However, as adults, my relationship with both of them changed. Holly was more a sister than a best friend. And Saint turned into a secret lover that graced me with his large cock during the holidays. Every Christmas, Saint feasted on my body. There would be no need for Red, Blue, or even Black. When it came to Saint, no fuckboys were necessary, even though I hated to admit it.
Okay. What’s the game plan for this evening, since I’m bailing out on my charity dinner.
I shook my head, getting more annoyed with my father. Perhaps, I could have gotten security to drag him out of there. But then that image would be on Page Six in the morning. Gossip columnists always sniffed out a good story.
Don’t think about Dad. Fuck Red. Head back home. Make sure everything is packed and then get some rest.
Sadness filled my chest, knowing that I would miss my gala dinner and designer auction for the first time in the three-year history of this event.
You figured that you had me cornered, Dad? Thought that I would have to talk to you now? Never. Leave me alone!
I grabbed my jacket and purse from the back. I spotted a box of champagne set out for the dinner’s final toast. I seized three bottles, put on my hat, and left the church.
Fuck. Now I’ll have to change my number for the hundredth time. Who the hell keeps giving it to him?
While Dad tried to contact me at least once a month, he always pestered me the most around Christmas. It was the worst time of the year for both of us.
That was winter for me. Snow fell from the sky. Wreaths went up on doors all over New York. My father called over and over, hoping one day I would forgive him and answer.
Never. If Mom were alive, she would high-five me.
When I made it outside the church, the wind chilled my skin. In blue and white robes, the Haven’s Baptist youth choir stood at the parking lot’s entrance practicing songs. They would be entering the dining hall in ten minutes and singing to my gala attendees.
All this work I put into this event and I’ll miss it because of him. Because I can’t stomach being on the same property where that man stands.
I stopped and stared at the young kids, remembering when I was that age—bright and full of hope. Snow fell around me. I watched those little faces and drank in their sweet voices as they sang, It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas.
One of the little kid’s mother was near. She clapped as they continued the song. Sorrow knotted my heart. That was what Dad took from me—moments like this—memories with Mom.
Well. . .you won’t take away anymore.
Mom had made the mistake of loving him too hard. She had no rules or limits with her heart. She just gave it to him—the whole organ—without one thought to the consequences.
And now she’s dead.
My phone vibrated.
I checked the screen and spotted Dad’s number.
“Yeah. It really is beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Complete with the Daddy issues and rising depression over Mom.” Pushing my mother’s face out of my head, I let out a long breath and went to my car. “Let’s hope Red can fuck it all away.”
Chapter 1
What Christmas Means to Me
In my dream, old memories played.
I woke up and opened my eyes as a younger version of me, wearing little white pajamas.
Stevie Wonder’s song What Christmas Means to Me filled the air. I didn’t know how long it had been going on. It was right at the end and then it started all over again.
“It’s Christmas!” Excitement rushed through me. I grabbed my teddy bear and climbed out of my bed. “I know he got it for me. I know he did!”
I’d written twenty letters to Santa, asking for a red bike. At ten years old, I was the only kid in my class to believe in him. No matter how much I tried to convince my friends they were wrong, they were certain Santa Clause was a myth. Sure, parents bought presents too. But Dad told me that Santa delivered the special ones.
“I’ll show them! Watch! I’ll ride that bike down the street and do circles around them.” I giggled and searched for my pink bunny slippers. Mom would trip if I didn’t have something on my feet. I sang along with Stevie Wonder, “All these things and more!”
I stumbled over my slippers as I hurried out of my bedroom.
I wanted to wake up Mom. I’d overheard her crying last night after Dad left. They’d been arguing about someone having a baby. Whoever it was, the news made mom so sad. I wasn’t sure, but I think Dad had broken her heart again. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t sure how I should feel about that. I loved him so. But this year, all he did was make her cry and fun times shifted to sad ones.
Clutching my bear tight, I tip-toed into the living room and took in all the presents under the Christmas tree. “Yes!”
I widened my eyes. If not for Mom sleeping, I would have screamed out loud. Boxes and boxes piled all over the place—under the huge tree, near the fireplace, and some stacked the couch.
“I know he brought it. I know he did.” I searched for the biggest box in the room. Some were wrapped in my favorite color of gold. Others had red and green paper on it. Each one displayed big bows.
The song ended and started over again. Stevie Wonder’s voice rode the upbeat lyrics.
I spotted the biggest box in the room and ran over to it. “This has to be it. It must be!”
I sang with Stevie Wonder and tore through the wrapping paper.
A weird feeling rushed over me. As if someone was in the room watching me. I paused from singing and looked to my right. Nothing was there, but more presents. I grinned and ripped more of the paper off. The image on the box greeted my eyes. A little blonde girl with pigtails rode a big red bike.
I tore away the paper. “He did it!”
Still, that weird feeling hit me—like someone was watching.
I turned to the right and froze in horror. The wrapping paper left my fingers. My teddy bear fell from my arms.
I screamed. “Mommy! Mommy!”
My body shook. I didn’t know how to process. My brain shattered into pieces. My heart pounded in my chest. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. All I could do was scream.
“Mommy! No!”
There, my mother hung in the doorway leading to the kitchen. A rope held her up by her neck. There’d been a chair kicked to the side on the floor. The rope had been hammered into the top of the wall by hundreds of nails.
The Stevie Wonder song ended, and then played again.
Trembling, I urinated on myself. The warm liquid spilled down my legs, wetting my pajama pants and bunny slippers. My body spasmed as I stood but I didn’t know what else to do.
The word burned my throat. “Mommy!”
My mother’s legs dangled. Her eyes were popped open. Her light brown skin had shifted to a brownish gray.
“Mommy!”
Knocking sounded from the front door. “Ivy, baby. Open the door. Ivy!”
“Mommy!” I screamed as I continued to stand in my own urine. My feet felt hammered into place like the rope nailed to the wall. And I couldn’t stop looking at her. I couldn’t turn away. I couldn’t think about what, how, or why. All I could do was scream.
“Mommy!”
The door burst open. I turned to see my father rushing in with the neighbor’s kids—Holly and Saint.
“Mommy!”