Under The Covers Read online

Escaping Christmas

  P.J. Mellor

  1

  Sweat-slicked skin slid against sweat-slicked skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. Their labored breathing filled the silent, darkened bedroom.

  Samantha Harrison huffed out a breath and licked her lips, waiting for her heart rate to slow down. Wishing the air conditioning would come on. It had been a hot December, even by Houston standards.

  “Hmmm,” she purred and stretched when Sean rolled to her side. She absently stroked his bare hip. “That was really great. I mean, really great. We may have killed off some brain cells that time.”

  In response, her boyfriend—and, really, at her age, should she call him that?—grunted. Had he just pushed her hand away? No doubt he was still dealing with aftershocks.

  “I’m thirsty,” she announced, crawling to the edge of the mattress and sitting up. “Want anything?”

  Another grunt.

  Biting back a smile, she pulled her discarded tunic over her nudity and padded toward the kitchen. Lights from the half-decorated Christmas tree lent the apartment an intimate glow.

  Samantha sighed. She loved Christmas, and this one promised to be the best ever. Remembering how she and Sean had been overcome with lust while attempting to decorate the tree brought a blush to her cheeks.

  Wobbly legs took her as far as the kitchen table, where she had to sit down to rest and think about what she should get Sean for Christmas—while she gathered enough strength to make the trek to the refrigerator.

  Sean’s jacket fell to the floor with a clunk.

  Rhetta, Samantha’s black Lab, immediately ran over to nuzzle the jacket, her thick tail whipping against Sam’s bare leg.

  The dog grabbed something off the floor, her butt in the air, tail wagging playfully.

  “That better not be Sean’s wallet,” Sam whispered, leaning toward her playful pet. “He was not happy when you chewed up his last one. Give it to me. Rhetta, release.”

  Reluctantly, the dog gave up her bounty. Sam looked down at a spit-covered box in her palm. “Uh-oh. What’s this?” She grabbed a dish towel and wiped doggy drool off the soft leather. With a guilty glance at the bedroom door, she eased open the lid, its creak sounding loud in the quiet apartment.

  Her heart hiccupped and then raced.

  “Crap.” Breath wheezed in and out of her lungs. A dazzling diamond solitaire reflected the twinkling lights of the tree. She met her dog’s curious gaze and whispered, “Rhetta, what am I supposed to do?”

  She and Sean had been together for a little more than eleven months, having hooked up at last year’s apartment association Christmas party. It would be only natural, now that she thought about it, for him to pop the question at Christmas. But…what would she say? True, she was twenty-nine years old. And, as her mother was always quick to point out, Sam’s biological clock was ticking. She wasn’t against marriage, per se. She just wasn’t sure she was ready for it.

  At least, not with Sean.

  Wait. What was she thinking? If not Sean, then who? Little by little, he’d moved in with her. They got along well, the sex was good…when they had it, anyway. He wasn’t a troll—they would make decent looking, if not pretty, babies. Assuming they had children.

  Her palms began to sweat. Her heart beat a tattoo against her rib cage.

  They’d never even discussed marriage, much less having a family. And speaking of family, she’d never even met any of his. She swallowed around the lump threatening to constrict her airway. What was he thinking? They hardly knew each other!

  Her heart pounded faster against her breastbone, her breath coming in panicked gasps.

  Calm down, calm down. Don’t hyperventilate and pass out on the kitchen floor. Think. What are you going to say when he proposes?

  Damned if she had a clue.

  Noise coming from the direction of the bedroom had her scurrying to replace the box in the jacket pocket.

  She’d just strategically draped the jacket in its previous position on the back of the chair when Sean shuffled into the room.

  Rhetta grunted, did the equivalent of a doggy eye roll, and went to lie down by the patio door.

  “Hey,” Samantha said through teeth that wanted to chatter. Eyes still trained on the ring box hidden in the jacket, she got up and sidled over to him, slipping her arms around his narrow waist. “Did you change your mind about a drink?” Hoping to buy time, she nuzzled his neck. Fabric stopped her, mid-nuzzle. “You’re dressed.”

  “Yeah.”

  Snuggling closer again, she began unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe she could distract him with sex, despite the fact he had never done a repeat performance in the same night since the first time they’d been together. And speaking of time, she needed more. A girl might get a proposal only once in her life. It was important to formulate exactly the right answer. She had to think of something. Anything.

  Sean’s hands on her shoulders drew her attention as he set her cold, shivering body away from his heat.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  Here it comes. Don’t freak. You should have seen this coming, you’ve been practically living together for months. Of course he’d want to marry—“What did you say?” She frowned, concentrating to hear through the roar of blood in her ears. She must have misunderstood. He couldn’t have said what she thought she’d heard.

  “I said I’ve met someone.” He looked everywhere but in her eyes. Did that mean anything? “I think she’s the one, Sam. And I want to ask her to marry me.” He reached for his coat and took out the now hated box.

  This can’t be happening. She blindly groped for a chair and sat before her legs refused to support her weight. A fist of nausea sucker punched her stomach and then pummeled her heart.

  Oblivious, Sean flipped open the box, the ring sparkling obscenely. “I’m not sure how to ask her or when. Maybe you could give me some advice?” With a shrug she always used to find endearing, he said, “I’m clueless.”

  You can say that again. Why hadn’t she taught Rhetta to attack, kill, or something equally dangerous? Instead her loyal dog sat and stared at them, obviously as shocked as her mistress.

  Calm. Be calm. She rubbed at the ache spreading from her heart and willed herself not to throw up.

  Screw calm. Revenge was always better.

  Before she could think of all the reasons not to do it, Samantha grabbed the ring from the box. She had to do something. Anything was better than dwelling on the horrible ache filling her.

  “Sam, don’t be like that—”

  “Don’t be like what? You, you…A-hole!” She gulped and swiped at her angry tears. “You’ve been living with me, sharing my bed. My god, we just had sex!” The psychological fist sucker punched her again, causing her to gasp. “When were you planning to tell me you’d found someone else?” she managed to say on an emotionally strangled wheeze.

  “Don’t make a scene.” Until she noticed the direction of his gaze, she’d forgotten she held the ring in a death grip. He couldn’t take his eyes off a damned ring he’d bought for another woman, and he was telling her to not make a scene? Who the hell did he think he was?

  “Don’t make a scene? Don’t make a scene? I’ll show you a scene!” she screamed, blinking furiously at the fresh tears blurring her vision as she quickly scanned her kitchen for a weapon. Something, anything she could use to inflict pain. He deserved to feel some pain.

  “I planned to tell you tonight—”

  “Oh, was that plan for before or after you screwed my brains out?” She slapped her free hand on her forehead, barely feeling the touch through her outrage. “Oh, wait! Obviously after, right? One last roll in the sack?” Her eyes narrowed. “You lowlife, lying, cheating sack of—”

  “I’m in love with Bambi, Sam, and nothing you say, no amount of name calling, is going to change that.” The A-hole had the audacity to look offended.

  “Bambi? Her name is Bambi?” She tried to keep her shriek down to a moderate decibel. “Does Bambi h
ave a last name, or is she just Bambi, like Cher or Madonna?”

  He mumbled something.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.” She visually searched the counter. Why did she have to be so neat? Where was a knife when you needed one?

  “I said her name is Bambi Donner.” He glared at her when she snorted in her attempt to swallow her snicker. “Don’t be juvenile, Samantha.”

  “Come on!” Her lips quivered. She was having a bad dream. It had to be a dream. “Who has a name like Bambi Donner? Is it a made-up name? Because, in my opinion, it sounds made up. What is she, a stripper?”

  “She’s the woman I love and plan to marry. That’s all you really need to know.”

  “Oh, well, excuse me!” She nodded, refusing to let his declaration hurt—well, refusing to let him know it did, anyway. “I get it. She’s good in bed. Probably into kinky stuff, right? I bet she does anything and everything you want. Better than me, huh?” She held up her finger, eyes wide with mock surprise. “Hey, was tonight a comparison?” She knew she was being snide, but couldn’t help it.

  “Don’t be a bitch. It’s none of your business, but Bambi plans to remain a virgin until her wedding night. I have decided I can wait until then to consummate our relationship.”

  Sam blinked and swallowed around the lump in her throat. She refused to let him see her cry, but…dang, could her night get any worse? “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. “It’s what Bambi wants, and I respect her too much not to honor it.”

  Humiliation flared, heating her cheeks. “Well, thanks a damn lot! What was I, the warm-up act?” Talk about a verbal slap in the face.

  He took a step closer, his gaze locked on the ring fisted in her shaking hand. “Give me the ring, Sam.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” she yelled. “You want the ring? Go get it!” Her hand whipped out, throwing the ring in much the same fashion she’d once performed in fast-pitch softball.

  The ring pinged off the window, banked on the tile backsplash and chinked in a slow, scraping circle on the porcelain of the sink until it fell through the black rubber rim to land with a final clunk in the disposal.

  Sean wasted no time diving for the ring, his hand following the bauble down into the disposal.

  Samantha was faster, leaping across the counter and stretching for the switch as his hand disappeared through the rubber opening.

  Her fingers closed around the plastic angle of the switch, the stainless-steel electrical plate cool against the palm of her hand.

  Their eyes met.

  2

  The air-conditioning clicked on, swirling coolness over her heated skin, the only sound in the quiet apartment—except for Sean’s labored breathing.

  Her eyes locked with his, she waited a heartbeat. Another.

  A sweat bead trickled down his nose, hung on the tip for a second, and then dripped down onto his lips. Lips that had kissed hers so passionately less than an hour ago.

  Cheating lips. Lying lips. She wished she could rip them off his face.

  Her mouth firmed into a tight line. Determined not to let him see her cry, she swallowed and let her hand fall from the switch. “You’re not worth the effort it would take to clean up all the blood,” she finally whispered, her throat raw. “Get out.”

  His shoulders slumped in almost comic relief, and then he groped in the disposal until he found the ring.

  Spotting her favorite baggy Texas A&M sweats in the laundry basket by the door to the utility room, she walked through the kitchen on shaky legs, not stopping until her toes touched the sharp edge of the plastic basket. Leaning against the wall, she stepped into the burgundy sweatpants, turning her back to shuck the tunic and pull the voluminous sweatshirt over her nudity.

  She was only slightly surprised to turn and find Sean staring at her.

  “Do you still have the list you made when I moved in?” he asked, his voice hard as he replaced the ring and snapped the box shut before stuffing it back into the jacket pocket. “Are you going to compare it to what’s left after I leave to make sure I don’t take anything that isn’t mine?”

  “I can’t deal with this now,” she told him, after a beat, ignoring the pain his cruel words inflicted as she looked for her purse. There was nothing wrong with lists or being orderly. He was obviously just trying to hurt her more—as though that was possible. “I’m going out for a while. I expect you to be gone by the time I get home.” She met his cold gaze, wondering what she’d ever seen in him. “Anything of yours left here will be destroyed, most probably burned.” She stalked to the door and stuffed her cold feet into the garden clogs she wore to walk Rhetta.

  Gripping the oval doorknob until it dug into her palm, she turned, blinking back more stupid tears, and choked out, “Leave your key on the table.”

  It took great restraint not to slam the door on her way out.

  She’d been dumped at Christmas, her favorite holiday. Ho-ho-ho. And, in case her dignity hadn’t taken enough of a beating, it was for some bimbo with the unlikely name of Bambi Donner.

  Two hours and twice as many margaritas later, Samantha’s key echoed in the lock. She stepped into the quiet of the darkened apartment, dropping her bag by the door. “Rhetta? C’mon, girl, let’s make a fast trip to the doggy run. Rhetta?”

  Silence greeted her.

  Must be asleep in my bed again. Sam made her way through the darkened living room to the door of the bedroom and flipped on the light.

  The rumpled bed was empty. The stale smell of sex permeated the air, turning her stomach.

  “Rhetta?” She made a clucking sound as she walked to the kitchen to rattle the dog’s bag of food—always a sure way to get her attention. Maybe doing mundane things would help ease the incredible sadness threatening to drag her under.

  Bending to reach into the cupboard for the food, she froze.

  The dog dishes were missing. So was the food.

  Running now, she skidded to a stop at the door of the guest room.

  Rhetta’s bed and kennel were gone.

  It took a moment to command her fingers to hit the correct speed-dial keys to call Sean’s cell phone. His voice mail clicked in. Three times.

  After leaving three semi-obscene messages, her phone chimed “Born to Be Wild.” Sean’s name appeared on the tiny screen.

  “Where’s my dog, you lying scumbag?”

  “Don’t be such a drama queen, Sam.” Sean’s hated voice stung her ear. “Rhetta’s fine.”

  “Give her back!” Sam blinked back tears as she paced around her living room, averting her eyes from the glowing lights on the Christmas tree. “She’s my dog,” she half whispered, choking the words out.

  “She’s both of ours. We picked her out together. And, if you want to get technical, she’s more mine because I paid for her spaying and medications. I just let you name her, which is how she ended up with such a stupid name.”

  “Bring. Her. Back.” She ignored his jab about Rhetta’s name. He’d made it abundantly clear how he felt about the name, and she wasn’t going there again.

  “This conversation is over. Bye, Sam.”

  Numerous calls connected with Sean’s voice mail.

  Fumbling, she finally managed to send a text message. Within seconds, her phone dinged with his reply.

  Get another dog, Sam, and get on with your life.

  Her fingers flew on the miniscule keys. I don’t want another dog. I want Rhetta.

  B.F.D.

  Bring her home.

  N.W. U R going to have to put it on your famous to-do list. Get a new dog. Rhetta has already moved on. She & Bambi have bonded.

  You S.O.B! Bring her home. Now.

  Anguished tears streaked down her cheeks, her pulse pounding in her ears while she waited for a reply that didn’t come.

  Tossing her cell to bounce on the couch, she ran to her laptop and powered it up.

  If what Sean had said was true, he had taken Rhetta when he went to see Bambi. If Rhetta was already
with the homewrecker, Bambi must live close. At least within a hundred-mile-or-so radius of Houston.

  Samantha clicked on the White Pages icon.

  “Hang on, Rhetta,” Sam murmured, flipping on the printer. “Mama’s coming to get you.”

  How many Bambi Donners could there be?

  Only one was listed. Samantha’s heart plummeted. Just what she needed to make her holiday season suck even more.

  Bambi Donner lived in the little Gulf coast town of Christmas, Texas.

  3

  Sam called and left a voice mail for both dental practices where she worked as a hygienist, telling them to cancel her appointments until further notice due to being called out of town on a family emergency. It was true—Rhetta was her family, and it was definitely an emergency.

  After entering Bambi’s address and phone number into her cell, she took a quick shower and haphazardly packed, throwing clothes and toiletries into a tote bag, and then grabbed the printed map and headed for the door.

  According to the Internet, Christmas, Texas, was a very small town. With luck, Sam could drive into town, grab Rhetta, and leave before anyone knew she was there. Worst-case scenario, she could have a heart-to-heart with good old Bambi and convince her to relinquish Rhetta. After all, Bambi had Sean. Wasn’t that enough?

  With those thoughts firmly in mind, Samantha hopped in her beloved BMW 330i and headed south on State Highway 249, taking the elevated entrance to Beltway 8 at breakneck speed. I-59 south came up, and she set the cruise control as she shot out of the entrance ramp. No point in getting a speeding ticket. She had more important things to do.

  Breaking for the exit an hour later, she saw the Gulf of Mexico in the distance, the morning sun dancing on the surface. She turned toward the Gulf and saw a big white-and-gold filigreed sign edged in tiny painted evergreens welcoming her to Christmas, Texas, population 867, THE MERRIEST TOWN ON EARTH.

  “Oh, please.” She glared at the nauseatingly cheerful sign, sponsored by the First Bank of Christmas. Probably the only bank of Christmas.