Page 12 of Deadly Night
He grins wider. “I’d go bad for you.”
The line is cheesy, but it hits me in the warm center of my belly. I can’t resist returning his dopey smile. We survey the rejected trees, making lame conversation about the ones with lopsided tops, misshapen branches, and empty gaps from losing too many needles. The conversation comes easily enough, but I don’t get that spark I was hoping for.
Maybe I’m nervous and self-conscious thanks to this elf getup.
He glances at his watch. “I’d offer to walk you to the tree lighting ceremony, but I have to go help my sister load up the toys. I’ll catch up with you?”
“Sure.”
As he’s walking away, I get that weird sensation of someone watching me. The hair on my arms stands as goosebumps pebble along my skin. I glance at the lot where Damon was earlier, but I don’t see him. And yet, that familiar warmth curls in my belly.
I debate texting my ghost, but I am never the first to reach out.
Seven
Damon
“About fucking time, man.”
My brother snatches the plastic bowl of nachos from me.
“There was a line.” I shrug.
“Yeah. I bet. You mean the one winding around Santa Land. Every dude in town has been grabbing kids to get in line with to catch a glimpse of that naughty elf you’re so hung up on.”
I roll my eyes at him and try not to give him the reaction he’s gunning for.
The next hour is slow. I kill time watching the family’s shop. Couples flirt. Counting how many trees we haven’t sold and how many times the greatest hits of Christmas CD belts on a loop from the speakers set up in various places around the booths. Seven. By the fifth loop, I’m ready to bash my skull into a bundleof spruce, but I get distracted by the sight of a woman in a bright pink ski jacket dragging her kid towards our lot.
Jace spots them too. Business hasn’t been the greatest. I told him, this spot sucks.
He puts on his best marketing face, the one that makes him look like he gives a shit and is happy to be here. “Welcome to Grim Hollow Pines,” he calls out the name of our farm, “you searching for anything in particular?”
The woman barely glances at him. She’s too busy glaring at me—her eyes catch on the tattoos, then flick to the scar on my knuckle where I split it open on one of the trees. She tugs her kid closer, like I’m contagious.
I smile at her slowly and calculated. It’s childish, but I get a kick out of making people squirm. I’m like my brother in that way.
Her kid, a little guy in a gray beanie, points at a scrawny tree that’s already half-dead. “That one,” he says, voice muffled behind his scarf.
Jace squats down to the kid’s level, all the charm of a southern gentleman. “That’s a great tree. Want to help me chop the bottom so it’ll stay healthy?”
The woman hesitates, then nods. “Okay, but—” Her snooty gaze cuts to me again, then to the ink on my arms. “Can he be the one to do it?”
“Damon has steady hands,” he says, with just enough edge to his voice to make it a warning. He can poke at me all he wants because we’re brothers, but he hates when other people talk shit about me. “He’ll show you how it’s done.”
The kid jerks his scarf down. “Please, Mom.” He bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Be careful.”
I grab the handsaw, twirl it once, and kneel beside the kid. He stares at the blade, all wide-eyed and full of awe. Slow and gentleI show him how to hold the handle, then guide his gloved hands as we make the first cut. He grins like he’s just earned a new perk on his favorite video game.
“Hold it tight,” I warn. “See how the saw jerks out of place if you go too fast? Easy does it. The blade will do the job for you.”
The woman pays Jace while I finish the cut. I hand the kid the disk of wood, still sticky with fresh sap. “Souvenir,” I tell him.
“Cool.” He grins, running a finger along the edge. His cunt of a mom doesn’t say thank you. She grabs his wrist, urging him toward their car like there’s smoke.
Jace shoves the cash in the box and tears off a receipt. “Nice to see Mistletoe Pines’ Christmas spirit is alive and well.”
