A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Katherine

  My father and Ella are back at the lake house full-time now. The Senate broke for the summer three days ago. Three days ago, the house was turned into a flurry of activity in preparation for the wedding, the house flooded with people: the wedding planner, caterers, stylist, managers, decorators, baker, and my father’s entourage of political advisers.

  I’d have expected the wedding to disrupt my father's campaign, but it all seems to fit in nicely. It helps, I suppose, that Ella runs her wedding planning with the same kind of military precision with which my father attacks his re-election campaign.

  Caulter and I are no longer just fucking. I mean, we've been fucking. But now we're fucking like rabbits. We've been screwing all the time.

  When my father and Ella were still in DC, Caulter made good on his promise to take me in the dining room one night after Rose was gone, spreading me out on the table and burying his face between my legs.

  We've had sex outside on the dock in the evening, beside the lake.

  In the boathouse.

  In the car on the way to get ice cream, and then again when we got back, after Caulter said he couldn’t watch the way I licked the ice cream cone and not want to put his cock in my mouth.

  In our rooms -- so many times, in our rooms.

  We're having more sex, but it's no longer just sex. Something happened the night of the engagement party, I think -- Caulter became less irritating. He's growing on me. Which is weird.

  It's also upsetting. It was one thing when we were sneaking around when our parents were gone, but it's different now that they're back. And that they're getting married. Soon we really are going to be step-siblings, and then what's going to happen?

  There's also the other thing I keep thinking about -- and it's all Caulter's fault for planting the thought in my head, the possibility that I really might be able to go to UCLA. Now I keep wondering what would happen if I did.

  It's all Caulter's fault for making me feel happy. That's the thing about being happy - it makes you want more of that feeling. And happiness is dangerous, because it never lasts. Life has taught me that much.

  I look in the mirror, straightening the stray tendril of hair that refuses to stay in the slick high ponytail. I look like a fucking PTA mom, I think, in my pastel colored suit and nude pumps. Or an Easter egg.

  We’re about to go downstairs for an interview, all part of my father’s re-election campaign but not really. It’s a national news station that doesn’t care all that much about the incumbent from New Hampshire who’s predicted to win by a landslide vote; what they really care about is the wedding. And the family drama.

  They’re going to want to know all about how Caulter and I are getting along. Luckily, we’ve been prepped. We have stock phrases to use. None of those stock phrases involve we're fucking like rabbits, or his cock makes me so wet I practically drip when I’m near him.

  “Hey.” The door from the balcony slides open, and his voice makes me jump.

  “Shit, Caulter,” I whisper. “Stop scaring me like that.”

  “You look like an Easter egg,” he says.

  “I do, don’t I? That’s exactly what I was thinking. Is this orange or pink?” I ask, smoothing the skirt. I think it’s a linen fabric of some kind -- I think I should be playing canasta in Florida in this dress.

  “Coral,” Caulter says, walking up behind me and placing his hand on my rear. “It does make your ass look great, though.”

  “Hands off,” I order. “No hanky panky.”

  “Aw, you get in a pastel suit and you start acting like a grandma,” Caulter says, looking past me to his reflection in the mirror. “Even more than usual, I mean.”

  “Ha ha.” My eyes trace down the length of him. “Are you supposed to be wearing a jacket?”

  “Nope, just a collared shirt,” he says. “The stylist picked it out. Apparently I can't be too formal, you know. I’ve been told my brand is ‘tamed rebel’.”

  I cringe. “Did she really say that? Is this the same stylist who picked out all the new clothes after you burned mine?"

  "Same one," he says. "Not the panties, though. That was all my doing." He reaches for the hem of my dress, remarking more softly now, “Let me check to see if you’re wearing them.”

  I swat his hand away, but he slides it between my legs. “Stop, seriously, we’re about to go down there. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

  “We have time for a quickie,” he says

  I laugh. “Get away from me, asshole.”

  He doesn't seem too put off by my rebuff, even as he pulls his hand back and smacks me lightly on the ass. “I picked out every single pair of those panties, by the way. The 'tamed rebel' thing is from your father's PR person or whoever she is, though."

  “Mona,” I say, rolling my eyes. “She’s a tyrant.”

  “She says I'm a tamed rebel,” he says. “It sounds exciting. Maybe I should mention who tamed me when we’re on camera.”

  I swat at him, but he ducks out of the way, heading for the balcony door. “You’re a total rebel,” I say, watching him light a cigarette. “Are you seriously going to do that right before the interview?”

  He blows smoke off the balcony but looks at me. “Do you want me to get through the interview?”

  “Whatever,” I say. “As long as you play along.”

  “I’ll play the good little step-brother,” he says. “But I’ll be undressing you the whole time with my eyes.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure.”

  Thirty minutes later, we’re downstairs in the library, of all locations. Which is pretty much the exact place I’ve fantasized about having to sit in front of a camera and answer questions about my relationship with my step-brother. I mean, it’s just fucking perfect.

  “What happened to the living room?” I ask, as Mona ushers me to a seat, usurping whoever’s in actually in charge of the television show.

  “The background in here is more suitable for a family interview,” she says as she adjusts the collar of my jacket.

  Yes, of course. The place where Caulter and I broke a ladder while fucking is definitely suitable for a family interview.

  I glance at Caulter, and he’s hiding a smile, the shithead. Argh. Caulter is going to love everything about this, especially my discomfort. We may be screwing, and I may not hate him with quite the fiery passion with which I used to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take great pleasure in watching me writhe under the pressure.

  Caulter likes to watch me squirm. The thought jumps into my head, immediately making me think about sex, and I try to push it away. Focus, Kate.

  Mona slaps me on the thigh. “Knees together, crossed at the ankles. Sit up straight, lean slightly forward so the sofa doesn’t eat you.” She barks out her orders like a drill sergeant, before motioning impatiently for Caulter. “Caulter. Here.”

  Whoever is actually in charge of the set up on the set gently intervenes, moving my father and Ella onto the sofa adjacent to us.

  When the cameras roll, it’s three-two-one and smile and one big happy family. Meanwhile, my mind is nowhere near even listening to any of the questions directed at my father and Ella.

  When the interviewer, a grandmotherly woman with a penchant for asking questions that make stars dissolve into tears, turns to Caulter and I, it's one softball after another. Did we know each other at Brighton? Did we get along? What are our plans after the summer?

  We parrot the responses we've been given, smiling and being engaging, like two robot minions doing my father’s bidding.

  On the surface, it’s uneventful. But I carefully avoid eye contact with Caulter, and choose my words like I’m stepping through a minefield. The questions that should be so easy to answer are now laden with a deeper meaning.

  Of course we get along, I say. What I don’t say is that Caulter’s face was buried between my legs this morning before I even got out of bed. We get along very well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THR