Page 1 of Christmas Coffee

Celyn

My heart slams into my chest like I’m having a fucking heart attack. I pull up Quin’s number and press CALL. He’s been my best friend since we were in boarding school together, back when we were young kids with big names. Quinton was shortened to Quin, much to his parent’s horror. And Quin learned how to pronounce my Celtic nightmare of a name, and made sure no one else said had a chance to call me “Sally-Ann” or other stupid shit kids said to me early on.

In a single breath, I unload all my shit in the longest sentence ever heard. I don’t fucking come up for air until I’m done. Panic has its icy fingers around my throat and I can’t shake the bastard.

Quin’s on speakerphone as I floor the sleek black McLaren across the Verrazano Bridge and toward eastern Long Island. I’m bobbing and weaving through traffic, gripping the wheel so tight that it might come off in my hands.

I rant for a while and then slam my palm into the steering wheel. “What the fuck am I going to do? I did every last fucking thing that man ever asked of me! I’m screwed, Quin!”

“I’ll help you think of something.”

“Quin, you don’t—”

“KEHL-ahN,” he says my name in two sharp parts, cutting my off with the throaty sound of that hard C. “Celyn, seriously. Stop. Don’t lose your shit over this. You’ve handled worse.”

Quin gives me the pep talk I need as I drive away from Uncle Aldrich’s swank office in Manhattan. “Go have a few drinks, nail some hot chick, and we’ll work it out on paper tomorrow.”

I grimace and stare at the dashboard, making the same expression I’d offer if Quin were here with me. “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, asswipe. You’re supposed to be at your mother’s house.”

He laughs lightly, “She can wait.”

“She’ll kill you.” His mother is like Martha Stewart, pre-trial, on crack. Their estate home on the north shore of Long Island is pristine and the holiday will be exceptional, until Quin shows up in jeans and a T-shirt instead of a tie. Formality isn’t dead, not in that house.

“Fine, then come with me. Eat turkey, talk turkey, and then poke your eye out with the wishbone, because my fucking Hallmark family is that boring. We’ll need some drama. If I have to sit through another holiday meal and listen to shit about hedge funds, I’ll fucking snap.” His voice rises an octave as he speaks so fast that all the words run together.

Quin’s family has more money than God, but he doesn’t act like it. Not until he’s forced into the annual soul-sucking conversations about his future. When we were in college together, Quin nearly cracked from all the pressure put on him by his parents. Yeah, he has a set that’s still married after thirty-five years, which is a feat in and of itself. At times, like holidays—like now, with all this shit raining down—it’s difficult to not be envious. He has meddling parents. I have an evil uncle. That’s it. No kin to call my own, no family watching my back come hell or high water. No cousins or brothers. Quin is my only family.

I assure him, “I’ll go with you. Calm the fuck down. Hedge funds are better than this shit.”

Quin laughs but there’s no joy in it. “I’d trade lives with you in a fucking heartbeat, Celyn.”

“Likewise buddy,” and I mean it, “but first, I need to get through this shit.”

“Tomorrow, Celyn.” He urges. “Tonight, let your subconscious do all the thinking. Actually, let your dick do all the thinking. Pound some pussy and get smashed, in that order. It’ll give you something to be thankful for tomorrow.” Quin laughs and disconnects.

I sigh and rub my hand over my face. It’s not a bad plan, but I feel too wound up for it. I’m still pissed. By now I’ve driven so far out on the Island that I’m passing the county line into Suffolk. Shit. It’s another hour to the summer house and an hour back to the city. When I took off, I was irate and started to drive without thinking about where I was going. All I could focus on was finding Ocean Parkway and letting the salty sea air fill my lungs as I gunned it down the road.

I groan and glance around. I left the Parkway behind a while ago, and am flying down an open stretch of Sunrise—a modest concrete wonder with six lanes that connects suburbia to the city. Buildings jut up from the landscape, nothing more than three stories. If you took Manhattan and tipped it over on its side, you’d have Long Island.

I drive like I have a destination in mind. I don’t want to go to the normal places tonight. I can’t face those people. They all know who I am, what I am. If they find out what happened, I won’t be able to bear it.

I drive a bit further and stop just outside of Bayshore, past the mall, in a sketchy part of town. I roll into the back parking lot of a bar and cut the engine. I strip off my jacket and tug on an old gray sweater I left laying on the passenger seat. It’s old and soft. Combined with a pair of shitkickers, I know I can handle myself.

When I walk into the establishment, I’m thinking bar fight. That’s why I stopped here. I need to beat the shit out of someone, and lose the anger building inside of me. This gutter looks like the perfect place to do it. But then, I spot this blonde in the corner with her nose in a book. Long tendrils of golden hair fall over her shoulders. Her face is perfect, fucking beautiful, not that I look at it too long because her tits are there in this red ribbed sweater, plump and perfect. I can imagine my hands on them as I kiss her senseless, spread her legs, and fuck her until she cries out in ecstasy.

I walk over to her and stop in front of her table. She’s reading a Chilton’s manual, which shocks the hell out of me. I pull out a well-worn wooden chair and sit without asking. “Light reading?”

She doesn’t glance up at me, just gives me the finger. “Fuck off, buddy. I’m not in the mood.” Her petite face remains downturned, her nose in that fat-ass book.

“Neither was I, until I saw you.” That makes her look up. She stops for a second, startled. I think she recognizes me, but then her eyes tell another story—blank. She has no clue who I am, which is fucking perfect.

“Nice line. Use it often?” She smirks at me, lifts a brow, and then goes back to her book, turns a page. She opens the index and goes to a previous section and then pinches the bridge of her nose like she has a massive headache. I say nothing, and just watch her for a second. The manual is for Hondas that are over a decade old. I saw one in the parking lot on the way in.

I reach across, and take the book from her even though I know she’ll rip my arms off. “Hey!” She reaches to take it back, and I grab her hands and squeeze hard before releasing them. I push the book back at her.

“Listen, I’ve had a shitty day and from the way you’re flipping through the pages of that manual, you’re stuck here until you can get your car to start. Honda Civic, am I right?”

She frowns and her lip juts out. It’s so fucking perfect. I want to lean in and taste her, suck that pouty lip into my mouth and nip her.