A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  The door moves behind me, jolting me out of my thoughts, which is a good thing because I don't need to be thinking about what happened between me and Caulter Sterling. The mere fact that I’ve lost my virginity to him is humiliating enough without even considering the current level of ridiculousness and drama that’s been added to it. Anyway, it's old news. Ancient history. So what if it was only ten days ago? It was one of those things that never should have happened in the first place.

  I move away from the door, and it pushes open immediately. I brace myself for the inevitable imminent conversation with my father.

  But it's not my father. It's Caulter. I exhale forcefully. I know I need to talk to him, but right this moment? Whatever I've done to incur this massive onslaught of karmic shit the universe is throwing at me, I resolve to fix it immediately.

  "Hey, sis," he says, emphasizing the word as he closes the door behind him and leans against it. If he has an expression other than self-satisfied-smug-asshole, you'd never know it. He should be just as skeeved out as I am, but of course he's not. He's Caulter. This kind of thing would only add to his already sterling reputation.

  "Don't call me that," I snap.

  "Oh, but you heard daddy dearest, Princess," he says. "We're going to be siblings now."

  "Don't be stupid," I say. Why do I have the urge to slap him whenever I'm around him? He opens his mouth, and it's like nails on a chalkboard.

  Caulter laughs. "Shit," he says. "It must be hard going through life with that stick up your ass."

  "Shut up," I hiss, narrowing my eyes. "Did you know about this before you and I...you know?"

  He steps forward, away from the door, and stands inches from me, so close I can feel his breath warm the air between us. “You know…?” he says, his voice trailing off. “What are you asking, Princess?"

  The blood rushes to my head. "Stop calling me that, Caulter," I say. "Or I'm going to start referring to you as shithead."

  He leans closer to me, his mouth mere millimeters from my ear. "Well, you can call me Oh God," he says. "Like you did before. When we were...you know."

  Fuck. Heat floods my face, and I put my hands on his chest, pushing him back. "Screw you, Caulter."

  Laughing, he sweeps away the lock of sandy-colored hair that falls briefly over his forehead. "Nah, Harvard," he said. "You already did that. And as I recall, it involved a lot of you moaning...Oh God, right there, Oh God, Caulter, Caulter..." He mimics me, his tone high-pitched and breathy, the sound of his voice echoing through my father's office, amplified in the enclosed space.

  What happens next is out of character. I don't even think about it before I do it. I just step forward and slap Caulter right across the side of his face, my palm landing against his cheek with a crack that reverberates through the room. I'm not sure who's more startled, him or me -- and I withdraw my hand like I just touched an electric outlet, backing away from him in horror.

  I've never done something like that in my entire life. I can't believe I lost control. “I --” I begin. “I -- you’re being...a total asshole about this!”

  Caulter brings his hand to his cheek and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says. “It’s me who's being a total asshole.”

  “Did you know about our parents getting married, before?” I ask again.

  “What, before you texted me and begged me to give you some of this?” He grabs his crotch.

  “I didn’t exactly have to beg,” I say, my teeth clenched. “I don’t think anyone has to twist your arm to get the dick you dole out like it's candy.”

  "You sure didn't have a problem sucking on it like it was made of fucking sugar," he says.

  I can feel heat rise to my cheeks. "That is not how I sucked your --"

  "What, Harvard?" he asks. "Are you going to tell me you don't remember how you wrapped those sweet little lips around my cock like it was the best thing you ever tasted?"

  "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response." But my face is flushed, and I think I might be short of breath at the thought of Caulter's cock against my lips. No, I can't think about it. "It was temporary insanity. What happened between us never happened.”

  “Don’t worry, Princess,” he says. “Our dirty little secret is safe with me. It’s already forgotten. You weren’t that memorable anyway.”

  I bristle at his words. Not that memorable? I'm about to give Caulter a real piece of my mind when the door swings open behind him. He jumps out of the way, and for a moment my father stands in the doorway with Ella behind him, his brow wrinkled but just barely. My father is the consummate politician, unflappable. He’s the master of non-expression. If you didn't know him, you wouldn't know that the tiny wrinkle line that creases his forehead is a sign of irritation. My heart stops and I wonder if he knows, if it's written on me like some kind of badge of dishonor-- I fucked Caulter Sterling.

  "Ah," my father says. "I was wondering where you'd disappeared to."

  "The news is a lot to take in, I'm sure," Ella says, her voice gentle. She places her hand on my father's arm. "I'm sure the two of you probably want some time without the parental units around."

  Caulter laughs, the sound bitter. "Yeah, right," he says. "I've had plenty of time with Little Miss Perfect here." He edges between my father and Ella, and they let him pass through the doorway, but Ella's eyes are wide.

  "Caulter!" she says. "Don't be rude."

  "Rude?" He's walking away, his back toward us. "That's fucking rich from two people who just sprung a whole marriage on their daughter, don't you think?"

  Did he just say that they sprung a whole marriage on me? Like he knew about it before now?

  The crease in my father's forehead deepens. "I won't tolerate -- "

  Oh shit. I don't think my father fully appreciates what he's gotten himself into with Caulter. He thinks any issue can be cured with a good dose of discipline and some military-style physical training. If this conversation were happening with a five-years-younger Caulter, my father would have him outside running sprints and doing pushups until he couldn't hold himself up anymore. As it is, Caulter is an adult. I don't know if my father has a plan here.

  Caulter stops. "Tolerate? Let's get something straight here. If you want to parade your own kid around in front of the cameras like she's some kind of trophy Stepford child, that's between you and her. But me? You don't get to walk into my life and expect me to pretend we're all some big happy family."

  I hold my breath, waiting for my father's reaction. His temper rarely flares, but when it does, it's nuclear. Despite my complete and utter distaste for who Caulter is, I can't help but feel a twinge of smug satisfaction, hearing him talk to my father like that. No one talks to my father like that. Definitely not me. It almost feels like Caulter is taking up for me, even though I know he's not.

  "Caulter Sterling," Ella says, her voice shaky. "We need to talk about this. I know you're upset, but -- "

  Caulter interrupts. "Oh, and Senator?" he asks. "I'm sure you think that this is some kind of true love thing, but my mother doesn't exactly have a reputation for keeping men in her life. You might want to think about that." He doesn't look back, just walks down the hallway and I hear the front door slam.

  Ella looks at me, and then at my father. She blinks slowly, once, twice, three times, and I immediately feel badly for her. She looks like she's trying desperately not to cry, and it's suddenly awkward, as I rack my brain to come up with something to say to make the situation less uncomfortable. As if that were fucking possible.

  I clear my throat. "I'm sure -- I mean -- he's upset. I'm sure it'll be fine." My voice sounds strained. Why am I trying to console two people who just dropped a bombshell like this on their kids, expecting them to fall in line? I hate to admit it, but Caulter has a point. "Um. I'm going to just go upstairs." I squeeze past the two of them, heading up the stairs to my bedroom without waiting for a response.

  Inside, I close the door behind me and sit on the bed, the bedspread a simple white
color that accents the dark wood bedframe and desk. Everything in here is antique, matching the rest of the house, the photos on the walls carefully selected to display only the most shining moments of my life, all of the awards and things my father considers important.

  This isn't my dorm room at Brighton, with its brightly colored bedding and collages with pictures of me and my friends plastered on the walls, the paintings I've done and the sketches of places that mean that most to me. I have a car full of stuff sitting outside in the driveway, the remnants of my high school life.

  My best friend Sara is backpacking across Europe this summer with her boyfriend Dan. Come with us, she begged. It's your chance to go crazy before college starts in the fall. It's like a rite of passage. We'll get drunk and watch the sun come up in Rome.

  I couldn't even consider the possibility of disappointing my father. I'm the always-dutiful daughter, the one who does what's expected of her. I know I live a charmed life -- the Senator father, private school education, headed to one of the best colleges in the country. But still, I can't help but feel a tiny bit sorry for myself, even if I know I'm having a pity party.

  The walls already feel like they're closing in on me. I won't be at the DC home for long; I'll be back at the summer home in New Hampshire before the week is out, I'm sure. But that will be a prison all its own, working on the re-election campaign and being trotted out for photo opportunities with my father and his new wife.

  It's only a few minutes later that it occurs to me. Oh, shit. Does this mean Caulter will be coming to New Hampshire with us?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Caulter

  I take a drag on the end of the cigarette, the nicotine hitting my bloodstream but doing nothing to take the edge off my attitude toward all of this bullshit. I'm standing outside, leaning against the railing that lines the front steps, reeling from what just happened with Katherine, not with her fucking father and my mother. I couldn't give a tiny shit about what those two have going on. My mother has been engaged at least five times, and married three. It's not like this is the first time some prick in a suit and loafers has walked into the room and introduced himself as my new father.

  At least this one is age-appropriate. Before she graduated to dating CEO's and, apparently, politicians, she went through a rocker phase. That was real fun. My favorite was the twenty-three-year-old she was going to marry, some guy who looked like he wasn't a day over eighteen, the lead singer in a boy band. That kid had the balls to tell me he hoped he could be a "role model, you know, a real father figure" to me.

  I punched him in the face, and Ella sent me to a psych facility for ninety days, where I got to talk to all the shrinks about how I was acting out because I wasn't shown enough love as a baby, how I wasn't breastfed enough and shit. What can I say? I'm just a little boy who wants a hug. What a bunch of assholes. Ella married the douchebag boy band guy, but it only lasted a week.

  My mother's drama is old news. I don't give a shit about whatever the hell the Senator and Ella are doing.

  I'm on edge because I haven't been able to get Katherine out of my fucking head since that night. I thought I was done with her, until my mother practically kidnaps me today and forces me on a flight to DC, announcing that she's getting engaged and that I have to meet her new beau. Like she couldn't have announced this three days ago when we were all at the graduation ceremony? Or told me over the weekend, back at the apartment in New York? Leave it to Ella to keep everything a secret. The only reason I agreed to get on the flight at all was because she had first class tickets and there would be good booze on the plane.

  I drink and ignore her during the flight. Like I said, Ella getting married is old news. So imagine my surprise when she finally springs the name of the lucky guy on me as we're driving away from the airport. I'm slouched in the front seat texting on my phone when she says it, so I almost miss the last name. Harrison. Katherine's fucking father. I can't believe my ears.

  "Senator Harrison?" I ask.

  "He has a daughter in your class, I know," she says, looking at me nervously. She chews on her fingernails; I want to tell her it makes her look like a damn twelve-year-old girl but I never do. "Is that, like, completely weird? It's not weird, is it?"

  "Sure, Ella," I say, my tone condescending. I'm trying to be nonchalant despite the way my heart is pounding. "It's no big fucking deal, you getting engaged to the father of someone I go to school with. Why not just date one of the teachers? Better yet, I could just find you one of my friends. That's more your style, isn't it? I thought you liked them young, but we're going for Senators now, are we?"

  She glares at me, her eyes flashing. "You're not going to ruin this for me, Caulter."

  I don't look up from my phone, going through the motions of texting even though I'm not actually talking to anyone. All I can think about is that it's Katherine's father. Which means she's bringing me to meet Katherine's father.

  Which means we're headed to see Katherine.

  Little Miss Perfect, too-good-for-her-own-good, going-to-Harvard Katherine. Giant-stick-up-her-ass Katherine. Barely-cracks-a-smile Katherine. All business, all the time.

  Except that night.

  The night.

  I had hit on that girl more times than I could count at Brighton. I mean, hell, why not? It's not like Miss Priss should be wearing a paper bag over her head or something. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. She's smoking hot. And untouchable. The lacrosse team keeps scorecards with all the senior girls on them, each with their very own "bangable" rating. "Brighton Bingo," they call it. I don't play, because I'm not a stupid jock. I might fuck around, but keeping track on a scorecard is just tacky. For the lacrosse players, though, Katherine is the money spot on the card. The thing is, it's widely accepted she's out of everyone's league. There was talk she might not be into guys at all, but she dated some dickhead jock from the lacrosse team for a few months, probably the only guy in that school who wasn't trying to get in her pants. That guy just wanted to suck up to her father.

  It's not like I ever thought it would happen with Miss Not Interested. She and I had developed a certain kind of relationship over the past two years that mostly consisted of rolling eyes and lobbing insults back and forth. Really, I only hit on her anymore because it's fun. I like that she looks at me with disgust and calls me asshole instead of sliding into the backseat of my car and offering up a threesome with her best friend. Chicks have been trying to get with me since I was in middle school. Everyone wants that son-of-a-celebrity cock.

  Too much pussy. It's my cross to bear.

  But Katherine is different from all of those other girls. She never wanted anything to do with me, writing me off as some kind of filthy manwhore. That fact makes me respect her as a good judge of character, since it's pretty accurate.

  That's why I could have shit my pants when I get a text from her offering up one night at a hotel. I am sure it's a joke, but it's a week before graduation and Brighton is quiet and it's a night I'm bored anyway so I figure, what did I have to lose?

  When she walks through the door of the hotel looking nervous as hell, I can't believe my eyes. She stands there in this short-sleeved black dress that hangs past her knees and these matronly black heels that make her look like a PTA mom. And a headband. I mean, we're eighteen, for fuck's sake. What the hell kind of adult woman wears a headband?

  I've screwed models, actresses, and socialites. A girl wearing a headband and a dress the size of a tent should not light up my radar in any way, shape, or form. But for whatever the hell reason, it's the hottest thing I have ever seen.

  I stare at her, for once without anything smart-assed to say. But my dick has a mind of its own. All the blood leaves my head and rushes to my cock. I'm hard as a rock. Apparently I have a thing for girls that wear headbands and weird-ass ultra-conservative dresses that show zero skin.

  She pushes me over the edge when she opens her damn mouth. "So I decided before I leave Brighton next week, that I want to see what al
l the fuss is about."

  The only thing I can think is that it's the ones who look like her, proper and conservative, who are the wildest in the bedroom.

  That's a fact.

  It's all that repressed crap they have going on. Or daddy issues or whatever. Who knows? All I know is that I'm about to get with the most untouchable, most repressed chick in the history of the world. It's like I've hit the goddamn lottery.

  When I put my mouth on hers for the first time, it's fucking magic. I can't describe what she tastes like except that it's everything that's right with the world. Then Katherine breaks away for a moment and looks at me.

  She looks at me with contempt. She despises me. But when she kisses me...she kisses me like she hates me and wants me more than anything.

  It's just another lay. So what if it's the Holy Grail of hook-ups? So what if it's going to be the best kind of hate sex imaginable? It's when I'm about to put my cock inside her that she tenses me up and gives me a look. I've got enough sense to know what the hell that means. I'm not interested in taking some chick's virginity -- virgins are clingers, and that's the last thing I want.

  Then Kate (that's what I called her that night -- Kate, not the proper Katherine like she is at school, but Kate when I'm inside her, Kate when I'm coming so hard that my head is going to fucking explode) asks me if I'm going to screw her or what.

  There's good sex, and then there's sex where the memory takes up permanent residence in your brain, changes the fucking chemical balance or something so that you crave it like a damn fix. It makes you jones for it, gets under your skin like an itch. That's the kind of sex this is.

  Katherine, prim and proper Katherine in the morning, sneaks out of the bed the next day. She tries to creep out of the hotel room, but I wake up as she's near the door and look at her in disbelief, not that she's leaving, but that I fell asleep and she's the one who's awake.

  Most guys will fuck and fall right asleep. Not me. I'm lying there wide awake, counting the minutes of cuddling required to preserve my reputation before I can slide out of bed and get the hell on with my life. Waking up in the morning to watch a hook-up of mine about to slip out the door isn't exactly a regular occurrence.