Page 89 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
And again.
Until Kennydidlose count, and Aaron stopped making any sound or couldn’t be roused. So Kenny managed a few hours’ sleep before morning crept in, all pale light and breathless cold, and with it, the real world clawing back.
Aaron didn’t stir. His breathing was deep and even, face relaxed in sleep. A sight so fucking rare it made Kenny ache. He looked younger like this. Or, well, perhaps his actual age rather than how his past had made him older and wiser beyond his years. But now he was bare. Undone. As if the night hadn’t happened and everything inside him hadn’t been stripped and laid out like gospel.
But it had. Every tremble. Every cry. Every whispered plea for more.
So now Kenny had to leave him to it.
He shifted carefully, easing out from under him and the duvet slid with the quiet rustle of cotton, but he pulled it backup over Aaron’s shoulders. Chaos had wormed his way into the room sometime after dawn and was curled tight along Aaron’s other side but lifted his head at the movement. Kenny raised a finger to his lips and tilted his head towards the door. Chaos followed without fuss.
Downstairs, the house was cold. Kenny meandered across the kitchen tiles, tied his dressing gown tighter, and fed the dog. Chaos ate, tail wagging, while Kenny made coffee and stared out the window at the sky looking about to burst. Heavy with snow. Fat flakes hovered above the treeline. Chaos wouldn’t get a walk unless they left now. So he rushed upstairs to the office, changed into spare clothes in there, then clipped the lead on Chaos, tugged on boots, and headed out into the crisp morning air.
It was quiet. Bone-deep quiet. Only their footsteps broke the stillness, crunching over frost already stiffening the grass. Kenny didn’t go far. A quick circuit around the edge of the fields so Chaos could relieve himself, then back to the house as the first flakes fell.
Inside, Chaos settled by the fire. Kenny towel-dried the snow from his hair, then crouched beside him for a while, scratching behind his ears. He didn’t want to open the laptop. He didn’t want to think about murder scenes or peppermint or the sick echo of a mind that masked itself in mercy.
But he had to. He always had to.
He lit the fire first, though. Then refreshed the water jug by the bed. Made a pot of mint tea. Set out the painkillers in case. Put almond oil and a warm flannel on the radiator to heat through. He knew what Aaron’s body would feel like when he woke. The ache. The stretch. The sting of being truly worshipped. Kenny had taken him to the edge and beyond. Now he had to hold him steady while he came back to earth.And when Aaron called for him, he’d crawl back without hesitation.
But for now, he opened that laptop.
The screen flared to life with the low hum of the fan. He ignored the inbox full of unread messages and the flagged case notes from Hampshire, going straight to the secure folder Jack had shared overnight. There, at the top, was the file:Glasgow 2018 – Unsolved Homicide: Doe, Female (Est. 16–18).
He clicked it open.
Case photos, scanned reports, witness statements, the original pathology file. Grainy, disorganised, barely digitised. A decade ago might as well have been a century for how differently things were recorded. Kenny leaned forward, elbows on the desk, scanning the details.
Ashleigh Doe found on the twenty-first of December in a disused chapel on the outskirts of Glasgow city centre. Dressed in a red wool coat, hands folded neatly beneath his chin as if in prayer. A peppermint sweet placed in his palm. A child’s wig lay beside his head, carefully folded. There were no signs of struggle, no ligature marks. Toxicology was inconclusive, though the coroner had speculated about a sedative or unusual drug interaction. Cause of death listed as unconfirmed but likely peaceful. The scene had been mistaken as a suicide or overdose, results of a high-risk lifestyle, and the investigation quietly dropped. Never officially identified. Listed as Ashleigh Doe. No missing person report matched. Stitched inside the coat lining was the name Ashleigh.
It hadn’t looked like a murder. Not to anyone but Kenny.
No one had cared, either.
Kenny did.
He hitprint, and the little floor printer whirred to life,spitting out page after page. Reports, photos, old case notes. Grainy and half-forgotten. He collected the sheets, warm and curling at the edges, then carried them to the dining table.
There, already spread out, were the other victims. Maps, timelines, victim profiles annotated in his tight, looping scrawl. He laid the new pages beside them, then leaned over the mess of paper, bracing his weight on his forearms, scratching one hand through his beard as he read.
Outside, snow tapped at the windows.
Inside, Kenny’s mind was already halfway into the killer’s head.
Until warmth bloomed across his back and the scent of sleep and sex and something uniquely Aaron wrapped around him, arms sneaking beneath his own to pull Kenny back to a bare chest.
“You left me.” Aaron sulked.
Kenny didn’t need to turn around to see the pout. It was there in the way his bare chest pressed to his spine, duvet cocooning them both. He smiled, reaching one hand back to stroke up Aaron’s thigh to the curve of his hip.
“I left you to sleep.”
“You left me defenceless. Traumatised. Cold.” Aaron kissed the back of Kenny’s neck, that sensitive spot under the hairline. “That’s emotional abandonment, lover.”
Kenny turned to glimpse bedhead and mischief. He slid his hands over Aaron’s bare arse, massaging lightly as the duvet slipped from his shoulders leaving him naked and exposed. “You were dead to the world. Multiple orgasms will do that.”
Aaron groaned, then bit Kenny’s neck. “That was last night. I’m practically reborn now. Could go again.”
