Page 134 of Not Your Average Vixen
Fuck.
You’ve never known shame until three Santa couples stared you down like the deviant you were.
“Scooter, last night, while we were kicking your ass at poker, you shared a few things with us,” the burly Santa continued.
Why were they calling him Scooter? That life was over.
He rubbed his temples as the events of last night came back to him. They’d entered Kringle Acres, and the bearded men had waved them over, then dealt himself and the judge into the game before he’d had a chance to decline the offer to play. To his surprise, it had been the perfect surreal escape. The Santas didn’t say much, and as one drink became five, it gave him the opportunity to confess his transgressions.
The whiskey probably helped, too.
What did it matter? He knew he’d be gone in a matter of hours.
He set the dish towel on a side table and addressed the North Pole contingent. “I appreciate your hospitality and thank you for letting me get a few things off my chest. But I’ve come to realize that there’s not much hope for someone on the naughty list, is there?”
The Mrs. Claus, who’d given him the stink eye for the naughty internet browser history, softened her expression. “That’s not how it works, dear. You’re not bad, but you’ve made some unfortunate choices.”
“Oh, I’m bad, Mrs. Claus. Ask the judge. I ruined his grandson’s—and my now ex-best friend’s—wedding because I didn’t want anything to change. I didn’t want to lose the only thing that mattered. I was selfish and greedy. A real-life scrooge,” he finished, leaving out how he’d also stomped on the heart of the only woman he’d ever loved.
Loved?
He pictured Bridget’s face, the curve of her neck, the way she could go from angel to vixen in a split second.
He’d loved her from the moment he saw her.
He rubbed his bleary eyes. “I can see why I spilled my guts to you last night. It’s remarkably easy to talk to all of you.”
“Well, we get quite a bit of practice talking to youngsters,” a Mrs. Claus offered.
“And you’re also a chatty drunk,” the short Santa, who’d won fifty bucks off him last night, chimed.
Great! He was not only hitting rock-bottom—he was living out the holiday edition of hitting rock-bottom.
“Scooter, does the name Lawrence Duncan sound familiar?” the judge asked, blessedly shifting gears, but he didn’t know of any Lawrence Duncan.
Or did he? The name had a strange familiarity.
“I don’t think so.”
A quiet Santa who hadn’t swindled him at cards raised his hand. “I’m Lawrence Duncan.”
Soren stared at the man. “You’re one of the Santas I talked to a few days ago when we’d come for the spaghetti dinner. You were fixing the snowcats.”
“That’s right,” the man replied with a twitch of a grin hidden in his white beard.
But there was something else familiar about him. He’d thought it that day as well.
The judge sat back. “Larry’s an old friend from law school. We’d lost touch over the years after we each retired from the bench. I was quite pleased to run into him again, here, in Kringle.”
Soren stared at the Santa judge. “You can be both a judge and a Santa?”
Larry chuckled. “What do you think we did for the rest of the year?”
Soren glanced around the group. “Make toys?” he answered, knowing he sounded like an idiot as Team Ho-Ho-Ho broke out into laughter.
“I never get tired of that response,” the burly Santa crooned, slapping his leg in delight.
“Larry was a judge for the family courts in Manhattan,” the judge offered with a curious glint in his eye.
