He pulls back just enough to look at my face.
“You’re not,” he says firmly. But I see it in his eyes. Even he knows this is bigger than broken promises he can’t keep.
“Come with me,” he says suddenly. “To Italy. When I go.”
I frown. “Rich—”
“Please,” he begs. “They can’t touch you there. Something bad will happen if to you if you stay here.” The words hang between us, terrifying us both in their certainty.
I nod because I don’t think I’ll make it to next Christmas without him. “Okay.”
He cups my face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down my cheeks.
“You’ll be safe,” he says. “I won’t let them take you.”
I want to believe him, but as I cling to him, the smell of cinnamon still clinging to my coat, I can’t shake the feeling that the holiday season is closing in on me.
Like Christmas is coming, but something nefarious is coming with it.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Krampus
For once in my life, I’m feeling slightly Christmassy, even though the clubhouse is a combination of loud and obnoxious decorating mixed with a drunken bender gone wrong.
A few strings of lights are haphazardly hung up around the bar, flickering on and off like they’re seconds from dying. A fake tree sets in the corner that’s seen better days, its precious needles littering the floor like real pine. The Annie’s forced us all to make ornaments for it, but none of us were really in the mood. Glitter and paint really aren’t the biker way. Nevertheless, my ornament is hung with the rest of them, half bent at several of the corners, the blue glitter barely hanging on.
But it’s not the decorations that has me feeling festive this year. It’s the woman sitting next to me, all curled up against my side, her smile lighting up the room. I couldn’t give two shits what anyone else thinks about her. To me, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and everything about her makes me happy.
The entire club has gathered together for our second annual Christmas Secret Santa, club Annies and Ol’ Ladies included. Though the two groups have segregated themselves, so they don’t have to interact. Amber, Autumn, and Mindy on one side, along with Bigfoot’s sidepiece Shaw, as the Annies stare daggers at them from the other, all dressed in naughty elf costumes like that will somehow make the guys come running. Shaw’s the only lucky one, she managed to snag Bigfoot while the others weren’t looking.
Word around the club is that Bigfoot’s wife found out about his other woman and is now wanting a divorce. For someone about to lose his family, he seems pretty happy though, snuggled up with Shaw like they’ve been doing it for years. Guess impending divorce really does wonders for a man’s stress levels.
The table in the middle of the room is piled high with gifts; all wrapped in various stages of “I tried” and “fuck it.”
Duct tape seems to be a recurring theme. So is newspaper. One of the boxes looks like it was wrapped with a bar napkin and sheer determination. My guess is it was Creature’s doing. The man doesn’t care about shit.
Gremlin stands at the head of the table like he’s about to officiate a wedding or start a riot. Possibly both. He’s wearing a Santa hat that looks like it lost a fight with a ceiling fan, the white puff barely clinging on.
“Alright, assholes,” he announces, clapping his hands together. “Welcome to the second—and based on the lack of effort I’m seeing here—possibly our last annual Secret Santa Clusterfuck.”
A chorus of laughter ripples through the room.
“Who put the prospect in charge?” Bates shouts from across the room.
“Hey now!” Gremlin cries. “I got more Christmas cheer the lot of you combined, so pipe down and shut the fuck up. I’m trying to explain how things are gonna work here.”
Nobody cares what he says, they just continue their conversations like he’s invisible.
“Look, this is how it’s gonna go,” he continues ignoring them. “No stealing gifts, no trading, and if I catch anyone tryin’ to re-gift last year’s gifts, I will personally staple your nut sack to the dartboard.”
“That’s festive,” someone mutters.
Gremlin grins. “I try.”
He reaches into a helmet sitting on the table and pulls out the first name. “Bigfoot. You’re up, you hairy son of a bitch.”
Bigfoot groans as Shaw pats his chest, whispering something that makes him smirk. He lumbers forward and grabbing a medium-sized box wrapped in black paper that has his name on it. He tears into it like it personally offended him.
