by Rhys Ford
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
More from Rhys Ford
About the Author
By Rhys Ford
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Copyright
Tutus and Tinsel
By Rhys Ford
A Half Moon Bay Short
Zig Reid-Harris has everything an eleven-year-old girl could ever want—a great home, two fantastic fathers named Deacon Reid and Lang Harris, and all the books she could possibly read.
When a school assignment about holiday traditions unexpectedly broadsides her, she discovers burying the past isn’t as easy as it looks, and the stark reality of her life before her adoption sinks in. Ashamed of the bleakness and poverty she came from, Zig struggles with the assignment until an epiphany strikes the whole family—it’s time to start their own traditions.
Zig and her fathers plunge into the insanity of holiday joy, exploring everything the season has to offer and learning how precious family truly is along the way.
To everyone who has secretly longed to don a tutu and pair it with thick, heavy combat boots. Embrace your inner Zig.
This book is also dedicated to my road trip crew, Bru and Erin, who I was glad to share SoCal food, coffee, ink, and freeways with. May your coffee always be ready when you arrive and your char siu ramen bowls forever full. That said, I have STILL not forgiven both of you for tapping out on the Great Asian Dishonor Apocalypse. I shall have my revenge. Or at least another round of spicy ahi on crispy rice.
Acknowledgments
TO THE Five—Tamm, Lea, Jenn, and Penn—for contributing bits and bobs to Zig’s personality.
And to my beloved sisters in all but blood, Mary, Lisa, Ren, and Ree. A special thank-you to Michelle Mary Taylor for steering the boat a few times.
And as always, a massive thank-you to Elizabeth, Lynn, Liz, Naomi, and the rest of the Dreamspinner staff who not only make my mud pies look fantastic but keep me company as I walk along the edge.
One
“SCREW IT! Everyone can go to hell!” A door slammed somewhere in the front of Reid’s Auto Shop and was followed by a stomping frenzy worthy of a brontosaurus. There was more cursing, this time in a mangled Spanish, and then Zig returned to her tried and true favorites. “Fucking shit!”
One of the young mechanics—probably Eli—mumbled something, but it was hard to hear through the cinder block walls, despite the open double doors that led to the main shop. Hunkered over a ’71 Norton Commando, Deacon tightened down another gauge, counted to five, and grinned when Zig groaned loudly.
“Shit! He’s supposed to be at Angel’s fixing something.” Her dramatic sigh was worthy of a hippo in love with a crocodile prince. “I already owe him two bucks when I get my allowance this week.”
“Maybe if you throw yourself onto the mercy of the court.” Abe, Eli’s boyfriend and fellow mechanic chortled. The beefy young man passed the open door, carrying a box of parts to the car he’d been working on. “You’d think you’d learn.”
The oncoming storm muffled most of what they were saying, but Deacon figured Zig needed to vent a bit of steam before she made her way to the back of the shop, where he was working. Eli and Abe would hear her out, but neither of them would offer up much in the way of how to fix what was wrong. They’d make sympathetic murmurs, and when Zig reached a point where she was willing to listen, she’d come find him.
In a lot of ways, the auto shop was her home away from home… well, one of them. Lang’s bookstore, a few doors down, got a lot of Zig traffic as well. She earned money at the auto shop doing the odd job and then turned around and handed her hard-earned cash to the book store to satisfy her reading addiction. But as close as she was to Lang, she always sought out Deacon when life threw her a curveball.
Reid’s was busy with a constant flow of customers and cars that needed work. He’d brought on a few more mechanics, made Eli and Abe senior technicians, and hired a retired librarian named Mabel to man the front desk and answer calls. Mabel’s prim and proper exterior masked a woman with the heart and mouth of a pirate, and she ran the place as tightly as though she were the captain of a ship. She kept the sales books in order and warmed up the reception area with endless coffee and bright chatter.
All the growth in the front of the shop meant Deacon could concentrate on the work he did in the long bay attached to the back of the building.
As much as cars were the foundation of Reid’s success, his love of restoring and customizing classic motorcycles satisfied his soul. He loved the research as much as he did the tinkering and consulting with a bike’s owner on its specs and looks. Most of all he loved the relative solitude of the workroom of his own shop and bringing life back to beautiful machines.
The stomping continued and then stopped at the door, but Deacon focused on the bike and reached for one of the filters he brought with him from the front office. In the years since he’d adopted his niece and married his husband, Lang, he’d learned a few things about how to handle Zig, especially since she was more like him than her deceased mother. Where his sister would take the easy way out of things or con someone else into taking the blame, Zig met life head-on, ready to do battle with any and all obstacles.
Even the ones she should walk away from.
Deacon had learned a lot of hard lessons, some in prison for receiving stolen goods or in the rough, mean Long Beach neighborhoods where he and Zig grew up, but the most difficult thing he’d ever done was walk away from everything he knew and move to Half Moon Bay to start his life over.
The little girl standing at the double doors that connected the auto bays to the long receiving bay he’d converted to a cycle shop was worth every agonizing moment and every dollar he’d spent to make the move. He knew it the moment he picked her up from her foster home and put her into the sidecar of his motorcycle, and he vowed to be as perfect of a dad as he could, although he knew he’d fuck it up something fierce along the way.
He had, no question about it, but she kept coming back to him, and she held on tight when the world got too sharp and she grew brittle. They’d come a long way together and went even further when Lang joined their family. Still, it was hard to look into Zig’s enormous too-adult green eyes and not see the little girl who’d once needed a nightlight to fall asleep.
“You heard me, right?” Zig muttered, a bit of challenge in her voice. “And I hate that the swear jar’s back. Sometimes I just want to say bad things.”
At eleven and a half, Zig was getting tall. She was a coltish stretch of golden-skinned, smart-mouthed young girl on the verge of womanhood, and it broke Deacon’s heart a little bit to find the top of her head was getting a lot closer to his chin with every passing day. He’d been weak-willed one hot afternoon a few weeks ago and agreed to let Zig shave the underside of her head. He helped her parse out the line and then took a pair of clippers to her soft tumble of caramel curls. Lang came home to what he thought was a dead poodle on the kitchen floor and a sobbing Zig now shorn around her ears and filled with instant regret.
The tears lasted for an hour, and after two bowls of ice cream, Lang helped her even the line out while they both shot evil glares at Deacon as he sat quietly at the kitchen table, refusing to point out that the clippers and mane cut were Zig’s idea. He mentioned that no one could actually see her shaved skull under the wealth of hair she still had left, but the response he got was less than friendly.
A trip to the movies and a dinner at Zig’s favorite pizza place soon smoothed over that particular bump in the road.
> Deacon stayed silent and waited Zig out. Her heavy boots were speckled from mud, and her Crossroads Gin gray hoodie was nearly soaked through from the storm raging outside of the bay’s rolling doors. She’d worn a black Reid’s Auto Shop shirt into school with a pair of the ugliest pink camo cargo capris ever made, but he took one look at her that morning and decided it wasn’t a battle he needed to fight.
He was pretty good at picking his battles now, mostly because a lot of it didn’t matter. As long as he wasn’t raising an asshole kid, Deacon figured he was doing okay.
“I’ve got reasons.” She fired off her opening volley and kept her voice down to a whisper so soft that he almost couldn’t hear it over the rain. “Good ones.”
“Huh.” Deacon allowed himself that small noise in the pregnant pause of doubt before she began the mad scramble of words and indignant outrage over some slight she’d been given. “Pass me that socket over there on the bench.”
Zig brought the tool over, along with a few lemon drops she snagged from the candy jar he kept on the work bench. She popped a couple into Deacon’s open mouth, settled down on one of the shop’s stools, and hooked her feet into the metal ring above its wheels. Deacon knew his daughter well enough to know she was struggling with how to package whatever she needed to say as her gaze drifted out to watch the sheets of rain that poured off the tin roof of the bay.
After a few minutes, Zig sighed and mumbled, “Mrs. Bryant wants us to do a presentation on our family’s holiday traditions, like what our first Christmas or whatever was like and what we remember from it.”
That was not what Deacon expected to hear.
“It’s stupid, and it sucks. Not everybody’s got money,” she snapped. “Mom sucked. And not like you were around. I didn’t have shit back then. You know.”
“Well, shit, kiddo.” Deacon huffed out a breath, straightened up, and reached over to ruffle Zig’s hair. “We can do something. It’s not going to be that bad.”
Zig clamped her lips in tight, turned her face away, and refused to look at him. She clenched the stool’s leather cushion, dimpling it deeply, and her knuckles turned white. A sheen flashed over her eyes, a brief watering before she blinked and hid her unshed tears.
They’d both come from shit. There was no denying that. They’d been born into squalor, and Deacon’s path was set toward ruin nearly at birth. His mother taught him how to shoplift, how to shove Styrofoam flats of pork chops and hamburger down the back of his loose jeans, his hoodie tugged low to hide the bulge tucked against his spine. At seven he learned to “shop” on his own and bring what he lifted back to whatever hellhole she’d found for them to squat in. Too many of his holidays were spent in food kitchens or ratty hotels, where he ran the hot water in the bathroom on full force and hoped it would be enough to cook a Cup Noodles for dinner.
His first real Thanksgiving meal was in juvie, and he punched one of the other guys in the face just to take his slice of pumpkin pie. He knew his mother hadn’t been much better for his younger sister, and Deanna did even less for her daughter. She let Zig’s life disintegrate around her while she chased another hit of whatever drug she could get her hands on.
Deacon wouldn’t sugarcoat Zig’s life before foster care. He knew exactly what Zig had lived through, and he worked to help her overcome her mistrust of people. She pulled a lot of crap because she’d only had herself to depend on, but she’d stopped hoarding canned goods around her bedroom and didn’t lead with her fists anymore when she was challenged by someone at school.
She was learning to walk away when something wasn’t worth it and to go full in when it was… a hell of a lot sooner than Deacon ever had. Denying what she’d gone through when Deanna was alive would have been erasing the struggles she’d fought through, and Deacon knew in his gut it was better to point out that she’d come through it and was a better person than it was to sweep it all under the rug and pretend it never happened—especially since there were still nights when he was woken up by her insensible cries. He still spent hours holding her, reassuring her that he would always be there to protect her, and rocking her gently until the dawn turned the creamy walls of her bedroom a blush pink.
“We didn’t do jack for Christmas, or Halloween even. Like, all the kids at school would come back after vacation, and they had all this cool shit or they went someplace. We didn’t do that.” She still ducked her head down and couldn’t look at him. “One time I stole a Barbie doll from the box they put toys in for poor kids, and I hid it from Mom. But when school started, I brought it with me to show what I got for Christmas. So I could pretend, you know? I don’t want to tell Mrs. Bryant that. I don’t want her to know about back then.”
“I can talk to her and—”
“No! Then you’ve got to explain. It’s just… this sucks.” She finally looked up, her face wet with tears. Her bottom lip trembled, and Deacon reached for her, but Zig shook him off. “Why was Mom such a shit? Why didn’t you come get me sooner?”
If Zig had picked up a chisel and stabbed him in the heart, she couldn’t have hurt him more than she did with the words she flung at him. Deacon gathered her up in his arms and expected a fight, but Zig surprised him and flung herself at him in a desperate lunge. He held her tightly and rocked her back and forth while he smoothed her hair as she sobbed. Her slender body shook as she worked out her pain and frustration, and her tears soaked his shirt. His heart broke for what must have been the thousandth time since he’d first learned that his sister died and left a little girl behind to wallow in the ashes of her broken, fucked-up life.
“I hate Mom. I’m glad she’s dead. I hate her so much.” She caught her breath and exhaled in stuttering jerks into his chest. “I just want to be normal, Dad.”
“Well then, you’re shit out of luck, baby girl.” Deacon sighed, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “You’re never going to be normal. You can’t be, because you’re already pretty fucking special.”
THE DELICIOUS scent of something garlicky roasting in the oven greeted Lang when he came through the kitchen door. He slid his car keys onto the horns of the wooden giraffe that Zig gave him for Father’s Day. Then he stood and watched the man he married slowly stir shredded cheddar cheese into a bowl of elbow macaroni.
Lang knew he’d never get tired of coming home to the brawny, handsome man who years ago moved into one of Lang’s rentals with his then-niece Zig. His dark brown hair was a bit longer now, but Deacon’s sensual slow grin and wicked hazel eyes stoked a fire in Lang’s guts every time they saw each other. Deacon’s T-shirt hugged his wide shoulders, and its untucked hem brushed his narrow hips. He was wearing a pair of old jeans that Lang adored—a soft faded black denim still firm enough to cup Deacon’s tight, muscular butt.
He really liked Deacon’s butt.
Fish sticks, not so much, but he liked them a hell of a lot more when Zig gleefully served him up a handful of the slightly orange long rectangles with a glop of intense orange gloop and declared it a perfect Friday night—all because he’d joined them for dinner.
Then he joined their family, and fish sticks on Friday became a thing.
“Hey, I’m home.” Lang closed the back door and grinned at the goofy, sweet expression on Deacon’s face. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Oh, hey, babe.” Deacon jerked his head for Lang to come closer. “Get over here and give me a kiss and then grab something to drink. I’ve got my hands full of cheese.”
Deacon tasted of cheese, apple cider, and rain, and Lang savored every moment their lips touched. His hands were cold from the wintery bluster outside, and Deacon’s waist was warm, especially under his shirt. He yelped when Lang slid his icy fingers under his T-shirt and up his back. Deacon turned around and embraced Lang in a half hug, using mostly his elbows and upper arms. He lightly bit Lang’s lower lip and then let go, careful to hold his hands away from Lang’s body.
“I’d give you a better hug, but my hands are dirty.” Deacon chuckled when L
ang cuddled against him. “If you let me get this into the oven, I can give you a better hug. Chicken already went in a bit ago.”
“Do you want me to help you with anything?” Lang’s glasses were slightly fogged up, but they were clear enough for him to see Deacon’s face. “It’s Friday. What’s with the chicken?”
That was something he never thought he would say. As much as he bitched and moaned about the strangely textured rectangles and insisted they switch it up every other Friday for proper fish, Lang was reluctant to admit he was looking forward to their traditional Friday dinner.
“Angel set up a last-minute movie night with Rome and a bunch of other kids and asked if Zig wanted to go with them. I figured, after the day she had, she probably needed to go out with some friends. I left it up to her.” Deacon reluctantly let Lang leave his embrace and turned back to the cheese-macaroni mixture he’d been working on. “Maybe grab some salad stuff or check the fridge for what’s almost dead? Might be some veggies in the bottom drawer that need cooking soon. I’ll catch you up on Zig.”
“What’s up with Zig? She okay?” Lang examined the contents of the freezer and then turned. “And this is going to sound crazy coming from me, but do we have any fish sticks?”
Deacon stopped mid cheese-shake and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want fish sticks instead of chicken? Because it can go in the fridge for tomorrow once it’s done.”
“Um, yeah,” he confessed as he pulled out a box of fish sticks. “Do you mind?”
“Hell no. Still hands down my favorite meal,” Deacon admitted. “But I’m not going to make box mac and cheese. I’ve already got all the cheese into this thing. We can toss the fish sticks in the oven once it’s all done. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Deal. I’ll do veggies when they go in. And apparently feed the cat.” Lang put the fish sticks back into the freezer and shook his leg to get Fafhrd off. “Hold on, you ginger menace. Where’s your brother? Go find Gray.”
