December, 2017

Cait had bought them all tickets to a Christmas Eve showing of the latest Star Wars offering, The Last Jedi. She and her dad were beyond excited about it, while Ingrid and Cillian manifested only marginal interest in this new instalment. Cillian was mostly curious to see how the heroine would develop and to examine the film's otherworldly settings. Anything could serve as a springboard for his own creative ideas.

Ingrid, on the other hand, had zero stakes in the affair and as a result, was the one least impressed by it.

"Well, that was underwhelming," she declared as they left the theatre. "They should have just let that idiot die."

"Ingrid!" Cait admonished.

"What? Not everybody gets a happy ending. Would have saved them so much trouble, too."

"Pragmatic as ever," Edgar commented.

"That's what you're paying me for."

Caitlin rolled her eyes and excused herself to go to the bathroom.

"Read them, have you?" Cillian mimicked in his best Yoda voice.

All three burst laughing. Yoda's ghost playfully chiding Luke Skywalker had been the highlight of the film.

"Oh, cute guy, six o'clock," Ingrid elbowed Cillian. "No, don't turn – "

The warning came too late, though. The boy turned – and blushed.

"He is hot," Cillian whispered back.

"He's totally sizing you up."

"No, I think it's you he's checking out." Cillian chanced another glance over his shoulder. "Definitely you!"

"Hmm. Let's see."

She slurped the remnants of her soda and discarded the cup before sauntering towards the cute guy and his gang. He flashed pearly-white teeth as he grinned and whatever Ingrid approached him with cracked him up.

They shook hands and a few sentences later, she took a piece of paper from him on which he'd scrawled something. Before they parted, she grabbed his chin and planted a kiss on his cheek. His friends whistled and howled, and she waved him goodbye, leaving behind red lipstick marks on his tan skin.

Caitlin got back from the toilet just as Ingrid returned. She stealthily passed the piece of paper to Cillian.

"His number," Ingrid winked. Then, having a look around and seeing the formation was complete, "Shall we?"

Shaking his head, Edgar ushered the group towards the exit.

*

Ingrid hadn't had time to prepare any presents, so as the tree decorating began, she watched from afar with Murphy while the Brennans fussed all around the great blue spruce they'd picked up from a farm upstate the other day. Pri had found herself a boyfriend and was spending the holidays with him.

"You're not joining them?" Murphy asked, waving his beer bottle as he pointed.

Ingrid shook her head, her hands firmly wrapped around a steaming mug of mulled wine. "Not big on decorating. Never did it much, growing up, so... It's, I don't know..."

As if on cue, Cait turned from the tree and called out to her. Ingrid declined, but Cait came to get her and she had to leave her wine with Murphy, to join in on the festive spirit.

It triggered painful flashbacks of when Jack had bothered to make an effort for their first Christmas together. It had felt magical, but all she'd been able to think of was Leon alone and miserable in his cell – even though she had just visited him, to bring gifts, and he'd reassured her he was doing well.

Ingrid blinked and returned to the noisy present. Cait was snapping selfies and she squeezed Ingrid into a group one, all four of them with the tree in the background.

"I am so framing this one!" the redhead declared.

Ingrid distanced herself from the infectious joy. Edgar spotted her unease and came to stand beside her, tentatively touching her shoulder.

"You okay?" he whispered.

She mustered a smile. "I've just never been big on Christmas, is all."

His hand moved to rub her back. "Why don't you wait for me upstairs?" he murmured in her ear. "I'll get rid of the kids and join you."

"It's Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake," she protested. "Spend it with your family."

"That's what Christmas Day is for. Come on. Since when do you turn down a proposition?"

Ingrid sighed, but found no counterargument. He knew her too well. She craved him too much.

"Alright," she conceded. "I'll be in my bedroom."

"Play sick," he added and went back to the tree.

Shouldn't be too hard.

She'd been feeling constantly sick lately. Her sweaty punching sessions at the gym served to energise her somewhat, but when she wasn't tired or drunk, sick emerged as the predominant sensation.

Murphy had left her mug on the coffee table and she stooped to pick it up.

"Well, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow," she told him.

"Turning in already?"

"Yeah, I'm..." A gulp. "Not feeling very well." Not really a lie. She could stomach that much.

Murphy's eyebrows creased with worry. "Catching a cold, or..."

"No, it's..." She chuckled, sounding bitterer than expected as a cheery Christmas song started up across the room, where the tree was being set up. "I wish it were as simple as a cold. I usually sleep those off."

"I see. Well." He stood up and leaned in for an unforeseen hug. Ingrid welcomed it. "You'd better take care. You're too strong to let the bastard grind you down."

"Have you read Margaret Atwood, Murph?" Ingrid inquired, with a laughing twinkle to her voice.

"I'm sure I must have, at some point in my life. Why?"

"It's..." She dismissively waved her hand. "Nothing, really. There's a... a sentence in her novel, The Handmaid's Tale, a mock-Latin phrase which is supposed to mean something like 'don't let the bastards grind you down.' That's what you reminded me of, just now."

"Oh, it's the one with the ladies in red dresses and white caps? I think I've seen ads for it. It's on telly now, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's a web drama," Ingrid confirmed. "Pretty badass, too. Scary as fuck, though. Feels too real."

"Well, my point still stands," Murphy reiterated and squeezed her shoulder. "Goodnight, ma'am."

"Goodnight, Murph."

Ingrid made her way towards the stairs and looked up the phrase as she climbed the steps.

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.

*

Edgar didn't make her wait long. She had time to shower and change, but her book hadn't made her sleepy yet. He locked the door behind him, then turned the key in the connecting door as well and climbed into bed with her.

"How are you?" he asked, kissing her cheek, his hand sliding under her pyjama top.

"I'm good."

"Yeah?" His breath was hot on her skin. Hotter still, as his hand ventured beyond the waistband of her trousers.

Ingrid spun on her side to face him. "Straight to the point?"

"Well, you have been begging all week."

She smiled into the kiss. "And you've been playing hard to get." Her fingers descended to his groin, wrapped around the growing bulge there. "Very hard."

He thrust into her palm and she pressed herself closer to him. Their lips merged into a hurried, hungry duel, teeth and tongues clashing. She pushed him on his back and sat up, straddling him, pulling her top over her head. His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath he took.

She lowered herself above him and let him flip her over as he captured her mouth. He got rid of his own jumper and began to kiss his way down her chest, teasing her breasts, brushing the tip of his nose along her ribs, licking her scars. When her trousers came off, she was left lying bare and he took a moment to admire her.

"What?" she asked, watching him stare.

His eyes smouldered like heated whirlpools. "Will you touch yourself for me?"

One of her eyebrows sprang up, inquisitive.

"Please," he murmured, biting his lips, "I just... I want to look at you for a minute. Take you all in."

"Kinky," Ingrid chuckled and framed his hips with her knees as she settled into a suitable position.

His eyes followed her middle and forefinger from her mouth, where she sucked on them, down the valley between her breasts and along the pit of her sunken abdomen. He absentmindedly touched her knee while she toyed with her wet folds, sighing and gasping, withholding a breath as she probed herself. Her free hand cupped one breast, nipple pinched between thumb and forefinger.

Still focused on Ingrid pleasuring herself, he slipped a hand into his own trousers and rubbed his flesh firm. He bent over and kissed her fingers, licked them clean, ran his tongue along the lines of her opening. Tasted her briefly before his mouth closed in on her whole.

She moaned into the pillow as he tortured her until she dripped ready for him. His fingers inside her, restless relentless scissors, came as a sweet relief in comparison to the there-and-gone technique of his mouth. It travelled back to her face, instead, claimed her own in a fierce, salty kiss. He still poked and prodded, until, pelvis levelled against hers, he spread her wide and slid in.

His mouth muffled any cries she might have let escape, silenced her as he found his rhythm, slow and lazy, tender and delicious, soothing and maddening at once. Ingrid hooked her legs around his hips, arms snaked around his torso and hands clawing at his back. He would not be persuaded to move any faster, though.

Her eyes found his, quietly questioning the sluggish pace. He gazed back at her, gentle, determined, patient. Kind. I'm making love to you, he seemed to say, don't rush me. Her vision quivered with tears. He frowned and stopped. She smiled. Kissed him. Arched her back to signal that he could keep moving.

His hips resumed motion, their heartbeats quickened, their breaths shortened. Almost simultaneously, they exploded into a flurry of mind-numbing bliss, their bodies tangled together as ecstasy rippled through them.

There was no drug quite like it. No high like the euphoria shared with a living, breathing human, extracted from the heat of their body and absorbed within one's own.

"Oh, I fucking love you," Ingrid mumbled in his ear, panting, "so fucking... oh... fuck..."

Her eyelids fluttered closed as he was kissing her forehead and soon, her lights went out.

*

It burned.

A blade to her throat. Thick, hot blood coated her collarbones.

She saw herself in a bathroom mirror, brought up a hand to stave off the wound in her neck. To no avail. Blood pulsed unabashed out of her artery, trickled through her fingers down her wrist.

Leon emerged out of the darkness behind her, whiskey gaze ablaze. He caught her scream in his palm clasped around her mouth, dragged her back with him into the blackness.

Ingrid's eyes flew open.

Brilliant winter sunlight filtered into the room. Her sore throat ached on the inside, but upon touching it, it felt intact. Save for the thin line that one small cut had left behind. Blinking fully into reality, she yawned and reached for her phone. The white glare of the screen always woke her right up.

"Morning," Edgar greeted as he strolled into the room from her bathroom.

He looked strangely happy and she couldn't pinpoint why, although a sinking feeling arose in the pit of her stomach.

"Hey," she croaked in response and cleared her throat.

He climbed into bed and kissed her – eyes, nose, lips, cheeks, jaw. A prolonged smooch on her forehead.

"What the hell got into you this fucking early in the morning?"

"Nothing," he said and nuzzled up against her, an arm draped over her waist. "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

"Oh. Right. Merry Christmas... jackass."

He laughed into the crook of her neck. "Is that the most endearing term you could think of?"

"Actually, yeah."

Ingrid continued to scroll down her Instagram newsfeed, eyebrows furrowed together. As she tapped through updates from some Christmas Eve event held at the 'rosette' gallery, an idea smoothened out her wrinkles. A spark from two rocks clashing, which set off a chain of fireworks in her brain, a myriad of bright potential and possibilities.

"Hey," she nudged Edgar, "how would you like to sponsor an art show?"

"Why should I?"

"Well – remember my friends whose wedding I attended in August?"

"Rose and Lisette," he nodded.

"Yeah, well, they're an artist duo and they've just had a massively successful exhibition in London, I was thinking we could bring them across the pond."

He propped his head on his palm. "I'm listening."

"It'd be a Brennan-catered event." She sat up. "Beer, whiskey, snacks made using our liquor, the whole shebang. We could connect with business partners, industry leaders, celebrities... make it a massive interactive ad. Doesn't get more social than that. Plus – you get to make a big, strong, feminist statement. Women make up half of the demographic and they'll flock to buy our shit once they hear about this. It'll make some men feel better about themselves, too."

The words tumbled out of her mouth as if from a broken dam, one after the other in quick, dizzying succession. She spoke them as they bloomed in her mind, like a field filling up on fast-forward with wondrous wildflowers. Now they were all buds, seconds later, their petals blanketed the earth.

He narrowed his eyes, smiling.

"Yeah, I'm drinking whiskey," Ingrid mimicked in a masculine voice, "but it's Brennan whiskey, ergo I'm a macho male and a supporter of women."

He laughed and she coughed, reverting to normal.

"Best of both worlds. Influencers will gobble that up, make it go viral. It could potentially double our online sales for a brief period, then they'll probably slide back and, I hope, continue into a steady increase as a result of our sustained efforts to capitalise on the social media momentum."

"That all sounds..." He pushed himself up beside her, reclined against the headboard. "Next to magical, if I'm honest, but I doubt we can afford it on the scale that you're describing."

Ingrid beamed back at him. "I thought about that, too. I'll call Michelle."

"Evans?"

"Yes. She should know Rose, she's Sienna's best friend. And she can check out the exhibition, it's still on display in London, make up her own mind if it's worthy of Evans endorsement in partnership with the Brennan brand. I'll sell it to her, I have a feeling she'll buy it."

Edgar's head bobbed into a couple of slow nods. "Right. Well, you can do that once we get back to the office. And keep me posted."

She gnawed at her lip, still grinning.

"When did you come up with all that?"

Ingrid shrugged. "Literally just now."

"Really? Back on your feet, then?"

"I suppose. I hope."

She looked away, shockwaves from her recent nightmare still palpable at the edges of her consciousness. Edgar pulled her to him, kissing her hair.

"You're so fucking brave, my love," he murmured, wrapping her in a hug. "I don't know how you do it. I think all that pain would have killed me. But you're powering through. You're fighting it with all you've got. That's admirable. Don't ever doubt your strength, Ingrid. It takes so much courage to get up every day and stare your demons down."

"I'm so scared," she admitted. "I didn't think... I didn't think I'd be afraid of death, but I... I am."

"That only makes you human."

She gave a strained chuckle and pulled away, wiping at her damp eyes. Edgar kissed her brow, then clambered out of bed to get something from the pocket of his trousers. It was a black velvet sachet, which he handed to her.

"Oh, Edgar," she clicked her tongue, "you shouldn't have... I didn't get you anything."

He snickered. "That's fine. I've had it since July, meant to give it you for your birthday. Except Murphy upstaged me and I missed my chance."

Ingrid pulled the sachet's strings loose and shook it out into her hand. A small silver watch tumbled into her palm, attached to a loop of chain. She held it up to her face to examine it closely. Her jaw dropped as she clicked the opening mechanism and the engraved encasing fell open on both sides, to reveal intricate clockwork behind a dial displaying Roman numerals. On the flipside, more of the mechanism showed, encircled within a finely decorated silver edge.

"Holy shit," Ingrid gasped. "This must have cost a fortune."

"Well, it wasn't cheap," Edgar conceded, "but far from a fortune, really."

"It's..." Coherent words escaped her. "It's beautiful, Edgar. Truly. I... I love it."

He smiled, delighted. "Was supposed to be a pocket watch. I asked them to fit it with this, so you could wear it around your neck instead, if you like."

"I can rock a pocket watch," she countered.

"I never doubted that for a second."

"And I will. Just you watch." She craned her neck to kiss him, clutching her present to her chest.

*

song of the chapter: i don't know what love is by lady gaga & bradley cooper

https://youtu.be/mfE-Z12fIao

merry christmas, ya filthy animals  🤭

lol jk 😉

happy holidays with your dearest ones, everyone ❤️