It’s just that, this morning, she’s wearing a red and green reindeer sweater—I’m pretty sure there are bells on it—and an elf hat.
She peers one beady eye up at me when I stop, speechless at the sight in front of me. “What are you looking at?” she sneers in her rough voice.
“Funny.” I stare at her. “I had the same question.”
She flicks the ashes from her cigarette. “You’re looking at an old woman getting her morning nicotine fix. Christ, you’re sharp as a marble.”
“I just mean, you’re looking so,” I waver, wondering if the lashing I’m sure to get is worth it, “festive.”
Her left eye twitches. “’Tis the fucking season, is it not?”
“Yeah, but—”
She points two fingers at me, the cigarette wobbling between them. “The last forty years, Christmas has meant jack shit to me but a houseful of cranky, bipedal erections. If I want to wear shitty sweaters and bake cookies, then that’s what I’m going to do, and the whole lot of you are going to keep your goddamn mouths shut about it.”
I hold up my hands. “By all means.”
Cookies?
Jesus wept.
I catch Tristian in the kitchen before he can make the same mistake. “I think Ms. Crane is into the whole Christmas spirit thing. Don’t mention it to her.”
He pulls a face. “Seriously?”
Ms. Crane will be content for the day once she sees what we left her. A bottle of Scotch, a box of French chocolates, a fat blunt, and a new copy of Paul Newman’s Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with extra scenes. She’ll be drunk, fed, horny over Paul, and out of our hair for the night.
“You got her gift?” Tristian asks.
“Wrapped and ready.”
Buying a girl a gift—any girl—isn’t something I’ve ever done before. My motto has always been ‘no expectations-no strings’ and frankly, getting a taste of the Killer D is gift enough in my opinion. But shit isn’t the same with Story. Nothing is the same. Everything has shifted between us.
At nine thirty, Story and Rath finally appear, dressed but trudging down the stairs, like they’d rather be in bed. She’s pulled her hair up, some of her makeup from last night still visible around the edges of her eyes. I only caught a brief glimpse of her and Tristian coming home from his parent’s party, but it was enough to see his hair was tousled, eyes glazed over as he watched her glide toward the stairs. I don’t know if he was drunk, stoned, or high on pussy. The blissed-out expression on Story’s face when she walked past the den has me placing odds on pussy.
Ms. Crane insisted we have a tree, and sometime during the craziness of the last week she put one up, gaudily, with those strings of tinsel that get all over the place. There are no big gifts or stockings filled with treats. We’re three adult men living in a frat house. This year is an exception only because Story is here. Her gift is the only one I actually care about. Story takes a seat between Tristian and Rath on the couch and looks at the package on the coffee table curiously.
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” she says, shifting uncomfortably between them.
Rath throws an arm over the back of the couch, insisting, “Just open it.”
Although this was mostly my idea, Tristian tells her, “It’s from all of us.” He still throws me a skeptical look. Even Rath is worrying his lip ring against his tongue as he watches her pick it up, peeling away the wrapping paper.
I completely expect the flash of stunned disbelief in her eyes when she lifts the lid on the box. “No way.” Her wide eyes jump to mine, cheeks spread into a grin that looks automatic. “This is mine? Really mine?!”
There’s a strange bloom of warmth in my chest. I have to stop myself from reaching up to rub at it. “You have to learn how to take care of it,” I warn, not expecting her to lurch up from the sofa and fly toward me.
She squeals, and even though I’ve stiffened instinctually at the sudden explosion of movement, I catch her in my arms, lost for a moment in the soft, feminine scent of her hair.
“Thank you.” She presses a quick, thoughtless kiss to my neck before zipping away, and I’m not prepared.
It feels like my lungs have collapsed.
I clear my throat, watching her test the weight of the pistol in her grip. “It’s a smaller caliber, but—”
“It’s so pretty!” she gushes, the light catching on the silver as she closely inspects it.
My boys and I share a perplexed look. We’ve heard guns referred to as a lot of things, but ‘pretty’ is a first. I’d chosen it carefully, because Story isn’t the type of girl who’d say so, but I can tell guns have made her a little twitchy since she shot Ugly Nick. This one is smaller than the one she used that night. Lighter. Easy to conceal. I arch my eyebrow smugly at Tristian.