Page 6 of Santa's Girl
The guys outside roared with laughter. “Grinch is back!” Gunner whooped, holding up his beer in salute.
Not finished, I marched back inside, grabbed the length of garland they’d started draping over the bar, and tossed that in too.
When I came back in, the women stood there, mid-stringing lights, looking half shocked, half ready to throw something at me.
“Clubhouse is a no-Christmas zone,” I said flatly. “New rule.”
“You’re a real piece of work, Bear,” one muttered.
“Good,” I said, dropping back into my chair. “Now turn the damn music off.”
I grabbed a beer from the cooler and headed back out to the fire, the cold biting at my cheeks.
The tree was almost gone now—melting into blackened plastic curls and acrid smoke. I watched the flames eat it, swallowing every scrap of tinsel until the only light left came from the bonfire itself.
Holidays. I hated ’em.
Didn’t matter how much I tried to drown it out—the memories always found their way in.
Snow on the windshield. Mama’s voice humming along to carols on the radio.
She’d taken Grayson out to see the lights strung across town. I’d stayed home, pretending I was too old for that kind of thing. They were headed back when she hit a snowbank on one of those tight mountain curves. Got out to push the car free. Unbuckled her seat belt.
That’s when the drunk came flying around the bend—full of whiskey and bad decisions from some holiday party—and hit them from behind.
My father and I dealt with it different ways. He threw himself into the Boone family legacy harder, married a society woman. Never had more children. We grew apart— and he died of a heart attack eight years ago. Chasing money and empires will do that. My stepmom-Anne is nice enough. But never close. Me? I found a new family in the club. Brothers who knew loss, who didn’t ask you to talk about it. Men who understood that sometimes the only way to keep moving was to keep riding.
Snow was starting to dust my hair and beard, melting into cold rivulets down my neck. I didn’t move. Just watched the fire eat the last of that fake tree until all that was left was the hiss and crackle of plastic and sap burning together.
Didn’t even notice I wasn’t alone until the faintest touch—nails trailing over my forearm.
“You look lonely, Bear,” Ainsley’s voice purred. “And cold. Let me warm you up…”
I finally dragged my gaze from the flames to look at her.
The second she saw my eyes, she stepped back. Smart girl.
“Hard pass, sugar,” I said, letting my voice go flat. “I’m on a new diet. It’s called skank-free.”
Her lips twisted, part insult, part wounded pride, but she didn’t say a word before turning and walking back toward the clubhouse lights.
I turned back to the fire, beer in hand, letting the snow pile higher on my shoulders. Didn’t bother brushing it off. Cold didn’t bother me much anymore.
I knew I was harsh. Mean, even. Couldn’t seem to help it lately.
Restless. That’s what it was. Like I wanted something I couldn’t put my hands on.
Peace. Not pussy.
If I’d been younger, Ainsley’s offer would’ve sounded like a damn good way to spend the night. But these days? I didn’t want the noise, the games, the mess after.
I wanted quiet.
Not that I’d ever admit to being lonely. Hell no. But it was there, gnawing at me just the same, like the cold working into my bones.
I tipped my beer back, eyes on the fire, and let the snow keep falling.
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