, though. And even if he did find out it’s not like he’d care.

  Dad’s words break up my thoughts like paper in a shredder. “So, invite a friend, sweetie.” A pause. “Maybe that Mariah girl.”

  He clears his throat, flipping through something on his desk. “Your grades are barely keeping you from being expelled. Maybe if you treat that bookworm to a good time, she’ll help you study.”

  I’m kind of surprised he remembers my BFF’s name, let alone anything about her. He’s right —Mariah is good at school, which I suck at it. My eyes wander to the dining table I never use. It’s supposed to double as a study table, but I never use it for that either. The books I bought for the semester are still stacked where I left them. Still wrapped and covered with their purchase receipt.

  “Okay.” I pause, plucking another cookie from the plate. “I’ll invite Mariah, but I’m buying her and myself some new clothes and ski gear, Dad!”

  He doesn’t say anything, so I keep pushing my luck. “You owe me at least that much after skipping out on my birthday, and now my ski trip.” I grab my glass and fill it with milk. I drink it deeply, quietly.

  “The make-up for the make-up,” I say, wiping off a milk mustache that coats my upper lip.

  “Whatever you want,” he says. “Whatever will let you know how sorry I am for having to break my promise.”

  “Okay then,” I say, because the only good thing about having a neglectful, workaholic father your whole life is that he has plenty of money to throw at me in apology, so I’ve learned to take what I can get. “Thank you, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” I can hear him pulling away from the phone. Dise
ngaging from me. “Have fun with your little friend. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Aspen much more with her than you will with me anyway.”

  I sigh. “Sure, Dad.”

  “Got to go, Princess.” I hear a giggle coming from somewhere. “Got to get those clients before Christmas.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  He hangs up almost before I’ve even finished speaking.

  For a minute, I eat a few more cookies. Drink a bit more milk. Do something to try to get my emotions centered before calling Mariah. It won’t take much for her to worry about me. But I know a call to her will cheer me up. One good thing to come out of having a shitty, rich dad is being able to take your best friend on a ski trip to a nice resort in Aspen.

  Chapter 5

  Jane

  When I feel as collected as I’m likely to ever be, I stride back to my room and flop on my bed. I dial her number, which is stored in my “favorites.”

  When Mariah picks up, she sounds breathless. A little out of it. But, like me, it seems she’s trying to sound “put together” when she says, “Hey, Jane! What’s going on, girl?’

  I give her what she is expecting. A sugary sweet giggle. Something full of energy. “I was calling to ask you the same thing, lady! What are you doing? Studying?” I pause, feeling the wetness in the back of my gown.

  “A little,” she says.

  In her voice, I can hear embarrassment. Excitement. Something about it sounds nearly sexual.

  “Well, stop it,” I say.

  I pin my phone to my shoulder and go in search of an appropriate suitcase. But not before flicking on the light in my bedroom. “You can study some other time. It’s Christmas break. Time to have fun with your friends.”

  Of course, there’s deafening, nerdy silence. I don’t even have to be in her head to know she’s running through lists of what she’s got to do to remain on the Dean’s List. I choose my suitcase and begin plucking a few nice dresses and sleepwear from hangers while I’m there. Holding them over one arm, I move to my bed.