Page 1 of Krampus Kruk
1
Wednesday, December 24th
Driving away from my mom’s house, I’m in search of a drink—alone. Dinner had been an unbearable volley of fake news and thinly-veiled racism between her, my stepdad, and stepbrothers. I couldn’t stomach it any longer.
This is why I live in Chicago and rarely go back to small-town Wisconsin. I’ll never be close with any of them. We have nothing in common. This is only night one of an extended visit, though, so it’s too early to tell them all to shut the fuck up—yet.
I grip the wheel of my hybrid, needing to focus on the road. Deer could dart out, but I can’t stop replaying every ignorant comment. My brights cut through the darkness, and in the distance, I spot the glow of Crimson Inn. It’s a seedy dive bar with a few rooms I’ve driven past countless times but never dared to enter. Tonight, though … Fuck it. It’s the closest place to get a drink, and I need to calm down. I laugh bitterly, imagining how out of place my tacky Christmas sweater will look in a place with a reputation for outlaws.
I park, and a text buzzes through on my phone. It’s my mom, probably trying to guilt me about leaving. I run my hand through my dirty-blonde hair, considering what to do. Read it and likely be more triggered, or ignore it? As I walk toward the bar doors, I decide I’m not reading it. My teeth chatter and my sweater jingles, reminding me I left without grabbing a coat.I turn the phone off and tuck it into my purse as I step inside.
The place is surprisingly cozy in a dated sort of way. It hasn’t seen any renovations since the seventies, but the dark wood and crackling fire give it a warm vibe. Christmas music drifts in the background. Red and green lights are strung along the windows and across the bar. The crowd isn’t as rough as I expected—more like locals avoiding their families, just like me. I take a deep breath and head into the bar.
“You sure you want to be here?” a deep voice asks as I slide onto a stool. I glance sideways, already bristling at the intrusion, while hooking my purse over the back of the chair.
“Very.”
The man, older, cocks his head and grins. “Very?”
“I need a drink.”
I’m not indulging him further, although my eyes flick over him. The lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes are the only things that keep me from thinking he’s less than forty. He’s probably in his sixties, but his body defies the number—broad shoulders, no belly, the kind of fitness that saysI’ve got time and money to spend on myself.The sleeve tattoos extending to his hands on both arms fit the outlaw reputation of this place. The contrast between his thick, white hair and black t-shirt strikes me, and I quickly push away the thought that he’s attractive. My mental state must be worse than I thought if I’m finding a guy twice my age hot. He’s older than my stepdad, not far off from my grandpa … but he looks fucking nothing like either of them. My mind drifts again, and so do my eyes.
The man nods to the bartender, and an older woman with a kind smile steps over but doesn’t hand me a menu.Okay.It’s not the kind of place to have a cocktail list. I scan the bottles lining the shelves.
“Woodford, heavy ice.”
He chuckles, clearly surprised, taking up the stool next to me before he looks down at my sweater. “The tinsel fooled me.”
“Not tonight,Santa. I’ve had a fucking day.”
He laughs, deep and rich, and despite myself, I smile. “Let me buy this drink so no one bothers you,” he offers.
“Does no one include you?”
He shakes his head but raises his glass to mine. “I’ll leave,” he says, leaning in just enough to murmur, “I’m the scariest one here anyway.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I’m too rattled—or maybe too curious—to dismiss it outright. My body is intrigued, that’s for sure, a smirk growing on my face and my heartbeat escalating.
“Why’s that?” I ask after he takes a few steps away.
“Don’t you know curiosity killed the cat?”
“Good thing I have nine lives.” I take my first sip, the burn from the whiskey warming me.
“How many have you used so far?” he asks, sliding back onto the stool.
“At least a couple.”
He studies me, his eyes light blue, icy like a Siberian husky. “That’s a lot for someone barely legal.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not that young, and we don’t joke about jailbait anymore, Santa. It’s weird to sexualize young girls.”
He smirks. “You’re a full fucking brat, aren’t you?”
“Depends.” I giggle with a shrug.
His eyes rake over me again, this time slower. “You’re twenty-five?”
