Quin looks up at me. "Don't be a dick."

I take a deep breath. "Focus, Quin. On the here and now. Let her go. She's gone. Perhaps one day she'll come back, but the chances are low, so don't get your hopes up. And I'm sorry if this is harsh, but you're being a pussy."

"You are a dick. You don't know what love feels like because that cold, black heart of yours is two sizes too small."

"You were watching The Grinch on Saturday morning cartoons again, weren't you?"

Quin smiles, but tries to hide it. "Saturday morning cartoons don't even exist anymore, dumbass. And you are the Grinch."

I point to my outfit. "Do I look like the motherfucking Grinch?"

He laughs this time. Usually Smith plays Santa at the Christmas Eve party-that's his deal, right? I'm gonna give away all my money. I'm gonna be the goddamned fairy godmother to the world. But he's with Chella, and this is a surprise for her. So. Yeah. I'm Santa.

There are a shitload of kids here. I'm not into Christmas. I let the staff decorate the Club two weeks prior and it all comes down before New Year's Eve, because that's the holiday that counts as far as I'm concerned. New Year's Eve is a man's holiday. A party holiday. Not the kind with that sickly sweet eggnog. The kind with the eggnog that knocks you on your ass. The kind of party with foil hats and masks-we like masks here at the Club, regardless, but we especially like holidays that advocate masks-and a ton of confetti and balloons coming down from the ceiling. New Year's Eve is the only time we allow Club activities on the first floor.

It's hot as fuck in here on New Year's Eve, and I'm not talking about the furnace. Naked women everywhere, dirty sex going on all over the place. We close all the outside shutters on the building for this party. The only night of the year we do that. Everyone in by ten, no one leaves until after midnight. It's not a long party, but it's one every member comes to.

Seven more days, Bric. Seven more days and this bullshit is over for another year.

Or at least until Valentine's Day. Which I refuse to think about right now, because I hate that holiday too.

But the Christmas Eve party is for families. We don't even close the inside blinds on the windows for Christmas Eve parties.

"I can't take this screaming," I say. "Fucking hate kids."

"How do you hate kids?" Quin asks, shaking his head. "Like for real, man. That's just wrong."

"Do you hear them down there? Running around like sugared-up maniacs?"

"You mean all that joy?" He almost snorts at me. "If you're gonna be an asshole, I'll be Santa, for fuck's sake."

"I'm already wearing the fucking suit," I growl.

There are a grand total of sixty-five Club kids. Sixty-five. How? We only have forty-two members. I don't understand how people can have more than one. And each kid gets a personalized present from Santa. Which means I have to sit on that stupid throne all night handing out gifts. Thank God they tire quick and start throwing tantrums. The parents usually take them home around nine-thirty and by ten, I've blocked the whole thing out with some single-malt Scotch.

"Aww," Quin says. "There they are."

I lean over the banister and look down into the lobby to watch Chella's face as she comes through the revolving doors. I bet she thought Smith was bringing her here for a sex party tonight.

I do smile at that. Chella's a nice girl. I like her a lot. She's smart, and funny, and totally normal. So not what I'm used to. Still, it's good to venture out of my comfort zone every once in a while. And she's pretty. She's very pretty.

"OK," I say as I stand. I pull the white beard up onto my face and straighten out my giant black belt. "I feel ridiculous, but I'm taking one for the team to make our Chella happy. Smith owes me."

Quin and I start down the stairs and before we even hit the landing where the elevator is, the maniacs are screaming, "Santa! Santa!"

"Suck it up, you pussy," Quin whispers, laughing. "Be a man and shut the fuck up."

"No more swearing, asshole. There are kids here."

I start the whole thing out with some "Ho-ho-hos," and go right to Marcella Walcott. Smith is smiling so big, it might make all my humiliation worth it. I take Chella's hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her a little more seductively than Santa should. But hey, I'm not gonna apologize. Quin hands me three presents in Tiffany-blue boxes. "Hold out your hands, Marcella Walcott, I've heard you've been a very good girl this year."

She giggles. Actually giggles. Which should embarrass her, since she's thirty years old. But instead she shoots me a look that says she belongs on the naughty list. I place the three boxes in her outstretched hands and do my best not to push her up against the banister and fuck her, because she looks stunning in that dress. Smith didn't choose a PG-13 outfit for her tonight.

Chella is beyond happy. She's like a little girl on... well, Christmas. And for a moment I feel sorry for her. That she missed out on the holidays for most of her life. Sure, I hate kids. And I'm an atheist. But if I had a kid, I'd definitely do the whole Christmas thing up right.

I can't stay with them because the maniacs are back, tugging on my coat, pulling on my belt, trying to grab at my beard. I am herded over into the White Room, where Santa's one-night workshop has been set up.

At least I have some female elves to appreciate while I spent the next three hours dutifully lifting each kid into my lap and handing them a present with their name on it.

I don't see Chella again until Santa's bags of goodies have been emptied and the tantrums are starting. It takes me ten minutes to get past all the sticky fingers trying to touch my suit, and then...

Bliss. As I drop into a chair in Smith's bar and pull my beard down to drink.

"You," Chella says, coming to sit in my lap-she kisses me on the cheek as she wraps her arm around my neck-"are loved."

"Aww." I smile.

"Thank you," she says, looking at all three of us. I wonder if Smith is getting jealous that she's in my lap. Because I'm having some very dirty thoughts about her right about now. "I love this night so much, you have no idea."

"Open your presents," Quin says, pointing to the three packages on the table. "These two are from Bric and me, and this one is from hotshot over there." He hooks a thumb in the direction of Smith, who is across the room, leaning against the bar.

"You guys, I really don't need gifts," Chella protests.

"Everybody needs gifts, Chella," Smith says.

Her eyes linger on him for a moment, wondering if he's mad, probably. I'm wondering the same thing myself. His happiness at her joy seems to be wearing off and the reality of what's gonna happen tonight has set in.

Chella takes the first small present. It's either mine or Quin's. They are identical, so it doesn't matter. The bow is untied carefully, like she's savoring the moment, and then the lid comes off and she whispers, "That's beautiful." She takes the diamond cuff out and Quin helps her fasten it around her wrist. It's tight, as it should be.

"This is mine," Quin says, kissing the underside of her wrist.

Chella looks at the other identical box, then finds me. I smile. She already knows what we're doing here. She reaches for my package, unties the bow-less carefully this time-and then I help her fasten that cuff around her other wrist.

I can be dramatic. So like Quin, I kiss the underside of her wrist and say, "This one's mine."

Chella holds her wrists out in front of her and smiles like a child. "I love them, you guys. Adore them. Not because they're Tiffany and not because they're diamonds. But because they come from you." She gets up and kisses both of us on the cheek, and then sits back down and reaches for the last box.

It's bigger, not by much, but she has to know it's not a bracelet. She's run out of wrists, at any rate.

"Is this from you, Smith?"

He nods from across the room, and I'm just about to snap at him, tell him to pull himself out of this funk he's in and get his ass over here, when he sets his drink down on the bar and walks over to stand behind Chella's chair. "Open it," he says.

Chella does, even quicker than the second present, and gasps as she pulls the diamond choker out of its box. "Smith," she breathes. "This is... stunning."

Smith leans over her shoulder, takes it from her hands, unclasps the mechanism, and then fastens it around her throat until it really does look like she's choking on diamonds.

It is stunning. And it cost almost as much as a house on Little Raven Street.

"I get all of this," Smith says, leaning over her shoulder to whisper in her ear once the choker is in place. "You. Every bit of you is mine."

Chella glances at me to see what I'll say about that.

I say nothing. Neither does Quin. What we gave her are trinkets in comparison. And how we feel about her is comparable. She is a toy to us.

The collar from Smith says she is no toy to him from this moment forward.

She leans into Smith and kisses him on the lips. Smith allows it, since the four of us are together and he can break the no-touching rule. But he doesn't let it linger. He backs away and says, "Let me know when you're ready to go home. I'll drop you off."

Quin shoots me a look. We already talked about this yesterday. I want her here tonight because Smith owes me some time. I totally understand the whole father fiasco. And I totally get that he just claimed her. But that doesn't mean I don't want my night back.

"I think I'm gonna stay here tonight," Chella says. "I don't even have a tree at home. I'd just be depressed tomorrow morning when I woke up."

"Sure," Smith says, doing his best not to look at me. "I'll walk you up."

"OK," Chella says. "I'm tired. I'm gonna take a bath and go to bed." She kisses me once more, this time leaning into my ear to say, "Thank you. It was a special night."

"It's not over yet," I whisper back as I lean into her neck. "I'll be up later."

"Good," she says. "I have a present for you."

And then she hops out of my lap and gives Quin a kiss too, before letting Smith take her hand and lead her down to the elevator.

"What was that?" Quin asks.

"I don't know," I say, taking a sip of my drink.

"Do you think he's pissed off that you're taking your night back?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure I should care. He's been living at her fucking house. I'm not done with her yet. And she's obviously not done with us. So..."

"Yeah, me either. I'm all for the quad this week, but I'm gonna spend my last night alone with her... alone with her. Ya know?"

We let it go. I take off the Santa suit and hand it over to the bartender, then straighten my tie and put my suit coat on.

Smith doesn't come back until eleven forty-five and when he takes a seat across from me at the table, he asks, "So you're going up tonight?"

"It's my night," I say. "We agreed."

"And you don't want me there?"

"I'm not gonna fuck her, I told you that."

He stares at me for a moment. "Then I guess I'll go home."

"It's not even your home, Smith. It's her home."

"Apparently this is her home now," he says.

I watch him walk out, pissed off and probably hurt. But I don't care. The rules are the rules. And whether he likes it or not, we're still playing the game.

It only works if we don't fall in love.

He knew that going in.

It only ends when she quits.

And right now, she's still playing to win.

The rules are the rules.

At midnight, I get up, walk down the steps to the landing, and get in the elevator. When I get to her apartment door, I open it up. It's not even locked.

Chella is standing in front of the window wearing... Jesus Christ. Straps. That's the only way to describe what she's wearing. Straps. Across her thighs, across her belly, across her breasts. Except these straps cover absolutely nothing.

She turns and leans against the window. I imagine how cold the glass feels against her bare skin. "I have a confession to make," she says.

I raise my eyebrows at her.

"I lied. I've been a very bad girl this year."

I turn to close the door so I can smile, but when I turn back, the smile is gone. "What have I told you about lying to me, Marcella?"

I've told her nothing, but I'm certain she can extrapolate the answer I'm looking for in this little fantasy.

"You said I'd be punished next time." She bites her lip. "Will you punish me?"

It almost sounds like begging. And yeah, I'd fucking love to punish the hell out of her right now. Downstairs in the room I have set up for it.

But that's not what I'm looking for, even if she is.

I walk over to the couch and sit down. "Come here, Marcella." I like to use her full name when I'm being stern. And I will happily be stern with her.

She feigns nervousness and then slowly walks over to me. She's wearing the most erotic fuck-me heels I've ever seen. Strappy ones, like that thing she's calling an outfit.

"Sit on my lap, sweetheart." I pat my thigh and she obediently takes her place. "Confess your sins to me, Chella. And then I'll decide what to do with you."

She starts playing with her breasts. "I'm a slut," she says. "I'm addicted to sex. I love it so much, Bric. I can't stop myself." Two fingers slide down between her legs. The "outfit" has nothing in the way of panties. It's just more straps, digging in to the flesh on each side of her puffy pussy. "I think about you all the time. I want your cock deep inside me. I want it in my mouth, down my throat-"

Holy shit. I wonder if she's like this with Quin? Maybe I'm not giving her enough credit?

Stop it, Bric. She's playing a game with you. And Smith is falling in love with her. You do not start a new game while you're playing the old one.

"I want you," she continues. "I want you to beat the bad out of me."

I smile at her, grab her hair and yank her head back. "I will, Chella. I will."

And then I come to my senses.