6. A very boujie Christmas
Chapter 6
A very boujie Christmas
SAWYER
L ike most things in life, the secret to a stellar costume is quality. Spare no expense.
For example, if you want your elf ears to pass as believable, you need to spring for the showbiz-grade prosthetics. The little plastic ones you get with those cheap bagged Halloween costumes aren’t going to cut it. Bah humbug on those. They aren’t approved by me.
Unless you’ve forgotten, you already know I’m bougie as fuck. So what else would you expect from me other than a costume so fancy that I could pass as an extra on the set of the best holiday film of all time, Elf . And if you disagree with my holiday movie taste, how does it feel to be wrong? I wouldn’t know.
Anyhow, I pulled out all the stops when designing and purchasing costumes for Sammy and myself. As you’d expect, we’re coordinated like any self-respecting couple attending a party.
During one of the many long days at Redleg, Lettie and Sammy formed a party-planning committee. After the success of Tomer’s proposal to Lettie a few weeks ago, which Sammy and I helped facilitate, my wife got a wild hair up her ass and decided everything would be better if she could help coordinate it. I suspect it’s boredom. She’s taking an interest in festivity planning to prevent going stir-crazy.
As to the theme of the Redleg Holiday Bash, did I influence their decision by dropping hints about costumes? Perhaps.
A magazine opened to a specific page here. A joke about how funny Leo would look dressed up like Scrooge there. Or the occasional funny video featuring themed parties might have found a way to Sammy’s phone.
Okay, I totally influenced them. You caught me elf-handed.
But can you blame me?
Ever since Sammy and I got together, holidays are so damn magical. Before her, I used to dread the annual reminder of my loneliness. And now, I cherish every moment, wishing I could make it last forever.
Growing up in the foster system, I didn’t know what I was missing. I suspect I’m making up for lost time.
I’m planning to spend the rest of my life spoiling my princess and our babies with over-the-top celebrations. Not just for Christmas either. We’re going big for Halloween, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, and more. All of them! Hell , I’m even planning on dressing up as Lincoln for Presidents’ Day. Naturally, I’ve been perfecting what I can only assume his accent would have been. And yeah, I’ve memorized the beginning of the Gettysburg Address. It’ll be a laugh riot. Can’t wait.
And everyone knows costumes are an essential part of any holiday celebration. So I was elated when the ladies decided the partygoers had to dress up like a character from a holiday movie, wear an ugly Christmas sweater, or don a traditional holiday themed costume. If any of the attendees fail to dress up, they don’t get in. Period. No exceptions. We should have everything from Frosty to Clark Griswold. I can’t freaking wait for tonight.
My knee won’t stop bouncing under the table as Sammy and I finish lunch in the break room at Redleg. Well, as I finish lunch. She’s merely picking at the crust on her turkey sandwich.
“What’s the matter, princess? Aren’t you hungry?”
Her hand flops to the table, and she flays me with a set of pouty lips and sad eyes that could make a grown man cry.
It’s me. I’m the grown man about to cry because of how sullen she is.
Instead of answering audibly, she shakes her head. Despite the laws of physics, her lower lip juts out even farther.
Aww , my darling wife is utterly miserable this late in the pregnancy. She’s only got another week before the doctor will induce her if she hasn’t gone into labor on her own yet. Our twins will be here in a week or less. And yet, an air of hopelessness wafts around her so thick I’m tempted to bat it away for her so she can breathe.
I pop the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth while contemplating how to ease her discomfort. After a swig of my coffee, I ask, “Want to rest in the bunk room? I’ll rub your back.”
“That would be nice. Can you send in one of those chair things and a bunch of guys to carry me? Like Cleopatra. What are those things called?”
“A litter or sedan chair, depending on the country,” I answer, barely pausing to think.
She scoffs. “How the hell do you know that?”
On the off chance the story might elevate her mood or at least provide a distraction, I explain how it went down. “About two years ago, Klein, Shep, and I were on a job guarding the royal family from Brunei.”
She shifts back in her seat, propping her feet on the chair beside her. A haggard sigh escapes her rounded lips from the exertion required.
Rising quickly, I shuffle to that seat so I can massage her lower legs while I finish the story. Her beautiful, albeit slightly swollen, face softens in contentment when I start massaging her ankles in soothing circles.
“One of the Sultan’s daughters was a beast of a woman,” I continue. “Not big or anything. It was her attitude. We’re talking raging diva meets bridezilla meets spoiled rich teenager with a heaping helping of narcissism thrown on top like free sprinkles. You get me?”
“It’s okay if you say bitch ,” Sammy quips. “Some women deserve it. Some men, gays, and theys do too. I won’t judge you for calling a spade a spade. She sounds like a turbo bitch. And I’d know since I’ve been one myself at times.”
“No, you haven’t. Don’t talk shit about yourself.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “Coping via dark humor is still coping.”
“Fair. But you get the picture about this woman without further adjectives.”
Her eyes flutter closed when I dig my thumb and forefinger into the fleshy space surrounding her Achilles tendon. “ Mmm . Continue, please. Mega royal bitch. How do we get to you knowing what that chair thing is called?”
“Well, one afternoon me and the boys were joking about how we wouldn’t be surprised if she started asking us to carry her around from room to room.” My chest shakes at the vivid memory unfolding. “You know how I love my practical jokes, right?”
Facetiously, which is my favorite version of Sammy, she lays her flattened palm across her chest and gasps. “You do? Oh, I had nooo idea. Wish I had known before getting knocked up and hitched. Do you think this affliction is hereditary?”
Her teasing reminds me of something, so I take a quick break from the story. “Speaking of getting hitched, did you give any more thought to the name change now that you’re my wife?”
I’d giggle after saying that if I wasn’t a tough, macho man.
But I am. So no giggles. Well, no external ones. I can giggle inside. And I do.
“My wife,” she drawls playfully, deepening her tone and fanning her face. “So hot. Now, growl it. Pretend another man was just rude to me, and you must defend my honor. Something like, ‘Don’t you dare disrespect my wife.’ I’ll come on the spot. Hands-free instant orgasm.”
I switch to her other ankle, starting with small circles again. “As much as I’d love to make you come, we can’t do that here. Role-play in the Redleg HQ break room on Christmas Eve is a bit much. Even for us, gorgeous.”
“Denying me like this? Grounds for divorce,” she tosses, clicking her tongue. “Thin ice, buckaroo. The thinnest.”
“Buckaroo, huh? That’s a new one. Can’t say I’m a fan.”
“It isn’t fair only I have a nickname. I’m testing out some for you.”
“Fine, but I get veto power.” I finish my coffee, then reach across the table to get a sip of Sammy’s water to rinse my mouth before I start chomping on a stick of gum. “Wait. Don’t I already have a nickname?”
She yawns and starts rubbing circles on one side of her belly. “Shithead smartass fuckface isn’t acceptable for use in public, darling.”
“I was referring to the other one. But that’s fair.”
Lowering her volume, she purrs, “Oh, you mean how I call you my good boy ?” That fucking velvety dominant voice of hers goes straight to my balls.
Dammit.
Don’t get hard, dick. Don’t get hard. Man down.
We haven’t had sex in well over a week because of how shitty she’s been feeling, which is totally understandable. But I’m bricked up like a nineties fireplace. I should hang some stockings from myself for when Santa comes.
At least someone is coming. Lucky bastard.
And now, she’s calling me good boy with her sex voice. Unfair.
“Yes.” My brows dance. “That’s the nickname I was referring to.”
“Again, not appropriate for public. So I’m deciding between chief, buckaroo, sport, and sarge.”
“Sarge? Yikes.” I shake my head vehemently. “We used to call Big Al that sometimes back in the service. That’s a hard limit.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s a no, then. Veto approved.”
“How about you call me daddy?”
She’s mid-sip, and her unexpected laugh sends water dribbling down her chin. “Kinky fucker.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant ‘cause of the twins.”
She dabs her chin with a napkin. “Come on, Sawyer. You knew what you were doing by suggesting that.”
“Not true, Mrs. Sawyer,” I offer, testing the waters. “I’m innocent of all charges.”
I’m still trying to figure out why the name thing is so important to me. It’s not like it holds a great significance in my life. I don’t know my family, nor do I have an emotional connection to it. I doubt I come from a long, illustrious line of great Sawyer men. And my last name is unofficially my first name, so I can admit calling her Mrs. Sawyer seems weird. We’d be Sawyer and Sammy Sawyer since I refuse to go by Perry.
Yet I still want her to take my name.
Baffling, but there it is, nonetheless.
“Babe, it’s not that I’m outright opposed. But if I took your name, I’ll be screaming out my own last name when we have sex. Won’t that be strange?” She grins lasciviously, likely thinking about sex. I do the same, so my face probably wears a similar expression.
“Ready to go downstairs for a back rub?”
“Where’s my litter thing? I can’t be expected to walk. The babies are going to shatter my entire pelvis any moment now. And my back hurts like hell again today.” She furrows her brows and makes duck lips like she was hit with a sudden realization. “And hey, you never finished the fucking story about the damn thing.”
Her pissy attitude, accompanied by the reminder of my practical joke, sets off a short burst of laughter that shakes my stomach. “Sorry.” I retrace my thoughts back to the story. “Right, so we were joking about carrying her around, really hamming it up to pass the time. The next shift, I showed up with a handcrafted sedan chair. Hid it in the back of the SUV with the last row of seats pushed down until the time was right.”
“What do you mean by handcrafted?”
“I made it out of empty cardboard boxes that I covered in gold embossed wrapping paper so it looked fancy. Even glued on some little gems I got at the craft store for embellishments. I used the empty wrapping paper tubes to make the poles that we’d have to use to carry the chair. If it were real, that is. Then, I put bicycle grips on the ends of the tubes to sell it. I still don’t know how I fooled them. It was clearly DIY, but they fucking fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. And boy, were they pissed.”
“That’s not the least bit funny,” she says while snickering.
“If it isn’t funny, why are you laughing?”
“I’m laughing at myself for being dumb enough to marry you.” More chuckles, louder and more vibrant. “I’m such a loser.”
“Your loss. My gain. I don’t regret a damn thing. If you do, that’s on you.”
Her laughter grows, making her belly jump and jostle.
I point at her stomach. “The babies think it’s hilarious. Look at them go.”
“They’re trying to escape to get away from you.”
I join in on the laughter despite it being at my expense. If we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’re no better than the animals. And I fucking love her. If she’s laughing and smiling, then so am I.
Once she sobers, she pats the table twice. “Back to the story. What did you do with the damn cardboard box chair to fool them?”
“I had twing and twang come down to the parking lot to help me retrieve the sedan chair. They bitched and moaned the whole way down there because they figured I was messing with them. Probably thought we’d get downstairs, and I’d be all like gotcha !” I pause to catch my breath and stop the rising guffaws. “When I pop the SUV trunk, the profanity that came flying out of Shep’s mouth was legendary. Made every visit he had with Yuri sound like an afternoon in Church. For a second, I worried he was about to walk off the job. Klein stood there like he was cast in stone. Never seen an expression so blank. It was like he was rebooting. Princess, I fell to my knees, laughing so fucking hard. I couldn’t breathe.”
The same way I was in the story, I’m in all-out hysterics. Sammy’s cracking up with me, thanks to either my hilarious storytelling, my superior practical-joke-delivering capabilities, or the laughter contagion property. The law of laughter clearly states that if someone busts a gut in your presence, it spreads like chlamydia in the Marines.
Sammy’s the first to get her composure. “I’ll never look at Klein and Shep the same way. I thought they were intelligent men. Guess not. Because I’ve seen your crafting ability. It’s not impressive.”
“Well, in their defense, I had the interior light in the cabin of the SUV turned off and it was dark outside. So they didn’t have a great view. But the real reason the gag worked so well was thanks to Peggy.”
“Big Al’s former assistant? What did she do?”
“Earlier that afternoon, I had her send me an email from Boss’s account. The email stated the sedan chair had been delivered per the Sultan’s request and ordered me to pick it up before heading to the hotel for my shift. So that explained why it was in my SUV. In the elevator on the way down to the car, I showed them both the email.” A snort-laugh trumpets out of me when I remember the dumb look on Klein’s face when he read and reread the email. “The message said if we didn’t carry her royal highness around on the damn thing, we were fired. Made it sound like Boss was on a tear. Peggy did so damn good.”
“Ah. Well, I suppose I can forgive their stupidity. It wouldn’t be like Big Al to take part in a prank, so by the time they got to the SUV, they probably thought it was the real deal.”
“Exactly.”
With her smile gradually fading, Sammy sighs wistfully. “I love Lettie working here, but I miss Peggy. She’s a sweet old gal. You think she’ll ever come back?”
“Probably for a visit someday. But I’m not surprised she retired.”
“Well, the threat is still here, which is why she left, so it makes sense she didn’t return to work. And she’s at retirement age. I suppose I wouldn’t have come back either.”
I cast a doubtful eye roll at her. “You don’t believe that’s why she left, do you?”
Before she’s able to answer, Sammy inhales sharply. Her face pinches tight, and she slings her hand around to massage her back.
My spine goes ramrod straight. “You okay, Sammy? Contractions?”
Is it happening? On Christmas Eve?
But the costume party.
I chide myself for such a stupid thought. Dammit, focus, Sawyer.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Stand down, cowboy.” She waves me off with a flick of her wrist. “Just a pulled muscle. I told you my back is killing me. I think I slept wrong last night.”
“First, I don’t care for cowboy either. And second, are you sure? It could be labor. Remember how they said it can feel like back pain initially? Is your stomach tightening? How long have you been having them? We should time them.”
Her blinks grow fierce, and she bares her teeth at me. “Are you honestly mansplaining contractions to me?” The hostility of her blinks increases tenfold.
Yes, my Sammy has angry blinks. She says it’s her rage monster. And I think it’s adorable.
I fling my palms up. “Not mansplaining, princess. If you say it’s just a back strain, then I’m sure it is. You know your body best.”
Fifty bucks says it’s more than a back strain. And I know her body better than I know my own, so I’m sure I know hers more than she knows hers. That’s solid logic, by the way. Don’t think about it for too long.
However, I also know better than to double down on my belief that she might be in labor when she’s already this miserable from carrying our children for nine long months, the last of which has been spent cooped up in Redleg HQ. But I’m not letting her out of my sight today.At some point, she’ll realize what’s happening. No matter how stubborn she may be.
“Downstairs for a back rub, then?”
“I suppose I can attempt to walk, knowing my prize is a massage.”
After gently removing her legs from my lap, I point at her plate. “Are you done pretending to eat?”
“Yes, babe. I am.”
Working quickly, I wrap up her sandwich and toss it in the fridge in case she wants it later. Then I return to her side, helping her stand. “Want me to carry you?”
She blows a raspberry while hefting the rest of the way to her feet. “Then your back will be hurting, and I’ll have to hear you bitch about it. And I’m too damn swollen to be carried unless there’s a team of scantily dressed men in loincloths that want to hoist me into the air on that sedan thing. I’m still game for that approach.”
“Sorry, princess. The only man you’re going to see in a loincloth is me next Halloween. You just gave me a great costume idea.”
“Speaking of costumes, I’m regretting my decision. Do I really have to wear that thing? I don’t know if it’s still gonna fit. Can’t I get a pregnancy pass? All I want to do is hover at the cookie table anyhow, likely stuffing sweets into my face at record speeds. It’s the only food that tastes good these days. That and fresh oranges. Such a bizarre craving.”
I kiss the side of her head as we stroll down the hall toward the elevator. “Getting our little babies Vitamin C before they’re even born. Such a good mama already.”
Through a beaming smile, she snarks, “Kiss ass.”
“Is that an offer? I accept. It would give me great pleasure to kiss your ass. Your belly. Your thighs. Your breasts. And every other part of you.” Leaning close to her ear, I add, “Including that perfect little pussy.”
She doesn’t respond with words.
But her pace picks up. It’s still a slow stroll, but she’s definitely moving faster.
At the elevator, she mashes the button six times in rapid succession.
I rock on my heels, keeping my gaze straight ahead. “In a hurry, princess?”
As soon as the door opens, she bolts inside. But I wait, happily messing with her. Anything to rile her up.
She doesn’t disappoint. “Get in the damn elevator, Sawyer. Maybe I’ll play with your cock in here for old time’s sake.”
“We’re already married, but I accept your proposal.”