Page 10 of The Holiday Games

The Times can suck my juicy pink asshole,he says, his tail still flicking.It’s a rag for rich East Coast yuppies. There’s nothing there for me.

“You realize youarea rich East Coast yuppie, right?” I ask, grabbing one of my three plates from the open shelves above the counter. As a confirmed bachelor, I don’t need more than that, especially when I eat takeout most of the time. “You live larger than ninety percent of the cats in this city, which happens to be solidly on the East Coast. Your organic food costs two-hundred dollars a month.”

Satan’s eyes narrow to slits.Well, if that’s too much for you to spend on your best friend, who happens to be allergic to preservatives, by all means feed me the bargain shit. I’ll happily go back to vomiting on your bedspread after every meal. Truly, it would be my pleasure.

“I’m sure it would.” I slide my half sandwich from the toaster oven onto my plate, hissing as the melted cheese burns my fingertips. “But I’d be in pretty bad shape ifyouwere my best friend, buddy.”

Exactly, dumbass,Satan says, racing forward to bat claws at my calf before rampaging into the living room with a hiss and a yowl.

“Ow!” I shout. “Why are you such a dick?”

Thankfully, however, my winter suit pants are thick enough to act as a protective barrier against Greg’s satanic side. As I take the four steps to my dining table, where I have a clear view of my cat galloping over the couch and leaping onto his giant cat play structure by the window, I add, “One of these days I’m going to get sick of your shit and put you up for adoption.”

On no! Not the chance to be adopted by a person who isn’t a disappointment to the human race, what would I do?Satan lands atop of the structure with a wicked laugh and settles ontoone platform to watch the birds roosting in the tree outside my brownstone, silhouetted in the early sunset light.

“That was legitimately hurtful,” I mutter, tucking into my still dry sandwich. All the toaster oven accomplished was to glue the cheese even more firmly to the carboard bread.

I could, of course, go to a restaurant or order better takeout. I’m not a billionaire, but I do very well for myself, especially for a guy who’s trafficked in jokes his entire adult life. My apartment is paid off, I have a healthy savings account, a retirement account, and an adorable little vacation home in Maine. I have more than enough extra cash floating around to eat out every night if I wanted to. I used to love exploring my Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood, trying every new café as soon as it opened. But since I started producing the reality show, my taste for being out and about in the world has dulled.

You can only spend so much time around people behaving badly before you lose your taste for being around humans more than absolutely necessary.

Maybe that’s why I can’t shake the feeling that the other shoe’s about to drop and Caroline isn’t as fabulous as she seems.

Candy, not Caroline. She said people from her hometown call her Candy. Remember?

This time, the voice in my head isn’t Satan’s depraved cat telepathy. It’s my intuition, underlining pertinent information, helping my weary synapses fire. Before I’ve swallowed my next bite of stale sandwich, the pieces start to slide into place, sending my stomach into freefall.

Vivian had a cousin named Candy—CandyCaneto be specific. I remember we laughed about it during our first holiday together, how cruel it was for her aunt and uncle to give her cousin a name like that, especially when they lived in a Christmas-themed town.

Could that town be Reindeer Corners?

I don’t think that’s the name Vivian mentioned when she talked about her hometown—I thought it was Jingle Bell Ville or something equally horrible—but I could be wrong. After all, what are the chances there aretwoCandy Canes in the tiniest state in the nation?

Snagging my laptop from the other side of the table and flipping it open, I type Caroline’s full name into the search along with Vivian’s. In just seconds, I have proof that Caroline is indeed Vivian’s cousin…in the form of a wedding announcement in the local paper. Caroline was one of Viv’s bridesmaids.

And now she’s my newest reality show contestant.

And likely plotting my downfall as I scroll through search results…

My mind races, my dread intensifying as I connect the dots.

Caroline had a strong reaction to my name, meaning she almost certainly knows I’m the man her cousin used to date. And I know Vivian well enough to guess that the story she told her family about our breakup probably isn’t anything close to the truth. Vivian insists on being the victim, even when she’s clearly in the wrong, though that wasn’t a character trait I understood until we were over.

Explaining to our mutual friends after the breakup that no, I didn’t criticize Viv’s taste in clothing or force her to eat meat when she was desperate to stay a vegetarian, added insult to our break-up injury. I’m betting the stories she’s told her family are even worse. After all, in Vermont, there’s no one around who knows me to contradict her tales of Evil Leo the Bad Boyfriend and how he made her life a living hell.

She will have found some way to spin our breakup to make me the bad guy, maybe even theverybad guy.

Bad enough to tempt her cousin to sign up for my reality show simply to fuck with my life?

I don’t know. I hope not. Maybe Caroline kept the Vivian connection a secret because she was excited about the show and didn’t want to ruin her chances at being included in the project.

And maybe, if you open the window, the birds will fly inside and deposit themselves into my mouth,Satan pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Shut up, smartass,” I mumble.

I mean, it’s worth a try,he says, his voice plaintive now,I want to hunt them so badly, Sad Sack. The need…it haunts me.

Just like Caroline’s face has haunted me since the moment I met her.

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