Page 29 of His Secret Santa

It shouldn’t hurt this much. Why does it hurt so bad?

His eyes crept open, releasing a well of hot tears, and he stared at the ceiling. He felt sick and empty as if a real relationship had just ended badly.

Holden turned his head on the pillow and looked at the envelope lying on the nightstand. He sat forward and picked it up, hesitated, then opened it and took out the card. His pulse stuttered. On the front of the card was a sexy young man wearing only a red G-string and a Santa cap with Merry Christmas written across his chest in whipped cream. With unsteady hands, Holden opened the card and read the poem inside.

At Christmastime, I think of the gifts

That brings me sweet surprise,

But nothing brings greater joy

Than when you look into my eyes.

And when I contemplate what Christmas means,

The caring, the giving—I must confess,

You’ve given me what I want the most;

Your touch, your kiss, your warm caress.

And the handwritten note at the bottom: Please come see me again. I’m counting the days to your birthday. –Waiting With Bells On, Your Secret Santa.

Holden went numb from head to toe as he stared at the stamp below the signature.

The silhouette of a male dancer with flaming wings… and three words.

The Phoenix Club.

Chapter 8

“Eighteen.” Darren Pratt clapped his son’s shoulder. “Big number. You’re officially a man.”

Lincoln smiled small. “Yeah.”

“Big party tonight. Live it up—for soon, the real battle of life begins, and you’ve got to hold your own out there.”

He sighed. “I know.”

His dad leaned against the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in hand. Even on a Saturday, he dressed like a stockbroker—full suit and tie, face set firm as if he were heading into battle at the exchange. Lincoln couldn’t remember ever seeing the man completely relaxed and laid back. He was an alpha career man and believed in 24/7 vigilance, lest he be trampled beneath the feet of his adversaries, as he referred to his competitors.

To Lincoln’s distress, his father demanded the same of him. He saw Lincoln as a carbon copy of himself and meant to mold him as such.

Lincoln wasn’t like him. Not at all. There were many differences. Some of which his father couldn’t handle, and therefore, couldn’t know. Not yet. If he caught wind of Lincoln’s true self, life would become unbearable inside these walls.

“How’s that pretty girlfriend of yours?” his father asked as he sipped his coffee. “Things getting serious?”

Darren Pratt liked McKenna. She was beautiful and came from “prime stock”. Lincoln was aware his father wanted them to marry. Lincoln could think of nothing more depressing and… well, frankly, horrifying.

“She’s fine.” Lincoln stirred his Wheaties. “I’m not thinking in terms of serious, right now. I haven’t even graduated yet.”

“But you will soon. And that girl is a keeper. I’d advise you to lock her down before it’s too late. You wait too long, and she’ll set her sights elsewhere.”

Not likely, Lincoln thought. She wasn’t only with him because he was the quarterback—but because of his father’s money. On more than one occasion, she’d made idle remarks about them getting married, playing it off as joking. But she wasn’t joking. She meant to get in on the Pratt fortune.

“Yeah, well,” Lincoln mumbled. “We’ll see what happens.”

“No,” his father stated firmly, making him flinch. “You don’t wait and see—ever. Life is a stingy bitch. It gives you nothing. If you want something—you take it, by any means necessary. And you keep it the same way. That girl is into you now. But if you wait and see, and don’t make your move, she’ll move on to someone who will.” He pointed at Lincoln. “Heed my warning, son. Don’t fuck this up.”

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