Merry Ever After

“Not like you never partook,” Carl says, wicked humor threading his voice. “That sweet little piece you had when you visited. Everyone in the house heard her screaming.”

Even the mention of that hour with Sinclaire, if that was even her real name, calcifies my dick in my pants.

“Her asshole husband ever show up for any more parties?” I ask, hoping I sound casual.

“No, and before you ask me again if I have any way to contact her or him, the answer is no. It’s coordinated through an app that guarantees privacy. Even if I did, it’d be against the rules to give out the personal information of anyone who attended one of our parties.”

“She does live in Chicago, though, right?” I press. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t seem to pry that night from my mind. I dream about her high cheekbones and luscious mouth. That ass. Her hair. Her scent and the thick syrup of her voice. Last, but certainly not least, that sweet, tight pussy. In my dreams, I taste her all over again. I discreetly shift my dick in my pants as I walk toward my agent’s apartment. Sporting a hard on the size of Harlem is not how I want to show up for the annual Christmas party.

“I don’t know anything about her,” Carl gives the same reply he has every time I inquired. “He’s never showed up again. That’s a cold trail, buddy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She really got to you, huh?”

I open my mouth to deny it, but she did get to me. In an hour, I can’t say it was love at first sight, but it was for sure lust and fascination. She drew me in, held me like no one ever has before or since.

“She was beautiful and sweet,” I settle on understating.

“And a great lay by the sound of it,” Kelly pipes in . . .still on speaker phone.

“I’m gonna go,” I say hastily, wondering how I lucked up with these two for relatives. “I’ve arrived at this party.”

“See you next week for Christmas,” Carl says. “And please don’t mention our . . .um, lifestyle to Mom and Dad. She’ll have me in a confessional faster than you can say rosary.”

“You keep my secrets, I’ll keep yours, brother,” I chuckle. “See you next week.”

We disconnect and I enter the impressive apartment building with its revolving glass doors. My agent is living the high life.

“Good evening,” the security officer behind the desk says. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. Harper Calloway here for Merrin Sanders,” I tell him, checking my phone for the invite details. “Apartment 1050.”

He calls to confirm I’m expected and directs me to the elevator. The level of luxury is slightly intimidating. My black slacks and button up felt perfectly fine in my Brooklyn loft, but now I’m wondering if I should have upped my game. Merrin has an impressive stable of authors. I’m probably the newest to the game. I’d hate to be the only one who looks like I don’t have a bestseller to my name yet.

When I ring the bell of the tenth floor apartment, the door swings open and Merrin greets me with a white smile, dazzling in contrast with her rich brown complexion.

“Harper! Glad you could make it.” She steps back and motions me inside. “Come on in. Lemme get your coat.”

I hand her my peacoat, letting my eyes wander over the discreetly expensive apartment. Set into a sunken floor, a massive sectional dominates the living room. A Christmas tree, maybe a ten footer, is positioned in front of a floor to ceiling window, which showcases a breathtaking view of the city. An assortment of candles decorate the mantel, three red, three green and one black for Kwanza.

“You have a beautiful home,” I say, following her into the room and nodding to several people already sipping from flutes of champagne.

“Thank you.” Merrin grabs a glass from a server passing by with a tray. “Here you go. Imbibe.”

I accept the glass and take a sip.

“That’s delicious.” The bubbles tickle my nose and the taste settles on my tongue, effervescent and fruity.

“It’s Stuyvesant,” Merrin says. “One of the few champagnes made by a Black woman.”

“Nice.” I take another sip. “Never heard of it.”

“Now you know,” she says with a grin. “Come on and meet some of the other authors, and then we’ll eat.”

There’s ten of us. Merrin says most of her authors live elsewhere, but she has the ones based in New York over for a casual holiday gathering each year. I try my best not to be intimidated by the assembly of brilliance in the room, but imposter syndrome is a motherfucker.

“You’re Harper, right?” a tall man with sharp eyes asks when I find myself nursing a glass of champagne in the crook of the sectional.

“Uh, yes.” I lift a querying brow. “I’m not famous or anything. How’d you know?”