Page 89 of Santa's Girl
“Sup, sugarplum?”
“I need a Christmas miracle. I need the MC band tonight at the Community Center Jingle Jam.”
“You talkin’ about our rowdy-ass clubhouse band? With Pico on drums and Bear on guitar? I mean— I can do a badass lead vocal…”
“Yes. That one.”
He whistled. “You want the Outlaws performing at a town fundraiser?”
“I’m desperate.”
He laughed. “You got it. Tell Bear it was your idea. He’ll say no, but we’ll show up anyway.”
I hung up, heart racing, half from nerves and half from knowing what kind of stir this was going to cause.
By five o’clock,the community center was buzzing like a kicked beehive. Word had spread faster than fire on dry pine — the Appalachian Outlaws were performing. In leather kuttes.
Every woman in town, single or married, had pulled out the stops. High boots. Red lips. Lashes you could land planes on. The energy was electric, the kind of giddy chaos that usually precedes prom or a bachelorette weekend. Except this was our town’s version of a rock concert.
I upped the cover charge to twenty dollars at the door.
People still lined up around the block.
Caroline showed up right as I was lighting the candles on the tables.
“Holy. Hell.” She looked around, wide-eyed. “This is a fundraiser?”
I grinned. “You’re just in time.”
She wore black suede boots, a short holiday green dress with a plunging neckline, and that glint in her eye that meant she was up to no good.
“Which one is Jinx?”
I pointed.
“Perfect.”
I ducked into the office-slash-dressing room to change. I pulled on black faux leather jeggings that hugged every curve and slipped into a red shimmery camisole top that clung to my body like it was painted on. I let my hair down, gave it a tousle,and added a swipe of cherry red lipstick. I topped it all with a cropped black faux-fur vest.
Naughty elf chic.
When I stepped out, Caroline let out a low whistle. “Bear is gonna die.”
He almost did.
He was already at the front doors helping manage the line, looking stupid sexy in black jeans, his kutte, and a thermal henley that clung to his chest. When he turned and saw me, he stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes roamed over me like he was drinking me in, slow and appreciative. Then he mouthed,“Holy hell.”
Butterflies. Instant.
He made his way through the crowd, wrapped one arm around my waist, and pulled me close.
“You’re dangerous, baby,” he growled against my ear.
“And you’re late,” I teased.
He smirked. “Blame Pico. He forgot his drumsticks. Again.”
