AN: More back story in this chapter (accompanied with a scene in the present so you can compare the characters and relationships) and the next one (or possibly two), and then we can all smile and rejoice as the plot shifts back to the 18th century. On a slightly different note, Happy New Year.
How My Perfect Life Was Inverted
Chapter Six: Flirt
"Julian," Sierra asked suddenly as she stared out at the raining sky, twining the phone cord about her fingers as she curled up in the window seat, "Julian, would you say I was pretty?"
There was a distinct pause in which Julian apparently stopped breathing.
"Julian? Are you alright?"
"…Yes…"
"Answer my question."
"Yes," he told her firmly. "Why do you ask?"
"You never say it."
"I never felt as though I needed to; and besides, you never complained."
"Until now."
"Until now," he conceded.
"Julian…" she began, and then stopped; she was about to ask him if he could do her the favour of kicking the shite out of the insufferable Stephen Verne, thus simultaneously exacting vengeance and retrieving her debit card, but then thought better of it.
"How's your fencing?" she settled for, and it sounded utterly pathetic, even to her own ears.
"It's not bad, but I must admit that now the novelty's worn off, I don't find it as interesting as I did before. But never mind; how's your ballet?"
"Julian, I never found ballet interesting. Frankly, I think it's a waste of my time and my parents' money; I'll never have any use for it; very few ballerinas become successful, and those that do are usually Russian."
"Well, to be fair, it does improve your poise and posture, and God knows you needed that." His tone was light, his words said in jest, and yet Sierra found she was scowling.
"…Thanks for that."
Julian shrugged her bitter sarcasm off.
"What about, you know… your piano lessons? And singing?"
"You know I never was musically inclined; once again, my parents have paid for them since I was seven, and my continual study is born out of an inbred sense of obligation as opposed to a personal interest; just like ballet."
"Gymnastics?" he tried, and she grunted.
"The novelty's worn off; I say, Julian—did you know that gymnastics was a sport?"
"…Didn't you?"
"I knew that they called it a sport, but I thought it was classed as a sport in the same sense croquet and javelin are. Now that I realise that it is in fact an actual sport, I must confess I'm not really very keen to continue with it."
There was yet another silence in which Sierra found herself wondering whether she should paint her toenails black or violet. It was so odd, how awkward this conversation seemed; usually, the two of them could spin an hour-long discussion over the most mundane of subjects, like… cheese. But now, there was a decidedly awkward… discomfort, and though she suspected why…
Hesitantly, her treacherous eyes darted to her desk, where the slip of paper with Steve's number scrawled in that oddly elegant hand of his lay. She didn't like how the whiteness stood out against the sable of her writing desk; in the dim lamplight, it looked like a shining beacon in the impenetrable darkness, beckoning her to come to it.
But Sierra wasn't in darkness, and Steve certainly wasn't her light. Silently berating herself, she returned her attention to Julian's warm, familiar, loving words.
"…Horse riding? You always loved horse riding; quite the equestrian… I still remember when you were eight…"
"Well, it's rather troublesome to chase a fox on horseback through Trafalgar Square, don't you think, Julian? Not with all those pigeons flapping about."
"Oh! So your parents have finally allowed you to join them on the hunt, then?"
"Yes; since I'm fourteen, I am considered old enough to watch a wild animal get ripped to bloody pieces by a pack of hounds."
"But you were only fourteen a month ago."
"I went on one hunt in August; my birthday's in October—"
"Late October."
"Well, I was practically fourteen," she dismissed.
"Did you catch anything?"
"The dogs were able to sniff out a poor creature with a leg caught in a farmer's trap."
"What happened? How was it killed?"
"It—" Sierra began, and stopped, swallowing nervously.
"My father gave me the rifle… He always takes a firearm, you know, so that—so that… Anyway, he gave it to me, and…"
"And?"
"…I shot."
"Oh, sweetheart, don't; don't cry; you put it out of its misery. It's nothing to be upset about…" And he continued to comfort her in this vein for several minutes, but the girl didn't notice; she was too busy subduing her tears to notice.
Eventually Julian, no doubt perturbed by Sierra's lacking response, informed her that he had homework to do, and with a heartfelt promise to visit her on Saturday, bade her farewell. Sierra herself put the telephone back into its grey cradle, and for several minutes sat with her legs pulled into her chest, chin resting on her knees as she stared out at the slate sky.
She was worried, of course she was; she couldn't tell Olivia, her parents' housekeeper and her guardian when the pair were away, which was frequent, that her card had been stolen, for Liv would call the police, and they would want to know where, and how, and when, and who, and she was supposed to have been playing Lady Macbeth that day…
Stephen Verne had her trapped, and she knew that she had to call him.
But what did he want from her? And would she be prepared to give it? And more importantly, could she give it to him? Did she have what he wanted, or did he just think she did?
Sullenly, she unfolded her limbs and, phone in hand, slipped back into her room, snatching the flimsy square off of her dark desk with a childish petulance before sitting down cross-legged on the carpeted floor, glancing moodily down at the paper before lifting the handset and dialling the number.
Two seconds later, and she slammed the handset down, silently berating herself as the number 1471 flashed before her. She didn't like the idea of his knowing her phone number, much less her home one. So she picked up the handset once more and, with a steadying breath, dialled 1471, followed immediately by his number.
Five vaguely muffled rings, only to be greeted by the cold, mechanical voice of an answer phone; she was so startled that she slammed the device down once more, leaning back into the hard leg of her desk, breathing heavily.
Get a hold of yourself.
Straightening her back, she pulled the device closer to her, her fingers flitting over the square keys, and waited the twenty seconds or so before that robotic voice greeted her once again.
"Hi, Steve? It's Sierra, do you remember me? We… met, at Angie's party about… three weeks ago? Listen, I was wondering… I don't know what you want from me, but I would really, really like to have my necklace and card back, so um… I'll try you tomorrow; I'd give you my number, but I really don't like the idea of you knowing—"
There was static, a sudden fumbling, and then that vaguely familiar, drawling baritone of, "And why not?"
She was caught unawares, and there was a silence in which Sierra attempted to gather her wits.
"Well, it just seems… I mean, isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me."
"…I don't have my own line," she rushed in a hiss. "I don't like the idea of you calling and having someone else pick up and talk to you. It's unseemly."
"Well if it's so unseemly, perhaps I should just spare you the anguish and hang up—"
"No!" she snapped, fear gripping her heart. "No, I… it's just… I'm sorry, but… I'm not really meant to talk to boys. I didn't mean for it to sound like that."
"So am I forbidden fruit then?"
"You're forbidden, but I wouldn't call you a fruit," she said, and he laughed softly. Oh, God… she thought, stretching out on the soft cream carpet, the cord tangling in her toes. He had a wonderful laugh.
"I'd really like to see you again," he told her, honestly enough, and she once again found herself caught off guard.
What—he just said—Just like that?
"Is Saturday good for you?" he continued, and before she could stop herself, Sierra had blurted out,
"I can't; I'm seeing my boyfriend."
There was a sudden silence in which she held her breath, ears pricked for the familiar dial tone.
"Well," he said at last. "To be honest, I… don't know why I'm surprised. You would have a boyfriend."
His quiet voice filled her with guilt.
"But I can cancel," she said quickly.
"You'd cancel?"
"Yes."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"You'd cancel on your boyfriend for me?"
"Well, you're far more important."
"Oh, am I now?" he said, his voice returning to its smug drawl, and she felt her cheeks heating.
"I… have to get my card back. Don't you see?"
"Oh, yes," he agreed smoothly, that smirk colouring his tone.
"But it has to be in the day," she said to him urgently. "I can say I'm meeting a friend of mine if we meet in the day."
"And what should we do in the day?"
"…I don't know. Something legal."
"Something boring, you mean?"
"And something safe. And in a public place."
"…Right." He sounded far from enthusiastic, she realised with a frown.
"And you have to give my debit card and necklace back to me," she stipulated childishly.
"I promise," he swore in a vaguely patronising tone. "Do you know The Intrepid Fox, just off Wardour Street?"
"What?"
"That's a 'no' then," he sighed. "Alright; do you know Wardour Street?"
There was only a blank silence.
"Are you familiar with the London Underground?" he persisted.
"Don't be so bitter; yes, I am familiar with the Tube."
"Right; so—"
"Steve?"
"Hmm?"
"Why must we meet at this… this…"
"Pub," he supplied.
"Pub," she agreed. "Why must we meet at this awkwardly placed pub that no one's ever heard off? Far easier to meet at some sort of tourist attraction."
"Because," he said to her, vaguely irritated, "I'll be down there at six o'clock in the morning, helping with the orders and supplies, and won't be free until half-twelve; if I have to travel from Soho to—Mayfair or wherever it is you live, I'm sure to be more than a little pissed."
"…Oh."
"'Oh.'"
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen," he said to her, and she found herself thinking, Julian's age, then. "Why?"
"Surely that's illegal; I'm sure you have to be eighteen to work in such close proximity to alcohol."
He laughed softly at this.
"Darling, you've never been to The Intrepid Fox, and as such, have absolutely no idea what a shit hole it is."
"So why do you work there, then?"
"I need the money; and besides, it beats four straight hours at a checkout everyday; at least I'm actually doing something."
Sierra had wrinkled her nose at the mere thought of heavy lifting, and looked down at her manicured nails in concern.
"And after your… six hours of manual labour?"
"Let me surprise you," he said to her in a voice that made her shiver.
"Alright, then; half twelve at your Intrepid Fox. Um… how do you get there?" she questioned timidly, and he laughed.
"Get the Tube to Piccadilly Circus, and walk up Shaftesbury Avenue—"
"Wait! I… I think I ought to write this down."
He chuckled again.
"If you must."
Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, Sierra reached up to grope for a pen and an exercise book; opening the book upside-down, she flicked a few pages forwards, pass the various doodles and scribbled conversations she had had in bored German lessons, and came to a clean page.
"Alright…"
Steve slowly and patiently repeated the directions to her, and she obediently jotted down Piccadilly, Shaftesbury Ave exit, Wardour St—halfway up on left, corner. Red and gold sign.
"Got that?"
"Yes."
"Read it back to me."
She did so, albeit with some resentment, and he expressed his approval.
"Steve?" she said quickly as he began to say goodbye.
"Yeah?"
"At the risk of your antagonism," she began, her words carefully measured, "I just want to let you know that if you hadn't had stolen from me—twice—I would not be meeting you this Saturday—and I certainly wouldn't have cancelled on my boyfriend either."
"Oh, I know," Steve told her, his voice mocking in its solemnity. "Why else did you think I took your purse?"
Her jaw dropped open, and she was about to snap some insult—or possibly a question—but the dial tone was already ringing in her ears.
"Steve sounds like a prick," Janelle said dismissively, topping up her glass; the pair had moved into the kitchen, thus providing the women with the privacy they needed to talk freely. "Only you would like him."
Sierra's lips twisted in what may have been a smile as she carefully lowered herself onto a stool; at Christmas parties, there always was that one person who could be seen discreetly consuming liberal amounts of alcohol, and this year Sierra had graciously (if not gracefully) taken that particular role upon herself. Although she wasn't one of those attention-seeking drunks that embarrassed themselves by singing or shouting or telling crude, unfunny jokes, Sierra's tongue, already so blunt and tactless whilst sober, became considerably looser whilst inebriated. It was no wonder Sierra rarely allowed herself drink.
"He's a lot better now he's grown up," she insisted. "He's a good boy now…" She discreetly reached out for Janelle's bottle of champagne, spilling a few sparkling droplets on the otherwise immaculate tabletop. "Speaking of good boys," she continued, standing, a hand reaching out to balance herself, "Why don't I check up on Johnnie and his little friends? I'm worried they'll find his present; little children are never asleep in these situations," and she gestured towards the closed door.
"Go ahead," Janelle permitted. "I need to get back out and socialize anyway." She pulled the champagne from out of her friend's reach before she went, earning a scowl for all her troubles, and vanished. Sierra pouted, downing what remained of the alcohol before setting the glass down and making her way up to where Johnnie and his cousins supposedly slept.
Just as she'd suspected, the bed and two sleeping bags on the floor were empty. Sierra smiled in amusement, quietly cursing as she tripped over a stray dinosaur. Scowling, she kicked the stuffed creature away before turning on her heel and stumbling slightly down the hall, pausing as she noticed a light creeping out from under Janelle's bedroom door.
Amateurs, she thought fondly as she leaned closer to the door.
"Johnnie?" she called softly. "Jordan? Adam? Are you in there, boys?" And she pressed her ear against the door, snickering as she heard three voices whispering to one another in panic. Against her better judgement, she decided to give the children a minute or two to gather themselves and hide.
A sudden scream changed this decision, and Sierra burst in just in time to see a curly-haired boy falling out of Janelle's closet, whimpering in pain and panic.
"Adam!" she cried, rushing towards the boy and gathering him up in her arms, kissing his head and rubbing his back soothingly; Adam, for his part, simply clung tightly to her bare arms, burying his face into her shoulder as Sierra murmured gentle words of comfort. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Johnnie and Jordan emerging from beneath the bed, both wearing expressions of confused bewilderment. Jordan hesitantly approached his twin, whilst Johnnie merely stood looking at the closet in distrust for several long moments before darting forward to cower behind Sierra's back.
"Adam, what's wrong?" Sierra queried gently. "Are you afraid of the dark?"
Adam pulled away slightly to glare at her; he was six years old, not a baby like Johnnie! Too old to be scared of the dark.
"No," he told her severely, puffing his chest out in an attempt to appear manly and courageous; a ploy which might have worked, had he not been curled up in Sierra's lap. "No, I'm not scared of the dark."
"Then what's wrong, honey?" she said, keeping her voice even and free of any traces of patronization.
"Nothing's wrong," he insisted, having conveniently forgotten his girlish shriek of terror.
"Darling, you screamed."
"Eww…" a third voice said, and the remaining three looked up to see Jordan attempting to pull out a large, greyish object. Johnnie was immediately on his feet, toddling over with the purpose of helping his older friend; Sierra merely frowned in confusion, rocking Adam back and forth in comfort.
"Oh my God…" she muttered, staring in disgust at what she realised was a mirror; the actual silvered glass was quite ordinary and inoffensive to the extreme; but the actual frame…
"Oh, you poor baby," she cooed, kissing Adam's soft hair, and Johnnie and Jordan narrowed their eyes in resentful unison. "Who'd have thought there'll be a skeleton—well, certain parts of a skeleton—in Janelle's closet, hmm?"
"W-Why is that mirror made of bones?" Adam squeaked, bravado abandoned as he clung tighter to Sierra's shoulders.
"God knows," she replied, ruffling his hair affectionately whilst silently promising herself to interrogate Janelle first thing in the morning. "Boys, you have one very morbid auntie…" And then she turned to Johnnie and Jordan, and her expression grew stern.
"And what are you two doing, standing there gawking?" she said in her most authoritative voice. "You're not going to find your presents here tonight—as a matter of fact, if you stay up late, you're probably not going to get them. Santa doesn't deliver gifts to naughty boys who stay up all night."
"Santa isn't real," Jordan piped up, and Johnnie's brown eyes widened.
"…What?" he asked brokenly, and Sierra shot Jordan a warning look over the four-year-old's dark head whilst simultaneously kissing his twin's forehead.
"He is real," she said to Johnnie affectionately. "Jordan was just being difficult, weren't you, Jordan?"
"He's not real, Sierra," Jordan told her earnestly, doing his best to dispel with the adult's naïveté and inadvertently causing Johnnie to cover his ears and whimper whilst Sierra narrowed her blue eyes in a glare. Sensing the hostility in the situation, he pointed an accusing finger at the boy on her lap. "Adam told me so, didn't you, Adam? That Santa Claus isn't real?"
Johnnie was very nearly on the brink of tears at this point, and Sierra turned her cold gaze on the child that merely seconds before she was comforting.
"Oh, did you really, Adam?" she asked in a misleadingly sweet tone. "And exactly how did you come across this fount of information?"
Adam was shifting uncomfortably, fear of a very different kind clutching his little heart. "My—My—My brother told me so…"
"What?" Jordan cried, aghast at this news, and Sierra beckoned Johnnie forward so that she might comfort him too. "George told you? And you believed him? Adam, you're an idiot!" And he leapt forward to hit his twin.
This didn't go down too well with Adam; fear and vulnerability were immediately forgotten as he scrambled from out of Sierra's lap to attack his slightly younger brother; Johnnie took immediate advantage of this and curled up in his friend's vacant place, where he took to burying his head in the woman's chest; and Sierra carefully scooped the boy up in one arm before crawling over to intercept the fight as best she could in the circumstances.
"Jordan—Adam—Ow, that hurt!—Stop it!—Enough!" And she pulled Jordan up from out of his brother's reach, doing her best to balance the two boys on each of her hips. "Adam, stop—I'll tell your mo—mummy and daddy how you've been behaving!"
Adam reluctantly deflated, a hand reaching up to rub his cheek; Jordan nestled further into Sierra's grip, and took the opportunity to smirk and blow a raspberry at the seemingly disfavoured child.
"Jordan!"
"He started it," the six-year-old whinged, but Sierra remained strangely unmoved.
"No, you did—Why did you hit your brother, hmm?"
"Because he listened to George; and everybody knows George is the family idiot who doesn't believe in anything—not even the tooth fairy…" Jordan whined. "Sierra… Adam really made me believe that there wasn't a Santa Claus…" and he tried to burst into tears so that she might kiss and hug him like she had done with Adam and Johnnie.
He failed. Miserably.
"Alright, the three of you—I'm putting you to bed. Come on." And she gave Adam a gentle nudge with her foot.
None of the children were willing to fall asleep, of course; Johnnie in particular was rather excited, crawling from under his bedcovers to excitedly jump up and down on the mattress and demanding if Santa was really real or not. Sierra decided to let the boy continue, and just as she'd suspected, the toddler soon grew tired of his exertions, nestling obediently under the duvet and clinging tightly to his brightly grinning Nemo, causing Sierra to smile fondly.
The twins proved to be more of a handful; Jordan still hadn't forgiven Adam for believing George, of all people, and Adam still hadn't forgiven Jordan for attacking him: As a result, the boys had taken to pulling and poking and pinching at one another amid petulant demands for apologies. Sierra solved this dilemma by dragging each sleeping bag to opposite corners of the room and bribing the boys with hugs and kisses if they swore to put their differences aside. This had a swift and immediate effect that one would have expected from a boy twice their age, but Sierra didn't complain.
After closing the door carefully behind her and listening quietly to make certain that there were no further secret expeditions being plotted out, Sierra quietly tiptoed to a spare room Sean and Janelle used as an extremely large storage closet: The latter had placed all delicate, sentimental items in several boxes, and had lined the floor with several newspapers, despite Sierra's assurances that Johnnie's present was fully house-trained.
"Quiet," she giggled as the puppy shot out from the slowly opening door, frowning as the creature attempted to jump up her skirt. "Down, boy, down; no—for legal and moral reasons, I cannot let you jump up there—Hey, what did I just tell you?" And she bent and scooped the puppy up, laughing softly as it licked her face affectionately.
"I just wanted to check up on you," she said to the animal as she closed the door. "Have a little more patience, hmm? I know it's frustrating to stay locked up in here, but tomorrow I swear you'll be free to roam the house however you—Whoa!—Careful!" And she tilted her head away, fearing that he might swallow her earring. She still remembered the trouble she had gone to in order to secure Janelle's approval of the gift; the two were arguing heatedly over the phone, as they occasionally did, and Janelle was just stating unwaveringly that Johnnie didn't really want a puppy anyway when their irate conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by an agitated and uninvited squeak of,
"Johnnie wants a puppy! Johnnie wants a puppy!"
"…Johnnie," Janelle had asked suspiciously, "Are you on the phone?"
There was a squeak of terror, followed by a clattering sound; seconds later, the sound of hurriedly scurrying feet could be heard pattering pass Janelle's door, and when the woman went to check on the boy, she found the child curled innocently up in bed, thumb in mouth, looking for all the world like a little angel. It was this, more than anything, that finally convinced Janelle to relent, which was how the Jack Russell came to be licking Sierra's face at this current point in time.
"A little longer, hmm?" she said to the enthusiastic pet. "Just the night…" And she hugged and cooed at the animal until she deemed it safe to set the creature down and sneak out of the spare room and into hers. After locking the door, she sat on her bed, carefully removing her jewels and affectionately placing them back in their box; the party was far from over, but Sierra had decided to turn in early, knowing as she did that by at least five or six she'd be jumped upon by a small gaggle of children. (Janelle had warned her of Johnnie's persuasive, door-opening whimper, having herself been awakened by it several times in the past.)
When I get back, I have to return them, she thought wistfully, her fingers tracing the air above the gems; which was a shame, to say the least, because they really were beautiful. Slowly, she undid her hair, setting the pins down on the bedside cabinet, and reached back to unzip her dress.
I wonder what Steve's doing? she thought as she carefully folded the teal material, and froze as the unbidden thought registered in her mind.
Beside her, there was a sudden beep, followed by that annoying noise that accompanied vibration, and Sierra started before relaxing upon realising that it was only her phone alerting her of a text message.
It was, of course, from Steve, who had playfully written,
Merry Xmas; did you like your present?
Sierra smiled, pleased that he hadn't forgotten the rant-tirade hybrid that had been unleashed upon him less than a week ago, about the evils of abbreviated words that accompanied texts and chat on internet forums.
I'll call him, she thought, realising with a guilty pang that she missed the sound of his voice.
"I didn't expect to be hearing from you so soon," he said to her upon answering. "Season's greetings, love; have you found your gift yet?"
"Yes, and I can't believe how stubborn you can be."
"You've only just noticed?"
"Hmm; your mulishness seems to have worsened in the time we've been apart. But thank you, Stephen. Really."
"It's no problem," he shrugged off.
"Yes, but I… I haven't gotten you anything."
"Don't worry about it; technically, I didn't go out and buy you something either. They're another woman's leftovers."
What an idiot Nicole was, Sierra couldn't help but think, turning to look at the jewels once more.
"Well, yes, but…" She flustered. "You'll be pleased to hear they went with my dress."
"They're colourless diamonds and white pearls; they'll go with anything you'll wear."
She laughed. "A word of advice; if you're ever offered the job of a personal stylist, please reject it."
"But they do," he insisted. "The assistant said—"
"That's just a part of their sales pitch; are you really so naïve?"
"Actually, I was about to say that the assistant told me that when a truly beautiful woman wears Mikimoto jewellery, they'll always complement her, and not her outfit," he replied smoothly, and Sierra felt herself flushing even as she frowned. "So, you know, you can wear them even when you're naked, and they'll still—"
"Stop right there; I think I know where this is going," and the man cursed her foresight.
"I hadn't even gotten to the part where I was about to suggest that whipped cream would be the perfect accessory to your naked pearl-wearing self; I mean, pearls are practically cream-coloured, aren't they?"
"I don't like whipped cream," she told him dismissively. "I prefer chocolate myself."
There was a pause at this.
"…Yeah: Actually, I can see that working just as well. Isn't that odd?"
"Well, I did assume that you could see it," she hummed, ever the eternal ingénue, and he chuckled.
"…So… What have you been up to, then?" she said, reclining on the bed in only her underwear and wondering what Steve would think of that. "How's your girlfriend… Sonja?"
"We broke up," he said to her facetiously.
"Oh, I'm so sorry; does that mean you're spending Christmas alone, then? Well, not alone, but—"
"No! No no no no no. Of course not."
"You have another girlfriend?" she asked, sitting up at this and wondering how he could have courted a girl so quickly.
"No; actually, I decided for the holiday season to get back with an ex."
Sierra's stomach turned at this, but she kept her face and voice calm.
"Nicole?" she guessed.
"No; Mark. Didn't I tell you about Mark?"
Sierra's stomach unclenched at this, and she smiled; for some twisted reason, she preferred the idea of Steve romantically involved with another man as opposed to a woman.
"Got sick of women, eh?" she teased, and heard—heard!—him frown.
"No, it's just… Oh, this is going to sound a little odd and silly, but…" he began before sighing. "You see, I have this… this sort of tradition; every Christmas, I alternate between girlfriends and boyfriends. You know, just to keep the scales balanced… Does that sound weird to you?"
Sierra nodded in understanding at this, not bothering to ask him what he would do if he was alone; a man like Steve was never alone. "…No; no, it doesn't. Actually, it sounds sort of sweet; sort of like you're trying desperately to cling onto your bisexuality. Are you really so insecure?"
"No," he pouted. "It's just… this pattern I've been following, although I suppose you may be right; I am becoming more and more inclined towards the so-called fairer sex, although it could be something to do with the fact that you can't impregnate men…"
He wants to have a child; possibly children, a voice told her needlessly. Jack never actually wanted children, did he? They just sort of happened to him…
Not at all like Steve.
Or you.
Sierra quelled this thought and pushed the smug little creature to the back of her mind, lowering herself onto the mattress.
"So; you're with Mark. How's the gay sex?"
"Fucking fantastic," he answered unashamedly, and she laughed.
"I thought it might be. But to get back on topic," she craftily steered, "As I was about to say, I also have a sort of… almost similar… Christmas tradition of my own, actually."
"Oh, really? Do you switch between men and women as well? Please say yes."
"I said 'almost similar;' it's not quite the same…"
"Well, what is it?" he demanded childishly, which was highly ironic, considering the subject matter.
"Well… I always have sex on Christmas Eve. Always."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh: Since I lost my virginity, or had you not noticed that as a teenager I always demanded to see you at that particular time of year?"
"You demanded during the rest of the year as well," he muttered under his breath, but not quiet enough for Sierra's ears to not pick it up.
"Anyway… Yes, that's my little Christmas tradition."
"Is that it?" he asked, clearly unimpressed. "Sierra, I must confess I'm disappointed in you; I expected something a little more… adventurous. Deviant, even. This is actually quite tame, especially for you."
"Oh, honey," she sighed exasperatedly. "You didn't let me finish."
"I'm still waiting to be impressed."
Oh, Steve, she thought wickedly. Trust me, you will be.
"Do you remember… when I was seventeen, and my school forced me and my classmates to go out and raise money for some charity or other? It was at this particular time of year."
"Um…"
"I was wearing a short little red Santa-esque outfit with thigh-high boots and a little whip to punish Rudolph and all the other naughty reindeer, do you remember?"
"It's all coming back to me," he said quickly, and she smirked. "Yeah, what about it?"
She paused for effect before saying lazily, "I still have that outfit."
"…Ah."
"And the whip. And the boots. And, of course, the little hat. A couple of years ago, I acquired a pair of rather festive handcuffs."
Steve made a strangled sort of noise that could have been a grunt.
"I like to think it completes the collection, don't you agree?"
When there was no comprehensible answer Sierra, positively leering now, continued in that lackadaisical way of hers, "I mean, obviously, the dress is a little snug; my boobs are practically bursting out—I'm wearing it right now, you know—and the skirt doesn't cover my thighs as much as it used to, but I can still squeeze in… I obviously can't wear any lingerie or anything underneath it, though."
"… Obviously," Steve agreed, although it came out a little quieter and higher than was respectable for a thirty-year-old man.
"But the problem is… Oh, Stephen, the problem is that I can't find any attractive men I want to sleep with," she whined pitifully.
"Well, you know, it's still pretty early over here—only six in the morning—I'm sure there are a couple of transatlantic flights I could book, and I'll be with you either on or just after Christmas Day—"
"Oh darling, don't go to all the trouble—"
"It is absolutely no trouble!"
"But what about Mark?"
"Sod Mark."
"Steve, really, it's fine," she assured him, her grin widening with every second. "I mean, it doesn't have to be with a man, does it?"
Steve, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to be very intrigued by this.
"There were a couple of attractive girls downstairs…" she continued in false innocence.
"Sierra, I absolutely insist I fly over—I'm not saying you shouldn't go ahead and seduce one of your female friends or acquaintances or whatever, because you should—And when I get there I'll just… Casually slip in."
There was a slight pause, and then Steve added, "I didn't mean for it to sound quite like that."
Sierra bit her lip to keep from giggling before saying carefully, "No, really, Steve, don't, don't bother; I'll prefer a man, but I'm sure a woman would be just as fun; I haven't really had a lot of experience with lesbian sex, and it's high time I start catching up, don't you agree?"
The silence was broken by an odd sound which Sierra (correctly) interpreted as Steve nodding vigorously.
"Oh, and by the way? I just want you to know that I have repaid my debt."
There was a confused pause.
"Beg pardon?"
"I gave you a Christmas present," she explained to him simply. "You know, in return for the pearls?"
"And what, pray tell, is that?" he challenged.
"A masturbatory aid," she smirked in reply, pausing to allow the full implication of her words to sink in, silent when she heard him make an odd sound that was a cross between a chuckle of understanding and a whimper of disappointment.
Not such a naïve, innocent schoolgirl now, am I, Stephen? she thought triumphantly. Aloud, she said,
"Merry Christmas, Steve."
"Oh, trust me," he leered, "it will be."
-x!x-
AN: Thoughts?