A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  I shake my head. “Right before the engagement party. Two days.”

  “Then you should come,” she says. “And tell Caulter to come too.”

  “Caulter?” I ask. “I don’t think so.” Like I'm going to bring Caulter to a party so I can watch him hit on girls? Yeah, right.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun. It's Caulter Sterling. You’ll be legendary for bringing him. Do it. Slum with us commoners.”

  I laugh, but I secretly hate her little comments about slumming it, or me being a rich kid. How am I supposed to respond?

  Jo kicks the water in the lake. “There will be hot guys, guys who aren’t rich prep school kids. Guys with tattoos.”

  Guys like Caulter. I glance up at the balcony, but it’s empty now. “Fine.”

  “Seriously?” she asks. “You’re really going to go to an actual, real-life party? Like, with booze and guys?”

  “I said fine, okay? You’ve worn me down.”

  “You’ve never gone out before,” she says. “I can’t fucking believe it. I was just giving you shit; I didn't think you would actually go. What’s gotten into you?”

  What's gotten into me? My mind immediately flashes to Caulter.

  Caulter bending me over the desk in my father’s office. Caulter thrusting into me as the ladder falls from beneath me in the library. Caulter’s hot breath on my stomach, his face moving lower as the warm water drums over our bodies in the shower. My lips wrapped around Caulter’s cock, the saltiness of his pre-cum on my tongue.

  Shit.

  I have to blink several times to erase the images in my head. I definitely need to meet someone else -- if not someone appropriate, then someone inappropriate. Inappropriate and filthy enough to get my mind off of Caulter.

  “Caulter should come with us,” she says, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What, are you obsessed with him or something?” I snap. “No Caulter.”

  “Okay, no Caulter,” she says, giving me major side-eye. “I didn’t know you were so touchy about him.”

  “I’m not touchy about him,” I say. “I just don’t -- he’s irritating, that’s all. I don’t want him killing my buzz.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, okay, I can see that. Who wants your new step-brother tagging along with you to a party, anyway?” She pushes herself up to her feet, reaching to take my hand and pull me up. “Ten-ish, okay? I’ll text you.”

  ***

  “I said, it’s really loud,” I yell.

  Jo hands me a plastic cup filled with beer and motions toward her ears, yelling back. I can’t hear her, but I can read her lips. “I can’t hear you!”

  A guy sidles up behind her, wearing a leather jacket even though it’s probably still seventy degrees outside and inside it’s hot as hell. I’m sweating, even in the dress I’m wearing -- one of the new dresses Ella’s stylist sent.

  I still haven’t forgiven Caulter for burning all my stuff, either, even though a box showed up with exact substitutions for all my jeans this morning. No note from Caulter, no explanation. Just brand-new versions of everything that he’d burned.

  Part of me is impressed he went to so much trouble for a stupid prank, noting all of the sizes and brands and then tracking them down. It couldn’t have been easy, although he probably hired someone to do it.

  I nearly pulled on a pair of jeans tonight, but I had to admit that what the stylist picked is actually pretty hot, much better than I’d have picked. It's not something I’d usually wear, either. It's this fire-engine red mini-dress that I’m sure my father was not imagining when he jumped on board with the redo-Kate’s-wardrobe plan. But my father isn’t home, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

  Jo leans back against the guy, who pulls up the hem of her shirt and slides his hands over her stomach. From behind her, he cups her face with his hands, and leans over to kiss her, all tongue, then slides his hand down the front of her shirt.

  Well, this is totally awkward.

  I down my warm-ish beer, wondering where the hell I need to go to get more. This is why I don't fucking go to parties. At Brighton, I went to exactly one, and it was during my spring break, only because I was stuck there with nothing else to do. That was at someone's parents' house in the Hamptons.

  That was not this kind of party. There was no warm beer, just expensive champagne and liquor from kids who had access to unlimited supplies of the best stuff. There were models. I don't know why I went to that one, either, because it was just as awkward as this. After two glasses of champagne and fending off a series of dumb pick-up lines, I was in a cab back to my dorm at Brighton.

  Jo finally comes up for air and takes my empty cup, handing it to the guy who’d just mauled her face. She grabs my arm and pushes me toward a hallway where it’s quieter, but still just as crowded with people. “Bathroom,” she explains.

  We stand outside the door, waiting for three more people to use it before she pulls me inside. It’s a nice reprieve from the loud pounding of the music in the house. She squats over the toilet and pees, talking the whole time. “It’s fun, yeah? I mean, it’s loud, but fun.”

  “Sure.” I’m feeling out of place and agitated. I can’t imagine why Jo thinks this is going to be fun for me.

  “Come on,” she says. “Loosen up a little.”

  I squat to pee. “Who was the guy?”

  Jo laughs. “Some guy,” she says. “A hook-up, no big deal. We’re on again, off again, you know? But he has some hot friends. I told him I was bringing you with me.” She opens her purse and pulls out a bottle of prescription medication. “Want one? You need to relax.”

  I shake my head, but ask anyway. “What is it?”

  “Anxiety meds,” she says. “My mother’s stash.”

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to drink with that, Jo.” I feel like a parent scolding a child. She should know better.

  Jo laughs and dries her hands. “Sure you don’t want one?” she asks. “Come on, girl. You have the rest of the summer to be the perfect little Senator’s daughter. No one knows who you are here. And no one cares. Live your fucking life, for once.”

  “I am living my life,” I say. I’m annoyed with her, and I'm annoyed with this situation.

  “Here,” she says, holding out a tablet. “Take half if you don’t want to take the whole thing. It’ll let you relax. It’s not coke or something. It’s prescription. From a doctor. For anxiety, which you definitely have.”

  I exhale heavily, taking it from her hand and popping it into my mouth. “Fine. Whatever.”

  We exit the bathroom and her hook-up, the leather-jacket clad guy, hands us each a cup of beer. I hold it, not drinking it because I'm afraid of mixing the pill with more alcohol.

  He introduces me to two of his friends. They’re cleaner cut than he is, but they look older. One of them stares at me like I’m a piece of meat, licking his lips. I want to get the hell out of here, but I force myself to take a sip of beer to calm my nerves.

  The other guy steps closer to me, pulling me away from the group, and gestures, asking if I want to dance. Okay, so he’s hot -- blue eyed and brown haired and clean-cut. Totally appropriate, I think.

  I don’t know how long it is, maybe thirty minutes or so, before I start feeling relaxed. Like, really relaxed. I feel kind of woozy, actually, like my head is thick and foggy and I just want to sleep. The guy, whose name I don’t even know, is behind me, sliding his hands over my stomach and down the front of my hips, his hardness pressing up against me as he dances with me completely out of sync with the music.

  The fact that he’s hard is what makes me feel nauseous. When I try to pry his hands off my hips, he grips them tighter and I yank myself away from him.

  I don’t know where Jo is in the crowd; I can’t see her or the other guy, but I need some air.

  Outside the house, I shiver as the now-cool evening air hits my skin. There are a handful of people outside, party-goers that have spilled out onto the lawn, and a few couples making out near t