Just for Christmas Night

by Lisa Marie Perry

She hadn’t asked Renata for real Christmas presents, had visited a church and prayed for her foster mom and had left without helping herself to refreshments, but she’d desperately wanted something for herself.

  Desperately enough to snare the clogs, stuff them in her bag and hurry to the restroom.

  She’d wanted to ask permission, but was afraid. Afraid someone would tell her the shoes had been donated by mistake. Afraid some of the other kids would laugh at her and she’d never feel comfortable showing up here again. Afraid her self-proclaimed nosy math geek tutor would get question diarrhea.

  Even though she was planning to run away a good hundred bucks from now, Avery had signed up for Martha Blue’s tutoring group anyway.

  She supposed things could be worse than having someone fashionable and sophisticated and funny teach her mathematics.

  She pushed to her tiptoes, extended her fingers…and caught the leather strap tying the pair together. Dumping the clogs into her bag, she dashed into the restroom. In the mirror, a girl who looked like a little kid but felt like an adult confronted her. She smoothed back her hair, then pulled it up. The loose curls flopped over her forehead. Sophisticated? Not even close. She needed to update her earrings, watch a few more YouTube natural hair styling tutorials, buy lip gloss.

  After she slept. Ironically, she hadn’t felt safe taking more than a few short, light naps since she’d changed her bedroom doorknob. He hadn’t said anything, but Renata’s son must be colossally pissed that she had changed anything—even something cosmetic—while the condo was for sale.

  Avery glanced into her bag, suddenly swamped with guilt.

  I stole. I did that?

  Barreling out of the restroom, she started to rush to the donation box, but a group of adults in serious-grown-up suits blocked her access.

  Screw. She pivoted and kept moving. Not running, not dragging her heels, either.

  Martha was looking at her smartphone when Avery slipped into her seat at their workstation. For the first time since she’d seen Martha—both in person and pictured on internet gossip sites—the woman appeared sad.

  “What happened?”

  And slam! went the phone, facedown on the table. “Huh?” Martha said in a pretty awful impression of puzzled.

  “The frown.”

  “Oh, I was thinking I’d hear from someone. A call, text.” An I’m-saying-too-much head shake sent her curly hair bouncing around her face. “Forget it. We’ll file it under Complicated Grown-up Stuff.”

  What could be complicated when you were twenty-something, wealthy, gorgeous and surrounded by hot athletes? Oh… “About a man,” Avery whispered in a pretty awesome impression of shrewd.

  Martha picked up a pencil. “And in other confusing topics, let’s talk slope-intercept.”

  Guilt from stealing the donation-box shoes squashed her urge to laugh, but a smile managed to nudge its way to Avery’s face anyway as she grabbed a sheet of graphing paper.

  Around them, teens were matched with their tutors, escorted to meetings with counselors, encouraged to relax in the tripped-out rec room that looked like a converted solarium.

  Faith House drew in system kids like her, who were in the way at home and whose families couldn’t afford vacations and expensive activities. And it drew in those who defied the system—teenagers from the streets who ran away to Faith House because abusers, rapists, drug-pushers and pimps were on their heels.

  Avery, who’d never been beaten, never given drugs, never molested, felt guilty for using resources that the street teens needed even as she feared she was on the brink of becoming one of them.

  She might, if she jumped the foster-system nest and couldn’t fly in the world on her own. She would, if she stayed much longer at Renata’s or waited for DFS, her guardian, to take her away.

  “Avery?”

  Darting around, Avery realized she was clutching the graphing paper in her fist. She might’ve lost her lunch, had she spent her money on food instead of adding it to her Get Out of Las Vegas fund.

  “What’s wrong?” Martha asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yeah, nothing. File it under Complicated Teen Stuff.”

  “Worried about what’s going to happen next?” Martha set down the pencil. “Your foster mom’s nurse said a social worker’s managing your case.”

  How’d she know that? Oh, no. “You called Renata’s nurse?”

  “I wanted to make sure you won’t fall through a crack—”

  “I needed that crack to fall through, Martha!” Avery’s chest started to heave. “So I can get away.”

  “Wait, wait,” her tutor pleaded, but the blood was whooshing through Avery’s ears and she was shaking and people seated around nearby workstations began to stare. “There are so many foster families in the county that can give you a safe environment—”

  “You’re just parroting generic definitions of what foster care should be. Well, it’s not that way for every kid.”

  “This system matched you with Renata.”

  “There’ll never be another foster parent like her. I’m thirteen, anyway, and I can run away.” Pushing back in her chair, she started grabbing her books.

  “Avery, we care—”

  “Lie. You don’t care, because you can’t understand. And why should you care? You’re living the dream life. Money. Parties. Friends. I don’t have any of that. Or a subscription to Vanity Fair or ‘complicated grown-up’ problems. Or designer shoes.” Avery dragged the clogs from her bag and threw them onto the table. “I stole these from the donation bin!”

  Martha’s jaw went slack for a moment. “Keep them.”

  “What?”

  “I donated those shoes. Put them back in your bag.”

  Avery knew she shouldn’t want to hold on to anything that belonged to Martha, but she found herself snatching them back.

  “We’ve got to talk this out.”

  “No, Martha. Enjoy your dream life, and stay out of mine.”

  Avery bolted. It wasn’t late, but the sky was dark and the chilly air piercing on her tear-streaked cheeks.

  Forget Martha Blue and Faith House and everyone who pretended to care. No one would ever really listen. No one would ever understand.

  No one would save her.

  But she had her dream life in a binder, cash in her bag and a plan.

  All she had to do was keep running.

  Chapter 11

  Fans weren’t particularly supportive of the Slayers coaching staff and operations team’s decision to rest three of their big-draw players—including the starting quarterback—in the final regular season game.

  Martha, who’d followed along at home—studying play-offs scenarios and tracking the team’s performance throughout the season during her downtime in S-Dubs—had come to the stadium expecting the head coach to go that route, and for the GM and owners to be in total agreement.

  The majority of the league followed the school of thought that believed the practice of resting uninjured players attracted negative karma and took for granted the final regular season game. Able-bodied players should play; drawing backups increased risk of injury to men who’d be essential to play-offs emergencies. It wasn’t in the men’s best mental interests to approach a game knowing they weren’t going to take to the field.

  In true Las Vegas spirit, the Slayers opted to take the risk to give Dex Harper additional time to prepare for a play-offs offense under new leadership. Since he’d been reinstated as quarterback several weeks into the season, and had come home to an almost completely new coaching staff, he’d been adapting much of the season—and winning games while doing it.

  Egos were bruised at the insinuation that the rested players were too valuable to use in a game that wouldn’t change their position in the NFC divisional round, while the backups weren’t as vital and could be gambled.

  But that was business. Getting backup men onto the field in a regular season game offered visibility they w
ouldn’t ordinarily enjoy—something that not only helped management gauge their effectiveness, but potentially would increase the players’ value when it came time to trade and negotiate contracts.

  Front office details never floated over her head—contrary to what many inside the organization believed. Sure, the misconception enabled her to observe certain operations functions, yet the preparation for the Blues’ and the Las Vegas Slayers’ response to the soon-to-break development in the Alessandro Franco investigation emphasized her need to be a part of the inner workings of the franchise.

  With her sister Charlotte remaining rooted in her role as a trainer, and Danica no longer affiliated with the team—besides, of course, being the owners’ daughter and the quarterback’s lover—the owners were unhappily without an immediate relative to groom for the front office.

  Meanwhile, Martha wanted to break free of S-Dubs, like one of the Slayers’ primed players on the bench waiting to be called into the game.

  Those primed players would get their chance today, but still she waited. She could appreciate that her “bench” was a cushiony chair in a tiny but stylishly decorated office.

  And she was allowed access to the exquisitely appointed owners’ box, which served as her perch now, as she nibbled caviar and gave the field a perfunctory scan. Several thousand ticket holders were in the bleachers—many of whom were already taking their bait-and-switch complaints to social media.

  Mobility in her career was a concern close to her heart, but wasn’t she one of the lucky ones? Every day she brushed against people who were more than sociological statistics, people who were evidence of a structural dysfunction in society. People who were forced to play the hand they were dealt.

  People like Avery Paige, who’d the other afternoon literally run screaming from Martha’s ineptness.

  Was this heartache what her sister had intended when she’d offered a mansion in exchange for Martha’s time?

  Heartache blows.

  It was a miracle that Faith House counselors and local police had recovered Avery late that night. She’d been collected from Hadland Park and returned home safe, sound and royally pissed off.

  Another miracle? That Martha was still standing, because she was certain she’d stopped breathing the second the kid had burst through Faith House’s doors and disappeared into the dark.

  Afterward, Martha had wanted to go to Joaquin and be held. She’d wanted to lean on him even though he still hadn’t called her or answered the text message she’d sent the day after Christmas.

  So glad I found you under the mistletoe.

  One-night-only sex didn’t warrant day-after contact. People hooked up without exchanging phone numbers or even names. What an amateur move she’d made, but then, she was a little rusty in this department.

  It had been months since she’d slept with anyone. And there was the nugget of a detail that she loved Joaquin Ryder.

  Loved him and was in love with him—against her better judgment.

  Martha didn’t wait for the server to take up her silver saucer. She set it on an empty cart and walked over to the bar, where her mother and a few VIP guests were chatting over champagne.

  Modeling Oscar de la Renta, with her jewelry glittering and her smile so perfect, surrounded by refined pillars of high society, Tem was too stunning to disturb.

  But Martha was almost weak with a despair she’d never tasted before and didn’t totally believe was real. “Ma.”

  Tem swiveled on her leather stool. “You don’t have a drink. That can’t be right.” She smiled beautifully, not realizing the light joke was so, so sharp. “Barkeep, you’ll get my daughter what she wants?”

  “He can’t,” Martha cut in, plopping onto the stool beside her mother.

  Tem blinked, gracing the bartender with a confused glance. “Pour her a glass of what we’re having.”

  Martha accepted a flute of champagne, took a gulp and set it down. She felt sorry that her efforts to help Avery had backfired, that their friendship was dead in the water and that the kid felt she had no one to protect her. Martha didn’t want to imagine losing her mother. “Ma, your daughter wants to sit with you.”

  “The game’s starting soon. Don’t you—”

  “Nope. Just sit here a minute,” Martha said, scooting close and snuggling Tem’s arm. “Y’all can keep talking.”

  Please don’t give me the brush-off. Sometimes a girl needs her mother’s attention, any way she can get it.

  Martha felt Tem’s sigh on her hair. Then Tem reached up to pat her cheek and grinned for her guests. “Occupational hazard of being a mother. Makeup smudges on your dress, courtesy of your adult daughter.”

  A few of the others laughed and someone pointed a phone to snap pictures, but Martha didn’t care what Tem said, she wasn’t letting go.

  As more guests filled the suite, Martha stayed put, resting against her mother.

  “There’s something attached to your arm, Tem.”

  Martha recognized her father’s voice dominating the noise of the crowded suite, but only nestled in more securely, quietly observing.

  “It’s a pretty accessory but clashes with my dress,” Tem said.

  “Is Coach Claussen catching hell out there?” Martha asked her father. If he wasn’t already, she supposed the head coach would face a barrage of questions postgame.

  “Yes, but he holds his own. Our fans want a stronger performance in the divisional game more than they want another regular season win.”

  “And here we are, prepared to deliver both,” Tem added confidently. “Marshall, you did ask Claussen to stress the importance of rest to our QB?”

  “There’ll be a conversation, which Dex will pass along to Danica.”

  Stress the importance of rest…?

  Martha jolted up. Realizing people were gathered within earshot, she kept her incredulous shriek to a whisper. “Ma. Pop. You do mean rest as in simply not playing tonight?”

  “We mean we need Dex and Danica to make certain he doesn’t overexert himself. On field and…off.”

  Martha coughed. “Cut down on sex? You’re asking them to cut down on sex?” So everyone knew how often and energetically they went at each other. “Awkward.”

  “Protecting our QB’s health’s necessary,” Marshall defended.

  Martha took back all the times she’d yearned out of jealousy to trade places with Danica. Some sacrifices were necessary. “It’s business, I suppose.”

  “I appreciate you viewing it that way.” Her father gave a slight nod of…respect? Then he retrieved a bottle of sparkling water from behind the bar and used it to chase the pair of aspirin she hadn’t noticed he’d carried.

  “Headache?”

  “Old-man ache.”

  Tem chuckled. “You and I are on the same level. If you’re an old man, then that makes me—”

  “Everything I want in this world.”

  Guests applauded and cheered for the charming response. It was smooth, and kind of poetic for big, tough Marshall.

  He walked around the bar to grasp Tem’s hand and they stepped away to take their seats at the windows.

  Martha didn’t intrude. So there it was. Her parents were profoundly in love. Her sister and the quarterback were having potentially dangerous amounts of sex.

  And she was a woman irredeemably in love with a man who never was and never would be hers.

  Yeah, heartache definitely blew.

  Sliding off her stool, she worked the suite, flitting from one conversation to another, until she settled to watch the game.

  At halftime, with the Slayers at a comfortable 24–7 lead, Marshall handed her an attractive black envelope with a silver wax seal. “Tem and I reserved a VIP table at that dessert bar in my club building. Grand opening’s tonight.”

  The Grey Crusade was a private club to a limited number of the city’s elite, and so exclusive that the ground-floor restaurant—and, apparently, the new dessert bar—were invitation-only.

  Mart
ha had ventured onto the premises only once, wiggling her way in without her parents’ knowledge and indulging in an evening of billiards, wine tasting and nighttime golf.

  After that debacle, they’d all but banned her from the place, so she was considerably intrigued to now have a sleek TGC envelope in her hands.

  “Your father’s feeling a bit under the weather, so he and I are handing off the invitation,” Tem explained. “It’s supposed to be a gorgeous, sultry place. Not as risqué as your usual go-to clubs. A nightcap there will be a tame change of pace for you.”

  *

  Appetite, the new bar inside The Grey Crusade, was one of the absolute last places Joaquin wanted to be tonight. After Christmas, he’d intensified his workouts, bringing his stamina and endurance to unprecedented levels.

  Uncle Jules had advised him today to bring things down a few notches and tap back into this newly achieved mode closer to the fight. So he was supposed to calm the hell down, stay mellow. But a dessert bar wasn’t the place for him.

  His cousin Tor and his wife had all but pleaded with him to hang on to the envelope he’d received, luring him to the grand opening event featuring exotic desserts and live jazz music.

  It hadn’t been an inconvenience to send someone to the restaurant on his behalf and secure two additional invitations for his cousin and his wife.

  The inconvenience hadn’t come until he’d actually walked into the bar.

  Washed in grays, silvers and streaks of red light, the dessert bar offered brick bar-height tables and no seating. None. Customers interested in sitting were encouraged to do so in The Grey Crusade if they were members—or any number of bars Las Vegas had to offer.

  At least the jazz band had chairs.

  The table’s lights centerpiece created exaggerated shadows on their faces, and with his thick goatee, Tor looked straight-up creepy. “Joaquin, Othello’s with Ciera tonight. Thought you should know.”

  “Their choice.” Easier to say than accept.

  “No rage?”

  “Fresh out.”

  Tor said to Brit, “This man effed up a heavy bag at the gym.”

  Brit looked to him. “What does that mean?”