Let's Scrooge
Page 24
“You know the rule!” I remind him as I turn mine over and get to work on the twist ties that attach it to the piece of cardboard.
“If you can wear it, you have to.” Somehow, he gets his free first and crams it over his dark-brown waves.
I slip mine on and turn to face Flint, thrusting my antlers at him.
He laughs, and we play battle antlers until a buzz pulls out attention to the kitchen.
Flint sighs. “Next Christmas, we need to be less popular.”
“Agreed.” I scramble up from the couch and into the kitchen, where I hit the intercom for the gate. Detective Sharpe’s weary image appears on the monitor. “You look tired, Sharpe. Shouldn’t you be home in bed by now?”
“Just buzz me up.” He releases the intercom button and rolls his window back up.
Flint pulls a fresh mug from the cupboard and preps Detective Sharpe’s coffee just the way he likes it. “He sounds grumpy.”
I nod in agreement and pull a Tupperware of already cooked bacon from the fridge. “Think this will help?”
“It certainly can’t hurt.” Flint opens the bread box on the counter and pulls out another Tupperware, this one filled with biscuits. “Scrambled eggs?”
My stomach growls its approval. “We can make breakfast sandwiches.”
“Cheese,” Flint groans, on the exact same page as I am.
By the time Detective Sharpe knocks on the door, we have the bacon and biscuits warmed, and Flint is finishing up the scrambled eggs.
I leave him to assemble the sandwiches as I head to the door and undo the locks before pulling it open.
Detective Sharpe stands on our doorstep once more, a five o’clock shadow just beginning along his jaw and his eyes tired as they meet mine.
Cold air gusts around him, and I step back, motioning for him to come out of the winter chill. “Get inside, Sharpe, you’re letting out all the Christmas cheer.”
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my Santa duck pajamas, bare feet, then pausing on my head, and he raises his brows. “I think you have cheer to spare, Ms. Cay.”
In answer, I tilt my head from side-to-side, making the bells jingle merrily.
An answering jingle of bells comes from the kitchen as Flint calls, “Breakfast is ready.”
I bounce on my toes, the chill of outside beginning to leech away my hard-won warmth. “In or out, Sharpe.”
After a moment longer where he hesitates on the stoop, he finally steps inside and shrugs out of his jacket. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Because you missed us, obviously.” As I take the detective’s coat, Flint thrusts a mug of coffee into one hand and a plate with a breakfast sandwich into the other.
Sharpe stares down at the offerings in confusion while I hang his jacket on the coat rack, then claim my own breakfast before joining Flint back on the couch in the living room.
I sit cross-legged in the corner of the couch and peer back at Sharpe, who still hovers halfway between the entryway and the kitchen. “Come on over. We won’t bite.”
Flint snickers into his coffee cup. “Never make promises you can’t keep.”
When I extend one leg to poke my toes again his thigh, he gives me wide, innocent eyes.
A long sigh comes from Sharpe before he toes off his shoes, then walks over in his socks to claim a spot on the loveseat that faces the fireplace. He sets his coffee and breakfast sandwich on the coffee table in front of him before propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands.
Another sigh escapes him, seeming to come from his very depths. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Concerned, Flint and I shift to face him.
“Something weighing on you, Detective?” I ask.
He drops one hand to dangle between his knees and turns his head to stare at me through tired, blue eyes. “There was a bear in an attic. A fucking bear. In an attic. On a domestic disturbance call.”
I stay quiet, as does Flint. There’s nothing we can say, and neither of us are good enough actors to lie.
Sharpe straightens and leans back to dig a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and tosses it on the table. “Can you explain this?”
I stare at the torn, bloody scrap of Santa duck fabric the bag holds. “Looks similar to our pajamas.”
Sharpe’s eyes sweep over Flint and me, taking in our very obviously not torn pajamas. “If I run this through the lab, is your DNA going to show up on it?”
“Is the lab going to waste time running samples on a bear attack?” I ask as gently as possible.
Sharpe thrusts to his feet and paces toward the bay of windows to glare out into the frosty morning. “I impounded your van. You can pick it up in the new year.”
I wince at that but don’t complain. It’s not the first time we had to bail the beast out of the impound.
Sharpe rakes a hand through his hair, mussing the dark locks. “Just tell me I’m not crazy. Please.”
Desperation fills his voice, but what can either of us say? The laws are clear on what humans can know, and there’s nothing Sharpe can do with the knowledge.
“Sit down, Detective. Eat your breakfast. Watch a Christmas movie with us,” I say instead. “It’s the holidays, and you obviously need a break.”
He twists back to stare at us, something wild and undefined in his eyes. “Am I breaking bread with murderers?”
“We’re not murderers,” I tell him with conviction. “We’re just a team of cleaners.”
“And what do you clean?” he asks with resignation.
“Most recently?” I shrug. “We cleaned up a drunk girl’s mess.”
Flint bounces up from the couch and over to the fireplace, where he pulls down another stocking, leaving only Marc’s left hanging. When Gwyneth sent them over a week ago, we hadn’t questioned the extra sock, just hung it up with the rest.
“Here, Detective.” He holds it out to the other man. “Open some presents, eat some food. If you stay long enough, Marc will wake up and make us a roast, and Pen will bake a pie.”
Sharpe stares at the stocking. “Are you inviting me to stay for Christmas?”
Flint arches one brow. “Do you have other plans?”
Sharpe takes the stocking and pulls out a long, rectangle present that jingles softly.
I settle back against the couch cushions. “We just have one rule.”
Sharpe glances up at me. “What’s that?”
“If you can wear it, you have to.” I tilt my head back and forth to set my antlers jingling.
Bemused, Sharpe looks back in his stocking. “Are there Santa duck pajamas in here, too?”
“No, of course not.” Flint glances at the tree, where a few presents wait beneath the ornament laden bows. “But if you stay for pie, there might be a gift under the tree with your name on it.”
Sharpe shakes his head and reclaims his seat, the stocking still in his hands. “I really am going crazy.”
A loud groan comes from the hall, followed by a thump.
When neither of us moves, Sharpe glances at us. “What was that?”
Flint shrugs. “Just Marc, falling off the bed.”
Sharpe frowns. “Should someone go check on him?”
“Naw, he has a hard head.” Flint flaps his hand. “Hurry and open your present so he feels left out of the festivities.”
“Sounds a little anti-Christmas, but okay.” Sharpe rips open his present and dutifully puts on his reindeer antlers. He shakes his head back and forth to send the bells ringing. “How do I look?”
“Like part of the team,” I murmur as my chest tightens because, someday, he will be, if Gwyneth can be believed. I just have to be patient.
Another groan sounds, and Flint leaps up from the couch to prance around the living room, shaking his head like a rampaging buck as he yells for Marc to hurry up.
Sharpe watches him for a moment before looking at me. “Are your Christmases always like this?”
“Stick around
and find out.” Standing, I join Flint.
And as I prance around in my Santa duck pajamas and reindeer antlers, I send up a Christmas wish that we all catch a break.
Let the messes of the paranormal stay at bay until tomorrow, so we can eat roast and pie, and see what pajamas Flint picked out for us this year.
About L.L. Frost
L.L. Frost lives in the Pacific Northwest and graduated from college with a Bachelor’s in English. She is an avid reader of all things paranormal and can frequently be caught curled up in her favorite chair with a nice cup of coffee, a blanket, and her Kindle.
When not reading or writing, she can be found trying to lure the affection of her grumpy cat, who is very good at being just out of reach for snuggle time.
To stay up to date on what L.L. Frost is up to, join her newsletter, visit her website, or follow her on social media!
www.llfrost.com
O Come, O Come, Evangeline by M.J. Marstens
Author’s Note
This short story goes along with the already published story Motherf*cker by M.J. Marstens which can be read here.
Chapter 1
Double the Ass Pleasure
“O fanny bum, O fanny bum, don't poke me with your needles,” I hear my four-year-old sing as he hangs another ornament on the Christmas tree.
Immediately, I burst into laughter because, come on, fanny bum? Where is this child learning his lyrics from? I decide that I better rectify the situation before everyone thinks I taught him to sing it that way.
“Hey buddy, the song is O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, and the words are ‘how lovely are thy branches’,” I correct gently.
My son gazes up at me with questions in his eyes, one hazel and one blue.
“Are you sure? It doesn't sound like that to me, mommy,” he says.
“Well, it is,” I respond in my most motherly tone. “It’s not fanny bum.”
Gabe's brow wrinkles in wonder.
“What is a fanny bum, anyways?”
“Well, they're actually just both other words for butt,” I explain blandly as possible,
Immediately, he dissolves the laughter because I just said the word ‘butt’ in front of my four-year-old.
“So, the song is Butt-Butt?!”
Gabe howls with laughter, and I struggle to contain myself.
“Dude—no! The song is not about a double a—toosh,” I hastily correct.
This makes Gabriel laugh even harder.
Jay and Luke, my holy-would-be-priest husbands, come into the room.
“What's so funny?” Luke asks.
Gabe looks at his dads.
“Two butts are better than one!” he yells. “That's something you would like!”
Luke pales at our son's words. While we don't hide the fact that Gabe has four fathers, Jay and Luke tend to keep their personal relationship on the DL from our son—against my own personal preference. I never want Gabe to grow up thinking that there’s anything wrong with two men loving one another. Hell—with any kind of love combination.
Love is love is love is love—amen and the end.
Yet, seeing the panic on Luke’s face, I quickly fill him in about Gabe’s special rendition of the familiar Christmas carol before the poor guy has an aneurysm. Once I clarify the situation, the two men begin laughing hysterically.
“How could he misconstrue it that badly?” Jay wonders.
“Really?” I deadpan. “Did you hear him at bedtime the other night when he was praying? ‘Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my bowl to keep. If I should pie before I wake, I pray the Lord it’s pumpkin to make’.”
Both men erupt into chuckles once more.
“Well, someone should correct him because he's going to be going to kindergarten this coming September—Gabe's going to want to know how to say his prayers correctly,” Mark says sternly as he joins us in the living room.
“Yes, Father,” I say while rolling my eyes.
Mark shoots me a heated look.
“I'll make you ‘yes, Father’ me later.”
Everything inside of me snaps to attention. I love this side of Mark—when he's my heavenly lover, my holy daddy.
“Mark!” I hear Matt holler out from somewhere in the house. “Telephone!”
My other husband gives me one last look before sauntering from the room.
“Mommy, why does Daddy always give you that ‘you're in trouble’ look?” Gabe suddenly asks me.
Jay smirks, and Luke chokes on a laugh.
“Probably because your mom is always in trouble,” Jay jokes with an eye waggle.
I scowl and redirect Gabe’s attention to the tree.
“This spot is missing an ornament.” I direct serenely.
When he's not looking, I flip the other two the bird.
“Jesus doesn't like that,” Luke whispers mockingly.
“Jesus can kiss my ass,” I stage-whisper right back.
“Daddy!” Gabe yells at the top of his lungs. “Mommy said that Jesus could kiss her ass!”
“Gabriel Andrew Brothers!” I admonish in horror.
I swear that I get into more trouble because of his big mouth than anything—the little punk throws me under the bus left and right because he thinks it's hilarious when ‘mommy gets punished’. I wouldn't have a problem with this if they were sexy punishments.
But noooooooooo.
Usually, Mark makes me say an extra rosary or something like that. I cringe when I hear his heavy tread walking down the hall. I hear steps behind him—meaning Matthew is coming, too. If there's anything worse than Mark yelling at me—it's Mark and Matt yelling at me.
“What was that, little buddy?” Mark asks as he enters the room. “I couldn't hear you. I was on the phone.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” I hastily say, trying to shut our son up. “Hey, did you want to open a Christmas gift early, Gabe?”
My kiddo’s eyes light up with delight and he immediately forgets what we were talking about.
“Real nice parenting,” Jay snickers.
“Shut it!” I snap right back at him underneath my breath.
I quickly go and grab a small gift for Gabe to open. When I come back, Matt and Mark are frowning.
“We really shouldn’t let him open a gift whenever,” Mark remarks.
“I know there’s a set time of eight days or whatever when you light all the candles, but one right now isn’t going to hurt him.”
Luke just shakes his head.
“That's the Jewish holiday of Hanukkah,” he corrects.
“Um, no—I totally saw the priest lighting some stuff in church the other day.”
Mark bows his head and Matt tries to cover a smile.
“That's for Advent,” Jay explains. “There are four candles and one's lit every Sunday until Christmas.”
“Well, four candles, eight candles. . . clearly the Jews are having double the fun. Christians are missing out. Either way, let the kid open his gift this one time. Who was on the phone?” I ask, craftily redirecting the conversation as Gabe tears through the wrapping paper.
He yelps for joy when he takes out a box of Crayola crayons—ninety-six count.
This child is the easiest to please, and I adore him. Gabe gives us all a quick hug of thanks before bounding out of the room to color. Not another word is said about my blasphemous slip-up.
Mission accomplished.
“It was Father McMann,” Mark announces, turning my attention.
“Oh, what did he want?”
I have a deep love for Gabe’s godfather. The old man is one of the most amazing human beings that I’ve ever met. Not only did he help protect me, even after he learned that I was impersonating a nun, but he also married the guys and me—something intrinsically against his faith. Catholicism believes in monogamy, and their priests must be celibate. But Father McMann never questioned this, and I adore him all the more for it. In truth, the man is more like a grandfather to all of us than anything else.
“Yes, I remember you saying that we probably should go visit him if not for this terrible snow.”
I make a face.
I love our house in Wyoming, but I hate the fact that the weather is nothing like California’s, where I used to live.
I like the sunshine—and that’s that.
“Father McMann actually wants to go visit his sister down in Florida—”
“His sister-sister, or a sister like me?” I interrupt Mark.
Jay laughs again.
“Do you mean like a fake nun or a real nun?” He teases.
I covertly flip him the bird again.
“You know what I meant! Is it his sister—like blood sister—or is it a nun?”
“Well, actually, she's both,” Mark clarifies.
“A double sister?!” I blurt, channeling Gabe. “Sorry, go on.”
Mark just rolls his eyes. He’s used to my verbal outbursts. He might grumble about it, but I know the man loves my renegade mouth—well, his dick certainly does—he might not as much.
“Right. So, Father McMann wants to visit his sister and wanted to know if I could take over his parish for a little bit.”
“Oh, well, that's nice,” I say.
I know that out of the four of my almost-priests-turned-husbands, Mark misses it the most.
“Well, what did you tell him?” I prod.
Technically, Mark is not a priest, but Father McMann always treats him as such.
“I told him that I can help until the 23rd; then, I need to come home. I invited him over for Christmas.”
“Oh, that's splendid! Why didn’t I think of that sooner? Do you think we can just follow him down to Florida instead?” I joke.
I'm honestly jealous of the old coot—I want to go to Florida.