Acrylic? Oil? It didn’t even matter. He always thought of himself as blackness, but the truth was, he injected so many different pigments into my existence.
To have dinner with him on Christmas Eve, it felt important somehow. Not so casual like the rest of the things we did.
Vicious was right. I was a liar.
Because I told myself I could do casual.
When there was nothing casual about what I felt for him. Not even one bit.
It was a hassle to go shopping on Christmas Eve, but I wanted to get him something. Anything, really.
Vicious was big on music, I remembered that from when we were teenagers. In fact, the only thing we’d seemed to have in common was our mutual love for punk rock and grunge. Maybe that’s why I smiled like a fool as I strutted my way from the record shop with a Sex Pistols album tucked under my forearm. I knew he was going to get the joke. Sid Vicious.
They actually had a few things in common. Their white skin against their black hair, their flippant attitude, and their zero-fucks-given approach. I just hoped Vic being Vicious didn’t make me his Nancy.
As I prepared the essential DVDs to watch after dinner (it wasn’t Christmas without It’s A Wonderful Life playing in the background as you struggled your way through a food coma), I thought about Vicious as a child. What Christmases must’ve been like for him. I didn’t have his money, or his power, but I did have a family who loved me. Who catered to my every emotional need when I was a kid.
I only celebrated one Christmas in Todos Santos, but I remembered his dad and Jo had spent it on a Caribbean vacation. He went to Trent’s on Christmas Eve, but I think he’d spent Christmas Day at home. Alone.
Even then, Vicious was too proud to be a charity case. But he wasn’t too proud to know what pain felt like, and it couldn’t have been easy for him to see us from across the property. Our laughter carried all the way to his house, surely. Mama and Daddy were loud on the rare occasions they had a few drinks, and
Christmas was when Rosie and I always had our Christmas carol contest. Our house was full, while his was empty. Same with our hearts.
Mine overflowed.
His echoed.
Oh, Vicious.
It took me an hour and a half to muster up the courage to go upstairs to the penthouse and knock on his door. Before that, I just sat in front of a table full of the yummy dishes I’d spent what was left of the afternoon preparing. I’d made mac and cheese, Cornish hens, a green bean casserole, and my mama’s cornbread dressing recipe. I’d even bought an eggnog cake. Nothing with mushrooms. Nothing with fish.
But he hadn’t arrived.
I sat in front of the table and waited like an idiot because I was too anxious to watch TV, but also too proud to go check on him. Then I remembered that last time I saw him, he was completely out of it, sleeping on the floor, and guilt washed through me. I should’ve stayed with him. I should’ve made sure he was all right.
On my way to his penthouse, in the elevator, I cleared my throat several times because I didn’t want my voice to break when I spoke to him. Somehow, I still didn’t want him to see how affected I was by him. I knocked on his door three times and rang the doorbell twice, but nothing happened. I turned around, about to walk away, when one of the building’s receptionists walked out of the elevator with a wrapped gift and flowers. She headed straight to his apartment door. A set of keys jingled between her fingers.
She greeted me with a polite smile. “Happy Holidays.”
“Thank the Lord you’re here.” I almost threw myself at her. “I think something’s wrong with him. Can you open the door? We need to see if he’s okay.”
“Who, Mr. Cole?” Her brow furrowed.
What?
“No.” My voice chilled significantly. “Vic…Mr. Spencer.”
“Oh. Him.” Her lips pinched as she pushed the key into the hole. “I saw Mr. Spencer leave very early this morning with a suitcase. He’s probably flying back to LA. He’s already stayed in Dean’s apartment for much longer than usual.”
“Dean?”
She blushed. “I mean Mr. Cole. I deliver his packages for him when he’s not around. He gave me a key.”
My mouth dried and I blinked. “This is Dean Cole’s apartment?” I confirmed, feeling dumb. Not only about the question. About everything.
The girl nodded, her smile still wide. “Sure is.” She sauntered past me and just before the door closed in my face, she said, “Again, Happy Holidays, Miss LeBlanc. Hope you have a good one.”
But it was too late. It was already a horrible Christmas. The worst I’d ever had.
I was about to take the stairs back down to the apartment. There was no way I was waiting around for the elevator, and I didn’t want to get in with the receptionist because I feared I’d cry in front of her. I felt pathetic enough without adding the cry-in-front-of-a-stranger humiliation into this mess.
My steps toward the door leading to the stairway stopped when I heard my phone singing in my back pocket. I fished it out, my heart slamming against my chest, wanting out, out, out.
I begged for it to be him. Begged for him to have an explanation. Begged for all of this to be a mistake. He couldn’t have been so vicious. There was no way.
Staring at the screen for a second, disappointment gripped every ounce of me when I saw Rosie’s name, before the feeling was replaced with shame.
Vicious was a no one. Rosie was my family.
“Merry Christmas!” Rosie, Mama, and Daddy greeted in unison when I pressed the phone to my ear. I smiled despite the pressure in my nose. I was crying, but I didn’t want them to hear.
“Hey y’all! I miss you so much! Merry Christmas!”
“Millie!” Mama shouted in the background. “Please tell me your sister is not dating a biker named Rat!”
I did my best to sound like I was laughing, even though the emptiness spreading in my gut was numbing every emotion in me, even the pain.
“Rosie,” I scolded. “Stop messing with Mama’s feelings.”
We talked for about ten minutes, me still standing on the edge of the stairway, before Rosie took the phone to her room and dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Millie,” she said, “I thought you should know something about Vicious.”
It seemed like my heart stopped beating when she said his name. Hope and dread filled me in equal measure.
“Yeah?”
“Baron Senior died.”
I dropped my phone to the floor, my mouth falling open.
Jo.
The will.
His father.
Everything clicked like a gun hammer, and the invisible weapon was pointed at my temple. It was show time for Vicious.
But was I about to become his prop?
“FUCKING FINALLY,” I SAID, FLINGING the door to Trent’s red Range Rover open before climbing in. It was a nice rental, considering he was only here for the holidays from Chicago. I tossed my Ray Ban Wayfarers aside and shot him a look.