Page 33 of Holiday Scars
“Seventh?” Jett snorts.
I shrug. “I don’t ask questions anymore. He’s in deep with that neighbor.”
The elevator opens, and I jump back.
Rhys Quinlan, lead assassin for the Irish Mob, stands there in a bright red Santa sweater, the kind with felt reindeer antlers stitched to the shoulders. Pupils blown wide, his eyes are wild and hungry with mischief.
He looks like a man who could rip out a throat and then calmly hang an ornament on the victim’s tree.
“Fuck, Rhys...you okay?” Jett asks with the same startled reaction, because seeing our lead assassin looking one stress fracture away from feral isn’t normal.
“I’m great. We’re stealing a Christmas tree,” he says, completely serious.
I blink. “We’re what?”
“He said,we’re stealing a Christmas tree,” Jett clarifies.
“It’s for Fallon,” Rhys mentions his cute neighbor, who he’s been fake-dating.
“Why are we stealing a tree when you can still buy one down the block?” I ask.
He whispers, “No time to explain. Just back me up.”
Rhys slides a key into the lock of a strange apartment. Jett moves in first and disables the alarm with a small handheld device. Rhys motions for me to guard the hallway.
“Shoot anyone who wakes up with this,” he says, tossing me a dart gun.
“You’re kidding?”
He gives me a look that makes my blood run cold. He’snotkidding.
I stand in the living room, lit up with the glow of lighted wreaths in each window, while Rhys and Jett lug an eight-foot-tall, fully decorated live tree out of the living room. The thing is dripping with bows and glass ornaments that casually fall to the floor.
They pass me, and I’m about to follow them when a little boy in dinosaur pajamas is suddenly standing in the hallway, rubbing his eyes. My stomach drops.
“Who are you?” he asks, yawning.
“Hey, buddy,” I whisper, crouching. “It’s okay. I, uh, work for Santa.”
He blinks up at me. “Why are you taking our tree?”
“Santa sent us to borrow it,” I say quickly. “It’s so nice, he wants to use it up at the North Pole. Your dad’ll get you another one by tomorrow afternoon, I promise. Now go back to bed.”
“Okay. Just don’t take the cookies.” He nods solemnly, yawns, and pads back to bed.
I let out a shaky breath, never so relieved not to shoot someone.
We haul the tree up eight flights after measuring the thing and figuring out it’s too tall for the elevator. I’m only partially surprised to see Rhys use a key to get into the apartment next to his on the fifteenth floor. It’s a cute alcove studio that smells like ginger with plants everywhere.
Inside, Rhys moves around like it’s his place, setting the borrowed/stolen tree up in the corner.
“Where’s Fallon?” I ask softly.
“Sleeping in the alcove,” he whispers, cheeks red. “I put a pill in her tea, so she’d sleep deeply, but be quiet.”
Jett and I exchange a look. He’s trying not to smile, but it’s there. A ghost of the grin I remember because we’ve been watching these Quinlan men fall hard and do crazy shit for their women. This one tops the list, though.
Rhys steps back, fixing a bow and adjusting the sequined star at the top. “Aye, this is perfect. You two can go.”
