A Very Dirty Christmas Read online

  Maybe I'm having a stroke or something. Personality change is a symptom of stroke, isn't it? Or I have a brain tumor. I make a mental note to talk to my doctor when I get back to Dallas: "Doc, I'm feeling different from my usual whorish self. I think I might be ill." It's a perfectly legitimate concern.

  The girl on my right paws at me, leaning over, her long brown hair grazing my arm, and for a second when I glance at her hair, I'm reminded of Delaney.

  As if I could forget Delaney. She's been running through my head since we left Dallas. Last night, I threw my phone in the bottom of my bag and watched TV in the hotel room until I passed out, just so I could avoid thinking about her and where she was going dressed the way she was. At the fan event today, I could have sworn I even saw her in the crowd.

  Maybe I do have a fucking tumor.

  "I'm not wearing panties." The girl has to yell it into my ear, despite being so close to me I can feel her lips against my skin. I look down at her, letting my gaze linger on her long tan legs and her short-short white dress. The dress with no panties underneath.

  "Maybe next time," I say. Part of me thinks I should say yes. What I need to do is take that girl in the bathroom and fuck her up against the bathroom stall. I could shake myself out of this slump.

  Except it's not as much of a slump as it is the fact that my thoughts are preoccupied with Delaney.

  The girl slides her hand over my chest, and I push it away, careful not to be too forceful. I want to fling it off me, get her disgusting paw away from me. But Gaige O'Neal doesn't do that. Gaige O'Neal is always up for a good time.

  She leans in closer. "I'm up for anything," she says. "Anything."

  I groan. Normally, I'd be all over this. The girl is hot – she's tall, thin, looks like she stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, and she's offering anything. Anything is exactly what I like to hear.

  And I'm turning it down?

  Something is definitely wrong with me.

  I break down and text Delaney.

  Have you used it yet?

  It's not more than a minute before she responds.

  Of course not.

  Then, a second later, she sends another text:

  Obviously, I built a shrine to it in my room.

  I'm sure Delaney was so embarrassed by it that she has it stashed away somewhere in the room where no one would ever find it. Under her bed, maybe, or in the closet. She's private like that. She embarrasses easily. I used to love getting a rise out of her, watching her blush when I'd say anything even remotely sexual to her. Innuendo used to make her face turn pink. It's still just as fun getting under her skin.

  Aw, he's meant to be touched, not to be put on a pedestal.

  Chelsea catches my eye from where she sits at the other side of the VIP area and glares at me, then looks at the phone. It's business, I mouth, and she shakes her head. Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm supposed to be partying, doing shots off the taut little abdomens of college girls.

  The phone buzzes again and I click on the text.

  I'm sure the real thing is getting plenty of touching in Vegas.

  Delaney's obvious jealousy actually makes me pleased. I don't know why she's insecure. She's a fuckton more interesting than the girls I'm surrounded with, with their glazed-over eyes and their plastic bodies. She's smart as hell. Smarter than I am. She's also prettier than these chicks – looks real, you know? She's not a stick figure. She's normal. Curvy. Really fucking curvy.

  In fact, my cock stirs just thinking about the way she looked, when she burst through the door of the guesthouse in the middle of my photo shoot, her shirt completely see-through and clinging to her tits. If I think any more about Delaney and her curves, I'm going to have to go jerk off in the bathroom, and that could be awkward.

  Jealous? Thought you had a hot date last night.

  I can't resist asking. I want to know who the fuck she was with. I don't even know if she has a fucking boyfriend. She could have a damn fiancé, that's how much I know about her life since we've been apart. I don't even know why the fuck I care.

  She's the one that got away. The thought floats through my head, and that's proof positive that I'm losing my damn mind. It's the fucking medication the doctor has me on that must be the problem. There's no way Delaney Marlowe is some long lost love. The only thing that got away from me was the chance to hook up with her. That's what it is. She's just the one chick I never screwed. I should still be pissed as fuck at her for not showing up that night. And then for ignoring me, acting as if nothing ever happened between us. And for leaving for college after that. My phone buzzes again.

  LOL. Date with a friend.

  Yeah, right. What kind of friend is she dressing up for in boots like that? I'm annoyed thinking about her and one of her girlfriends out picking up guys. Or, hell, what if the friend is a guy?

  Friend with benefits?

  She doesn't respond. I flip around on my phone, paging through my social media accounts, while the music in the club provides an annoying background for my thoughts. I wait another few minutes, and get no response, then slide my phone in my pocket.

  Friend with benefits. The thought of Delaney hooking up with someone else makes me unnaturally angry. So angry, that when I look up to see Chelsea standing in front of me, I snap at her. "What?"

  Chelsea leans in close, her hand on my arm, her breath warm against my ear. "You're not having fun."

  I shrug. "I have to take a leak."

  "The bodyguard will go with you."

  Shit. I can't even fucking take a leak on my own, without having some three-hundred-pound gorilla hold my damn dick for me? Being rich and famous is a real trip, that's for goddamn sure.

  I'm too tired to even argue with Chelsea. I don't care. The bodyguard parts the sea of people in the club and starts to follow me into the bathroom. "What?" I ask. "Are you going to fucking watch me take a leak now, too?"

  He ignores me, going in first and looking around. Delaney's damn father apparently hires security who think they're guarding the President or something, instead of a two-bit celebrity like me.

  I'm washing my hands, noting that Delaney still hasn't texted me back, when the door opens. I expect it to be the bodyguard, but it isn't. It's Chelsea.

  "Shit. Can't I get two minutes of quiet?"

  She pouts. That damn pout of hers has got to go. It's so fucking annoying. What is it with girls and pouting? It doesn't look cute; it looks juvenile. Delaney doesn't pout. The thought goes through my head and I want to rip it out of my brain. Screw Delaney and whoever she's hooking up with in Dallas.

  "Do you want me to leave?" Chelsea asks. She walks over to me, stands in front of me with her hand on her hip and one leg jutted out to the side. She knows how to work her body, I'll give her that much. She's wearing this little red number that offsets her creamy skin and her black hair.

  Do I want her to leave? I hesitate before I answer. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. It'll just make it awkward in the future, Chelsea."

  She purses her lips, eyes me thoughtfully. But she doesn't move. "You're my client," she says. "Which means I'm at your disposal. And you look tense."

  "I am fucking tense," I say. "When can we get out of here?"

  "An hour longer," she says, stepping forward. I realize she thought that my saying I was tense was an invitation for more. "If you'd like, I can help you feel…less tense."

  I should take her up on the invitation. Or take the other chick up on her invite for more. That would be the smart thing to do. That would be the Gaige thing to do.

  But my phone is in my pocket, weighing heavy on my thoughts. And more specifically, Delaney is weighing on my thoughts. It's her I can't get out of my fucking head.

  "Well?" she asks.

  "Well, nothing, Chelsea," I say, my voice hard. "I hope I don't have to get a new manager at Marlowe because things got awkward between us."

  Chelsea slides her palms down the sides of her dress, straightening the fabric. "I hope not," s