A Perfect Man for Christmas
An erotic serial in 12 parts
4th Day of Christmas
by Rebecca Royce
Michael stared at the scene in front of him and wished he could laugh. Only he’d lost his sense of humor sometime in the last century and had yet to see it return. He rubbed at his chin and looked at his secretary. It was so hard to find good help and so far Trixie had been an excellent employee. But, of course, the first time he asked her to do something complicated he ended up…well…he wasn’t entirely sure where he’d ended up just yet.
Where he wanted to be was inside Wynter’s thighs, grinding her to completion until she called out his name, coming again and again, until she never thought about another male for the rest of her existence--Until she forgot there was such a thing as other men.
“I asked you for four calling birds.”
“Yes.” Sixty year old Trixie with her arthritic knee and back pains—she did like to talk about them—rocked back on her heels. “But it turns out, sir, there is no such thing, really, as a calling bird.”
There had to be. He shook his head. He still didn’t understand exactly why he was looking at the scene in front of him. “I’m sure if we... what is the word... Google it. We can find out what a calling bird is.”
“That is exactly what I did. And it turns out that there are two distinct meanings to the words ‘calling bird.’ I wasn’t exactly sure which one you wanted so I brought both. This seemed like the best place to show you.”
Well, now, at last an explanation. He walked forward. The basement of his office building wasn’t exactly the place to run into problems. Too many civilians running around and although his enemies might claim otherwise, he really wasn’t in the business of killing for no good reason.
“I see the birds. You have four of them. In that cage.” He couldn’t believe how much of the damned rhyme required some kind of poultry. So far he was up to his neck in the creatures. Everywhere he looked, something was squawking.
Trixie moved to stand next to him. “Right. The translation most people subscribe to is that ‘calling birds’ is actually an Americanized version of the word colly birds. Some places that’s actually what they say. They’re, as you can see, black like soot. Hence the name, I guess. But they’re really thrushes even though they look like blackbirds. They’re actually not. Getting them here proved challenging, but as you can see, I was up to the task.”
The thrush took that second to chirp at him. Loudly. It didn’t like being in the cage any more than he wanted it in his basement. Particularly after the incident earlier with the two doves. Filthy creatures had tried to go at it right then and there. He shuddered at the memory.
If he wasn’t regularly getting any, the means of his messages shouldn’t be either. Damn it.
“That all makes sense.” He pointed forward at the problem she still hadn’t addressed. “What I don’t understand is why there are four clearly drugged men in my basement, half naked.”
“Sir, I really wanted to do a good job.”
He needed a stiff drink. “I’m aware of that. Get to the point.”
“There are multiple interpretations of the rhyme. Some people say it doesn’t mean birds at all. But that the term ‘four calling birds’ actually refers to the Evangelists. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. So I found you some. The one over there is Mark.”
He followed where she pointed. Mark was a stout fellow with dark hair and piercings on his nipples. Matthew, who she told him sat next to Mark, was blond. He’d guess on the early side of twenty-five. Luke, all the way to the right, he would put in his early forties although being completely bald could make it hard to tell. And John was somewhere in his thirties with just the beginnings of a gut showing.
“You’ll note that in each of their laps I’ve placed a copy of their gospels, in case you wanted to refer to it.”
No. He certainly—most assuredly—did not want to read their gospels. Bile rose in his throat, and he pushed away his angst.
“Trixie, what did you drug these men with, and where did you find them?”
“They answered an ad looking to have an affair. I rented an apartment for the meet and greets. Took two days to get all the names covered. And they’re shot up on some good old- fashioned heroin.”
Michael shook his head and gritted his teeth. So apparently he was going to have to bury some bodies. Four—no, he looked at Trixie—five of them.
Terrible when one’s secretary picked this time of year to show her psychotic tendencies. He wouldn’t have minded seeing it around…the Ides of March. Did she have to do this now?
Although he had to give her credit--She’d been creative. In a million years he never would have expected to have a Matthew, Luke, John, and Mark drugged in his basement. Michael laughed, covering his mouth. Well there it was.
His sense of humor. Back for a brief second.
Wynter had better be finding them the absolute perfect man for Christmas. Although he supposed he could drop her off one of the four tied up and see if she liked one.
No, he smiled. Better she find her own guy.
“Trixie, where did I put my shovel?”
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