The Plight Before Christmas(18)
“It’s perfect. I appreciate you having me.”
“The more the merrier. I mean that.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Allen. Well…” he glances around, “I’ll leave you to it.” He does just that as the noise from above mutes to an eerie silence. If I still know Whitney at all, that’s scarier than the shrieking. The truth is, I doubt I know her at all anymore. Seventeen years is a long time, a lifetime. People can change drastically in a day, let alone nearly two decades. Though the greeting at the door made it seem more like a blink when she lifted her brown doe eyes to mine.
What the fuck are you doing, Eli?
Selfish curiosity.
I originally planned to spend Christmas unpacking the stacked boxes in my rental—to finally make it feel more like a home—but when Brenden invited me, I accepted, surprising us both. I could bullshit myself and say it had nothing to do with the family photo I spotted in his living room a week ago, but I’d be lying. Instead of asking him about her, I cyber-stalked her for an hour, maybe two. It’s a mystery, even to me, why I just didn’t confess my connection to her and outright ask him about her.
It was a pussy move.
The truth is, the last week isn’t the only time I’ve looked her up or thought about her over the years, not by a longshot. For me, she was the one woman who never really left my thoughts. Over the years, some of the memories have faded. There’s been a lot of spacing between personal relationships, but Whitney? Unforgettable.
Even so, encroaching on a family’s Christmas due to selfish curiosity is completely out of character for me. And maybe that’s why I accepted, to jump off the edge of my comfort zone.
I walk over to one of three large study windows and check out the view. Tall trees cluster along the ridge, forming thick woods covering the freshly dusted cliff rock, the snow steadily coming down. The den is spacious and cozy, housing a worn-in leather couch, a large desk, and endless shelves of Elvis. Even so, there’s more than enough room for the king-sized mattress I’ll be sleeping on. The walls are darkly stained wood giving it that authentic cabin feel. I have to admit, even amongst cluttered memorabilia—and aside from the lack of a door for privacy—it’s not a bad setup. The house itself is unbelievably decorated, making it picturesque for the holiday.
I can’t remember the last time I spent a Christmas with anyone or actually looked forward to any holiday. At this point, I’ve engrained in myself to ignore they exist, though Whitney made that impossible for me the night she burst into my life.
The crash of my bathroom door has me looking out of the glass shower to see two girls, one dressed as a sexy… bee? The other a scantily dressed devil rushing toward the toilet.
“Oh, my gloddddd,” Satan exclaims just before a wave of projectile vomit spews out of her, narrowly making the mark. The putrid smell of regurgitated alcohol fills the air and my steaming shower, as the bee—a petite blonde with killer legs accentuated by yellow and black knee-high’s and a scrap of fabric too short to be considered a skirt—bends to reveal a shot of ass and the hint of a black thong. There are bee antennae strapped to her head, covering the top of her angelic locks. Fixed on the sight of her toned thighs and pert ass, I make quick work of rinsing as the no-skirt Bee speaks.
“I told you not to pound that mystery juice. You have no idea who made it.”
“Just hold my hair, Whitney!”
Whitney. I like it. And I like the view she’s gracing me with a lot more. I wait for some sort of acknowledgment from either of them that they’re in an occupied bathroom with a naked guy and running water, but neither seems to be my level of alert.
“Courtesy flush, please,” I sound up a second before I cut off the shower and open the sliding glass door. Surprised brown eyes fly to mine in the mirror before they slowly lower and linger. I stand there, dripping and naked, giving her ample time to get a look—because it’s only fair—before she finally lifts her gaze to mine.
“S-sorry. I d-didn’t realize…t-the music is so loud…she drank too much of that hot pink punch, and it hit her all at once, and all the other doors were locked.” Still holding her friend, she lifts her eyes back to my reflection. A smirk playing on her lips, she flushes the toilet just as the girl wretches again—thankfully, it’s dry. I reach for my towel and obstruct her view. “Looks serious.”
“That punch is strong.”
“It’s Pink Flamingo.”
“Well, it’s lethal.”
“Looks like it.” I don’t miss the flare of her eyes as I step out and begin toweling off.
“Ob by glod, it’s on my costume. This is bad. This is so bad.”
“I’ll clean up the mess, but I think she had pretty good aim,” Whitney offers in sincere apology as the devil again dry heaves. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod towards the counter. “Don’t worry about it. Mind handing me my briefs?”
“Uh, sure.” She plucks them from the counter and holds them out to me. I drop the towel and take them as she turns to fully face me, getting another eye full. I can’t help the lift of my lips.
“You all done? Am I free to dress?”
“Sure.” No shame. I can’t help my smile. She’s clearly buzzed from the rum concoction and unapologetic in her perusal, which I like, a lot. I then decide there’s nothing sexier than a bold girl.