Page 4 of Krampus Kruk
I hum, considering the vibes he’s throwing around. Alpha. Masculine. The kind of guy who looks like he fucks even at his age. “I think it would be really funny to bring you to Christmas dinner tomorrow.”
His hand lifts from my thigh and grazes my hair, pushing it behind my shoulder. “You’re asking me out on a date?” He sounds amused at the notion.
I check him out again. Bringing a random man to Christmas dinner might be absurd, but it’s not any more absurd than my family’s beliefs. The thought makes me smirk.
“Don’t tempt me, brat,” he says into the silence.
“Like you would go through with it …”
“Depends on how tight that pussy is.”
“Santa!” I breathe, my eyes widening at his boldness.
He shrugs, cocky.
“I’m not going home with you,” I say, though the words feel hollow even as I utter them.
“Too bad,” he says, squeezing my thigh again.
I should swat his hand away. He’s too comfortable. No. I’m too comfortable with him.
2
Iglance at my friend across the room, the silent signal enough to call him over. The moment this girl in a tacky Christmas sweater with no business being here walked in, she’d become my focus, and he’d been relegated to the background, left at our usual table. As Jan approaches, I switch to Polish.
“Check her car. Get everything you can on her.” My eyes don’t leave her as I speak. Her purse hangs carelessly on the back of her chair. She’s too comfortable in a place like this. Either she doesn’t know my bar’s reputation, or she knows and doesn’t care. Both are dangerous in their own ways.
I graze her knuckles with the pad of my thumb, holding her attention as Jan slips past her with practiced ease, lifting her bag without a hitch. An old memory surfaces—him doing this trick when we were kids, stealing money from our moms’ purses. Nearly sixty years of friendship later, and we’re still up to our same old shit. Jan heads for the door, on his way to investigate. The bell doesn’t catch her attention, and I lean back, watching her.
A girl like her doesn’t stroll into a bar like this on Christmas Eve without a story. This one? I can’t get a read, and that’s too fun.
She’s gorgeous, and she knows it. Confidence radiates from her, a weapon she’s not afraid to wield. I like that. I’m bored of pushovers. Her big brown eyes, dirty-blonde hair, high cheekbones, and slim nose make her look like trouble wrapped in a pretty package. And her body? Fuck. Even in that sweater, there was no hiding the fact that she is walking sex.
Ass and tits are timeless. Railing skin and bones lost its appeal decades ago. Plus, I like my girls curvy and strong. Athletic thighs like hers … those are my biggest weakness.
Fucking smother my face.
I take a sip, wondering what her story is, letting the idea of a night with her percolate. She’s running from family—escaping, maybe—but she doesn’t carry herself like someone who’s scared. No, this one’s used to fending for herself. She’s sharp, bold, cocky. She’s not afraid of much, and even if she is, I doubt she’d let anyone know.
It’s Christmas Eve, but I’ve never cared much for the holiday, even less now. It’s just noise to me—music, lights, forced cheer, reminders of what I’ve lost, what I’ve given up.
Still, I can’t shake the paranoia. She could be here for me. A Red Sparrow, maybe, sent to seduce me into a false sense of security. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to take me out. Old habits die hard, and even years after stepping away from the life, I’m always on guard. My enemies don’t send Christmas cards; they send bullets.
But her accent gives me pause. Wisconsin vowels, not Russian or otherwise suspicious. If she understands Polish, she’s doing a damn good job hiding it. I’ll know soon enough. Jan will return with answers. For now, I watch and wait. She smirks again, daring me to make the next move.
This bratty girl would be a perfect Christmas treat.
3
“Polish, right?” I ask, after hearing him chat for a minute with an equally-tatted guy about his age. I’m curious what they were talking about but not enough to ask.
“How do you know?”
“I live in Chicago. Half my friends are Polish.”
“But not you?”
“Not me. I’m basically the EU minus Poland and Spain.”
