Sugar’s saying something.Cops will be here in mere minutes.I can hear them coming.We’ll do statements.There’ll be forms and questions and the humiliating march of fluorescent lights.I know all that because I’ve been held up before.The script is carved into me.But right now, it’s just me and the man who hates Christmas like it owes him an apology.
He rescued me anyway.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean more than the words let through.
He lifts a shoulder.“Didn’t like his tone.”
I huff out a laugh that shakes.“Me neither.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, not polite.Not apologetic.My hands grip the bar edge, so I don’t float away.He looks away first, and that feels like a gift too.
Sirens loop in from the square, wrapped up in sleigh bells and cheers like this is just another part of the holiday show.The teenagers are still crying, but softer.Sugar Plum’s already corralling witnesses like a rodeo queen.Humbug pulls his gloves on slow, flexing his fingers like he’s reminding them they’re not done.
“You’ll ride with me,” he says, not a question.
“I have to talk to the police,” I say, though the idea of him leaving feels like a door slamming in my face.
“After,” he says, and nods to the back.“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not,” I lie.My knees choose that second to wobble like they’ve been waiting to embarrass me.
He comes around the bar, all that leather and heat in my orbit, and puts a hand at the small of my back, careful, steady, a brand I might dream about later.The room shifts to make space for him because that’s what rooms do.
I tell myself I’m a good girl.I tell myself this is adrenaline.I tell myself the music swelling in my chest is just the choir outside.I hum “O Holy Night” under my breath like a charm against everything burning up inside me.
“You’re humming again,” he says, and God help me, the corner of his mouth lifts.“Quit it.”
“Make me,” I say, half laughing, half daring.
For one heartbeat I swear he might.Then the police blow in with their cold, their lights, their questions, and I step forward to do the part of the script I know.
Behind me, Humbug waits like a problem I need to solve.
Chapter 3
Carol
They take statements, photos, names.Blue lights replace the normal twinkle of Christmas lights in the small town.Humbug barely talks, only gives his version when the sheriff presses.I catch flashes of tattoos under his sleeves, black ink wrapping muscle, a cross of wrenches on one forearm, the Executioners’ skull emblem peeking from his collar.He looks bored while everyone else shakes.
I keep thinking about the way he moved.No hesitation, no mercy.The robbers were kids, maybe twenty, nearly my age, but he handled them like they were wolves coming for lambs.I should be scared of him.Instead, I feel the kind of pulse you only get when you’ve been too close to danger and lived.
When it’s finally over, Sugar Plum squeezes my hand.“You need a ride?”
“I’m fine,” I lie again.The roads are slick with ice, and I don’t drive.My apartment’s a twenty-minute walk, but I can’t stand the idea of Blake picking me up.
“Come on,” Humbug says, already at the door, already deciding for me.
“I can walk.”
“You look like you’ll pass out before you hit Main.”
“I can call someone...ask the police.”
“Cops’ll take the long way.”He holds the door open, and cold rushes in around him.His truck idles at the curb, paint black and dull with salt.
“You’re a biker...where’s your motorcycle?”
“Tonight, the snow comin’ to Evervale ain’t fake.Do I look like I have a death wish?”
