Just for Christmas Night

by Lisa Marie Perry

  Briefly she found a safe haven beside the DJ, who was getting everyone hyped for the opening band. Then, when the opening performance started, she roamed until she claimed a seat at the pavilion bar. Seeing her sister pissed off had made her dizzy.

  “Crowded enough for you?” asked Gideon, who remained standing when she gestured for him to park it next to her.

  “Too. I got a little woozy.”

  “Or that boa constrictor’s squeezing too tight.”

  Martha smoothed a hand down her dress, laughing gently. The wooziness lingered to a degree.

  “Are you going to dance?”

  “Probs. It’s early yet. I was in too much of a rush to get a decent amount of food down,” she said, though the delectable Bellagio spread at brunch with her parents and tonight’s scrumptious celeb-chef catered offerings in the nightclub lacked appeal. Finicky from birth, she thought by now she’d gotten a handle on her idiosyncrasies and wouldn’t let a tiny detail ruin her appetite.

  “Dance with me later, Martha?”

  Surprised, Martha sat straighter and retorted, “Chelle’s not keeping you on your toes?”

  “She and I stayed behind in the limo.”

  Oh, no. Chelle and Gideon went that far before they’d even stepped out of the Hummer?

  Chelle was debating the version of herself she’d commit to. Gideon, with his suave charm and hankering for hotties, was on the fast track to playerhood.

  “WTF face,” he said. “Nice.”

  “Sorry.”

  “We talked, nothing more.”

  Martha twisted her mouth. “Is that the truth? Chelle’s going to tell me eventually.”

  “She’ll say it’s not happening, the two of us.” Finally, he sat beside her. “She’s gay. She told me because, according to her, I’m the type to look at a woman and fall in love.”

  Now that was something Martha had never detected, and she prided herself on being very in tune with friends and family.

  “Are you, Gideon?”

  “Might be,” he said thoughtfully. “She is.”

  Martha scrunched her brows. “What makes you say that?”

  “The way she’s been checking out your friend Odette since we got in the limo. The gang’s doing shots in the club. Want me to have something ready for you?”

  “Wow, look who’s attentive.” Martha laughed again, but he continued to watch her earnestly. “Guy, what’s this?”

  “Look, Martha. You think we could go back to Nantucket?”

  Go back to Nantucket, as in re-create the wild, get-on-the-gossip-page weekend they’d spent last summer? So much had changed since then. She’d changed. They were strictly platonic friends now, and she was in love with someone else.

  “Sweetie,” she said, folding Gideon’s hands in hers, “don’t look at me and fall in love. Loving somebody who can’t love you back? It’s hell. Please, please, trust me on that.”

  Gideon’s face contorted as he registered what she’d confided. “Um, does the guy know he’s giving you hell?”

  Shaking her head, Martha said, “Uh-uh, no.”

  “Don’t you think he should?”

  “It’s just how things are, Gideon.”

  It was how things needed to be, if Joaquin was going back to his life in Miami, and she was going to one day find a man who’d give her a neat, uncomplicated storybook romance.

  It wasn’t ideal—it was what she’d tried like mad to avoid—but at least she had someone to love who loved her. Rabbit, her Christmas bunny, was a tiny miracle she hadn’t known she needed.

  “Go,” she told her friend, slapping his hand good-naturedly. “Party.”

  She left the bar, mingling with the press and team personnel as the opening band wrapped up their set onstage. Tem managed to flag her down on her way into the nightclub.

  “Danica and I spoke,” her mother said, steering her to a clearing.

  Good news? They were speaking. Bad news? They’d likely bonded because both were upset with her decision to invite Marion Reeves to a team function.

  “Ma, I didn’t want to hurt Danica. But DZ Haze wouldn’t be here tonight if not for Marion’s influence. Inviting him to the event…I thought it was a necessary business move.”

  What lay behind Tem’s regal, critical stare, Martha didn’t know. “I respect that you found yourself faced with a difficult situation and took action.”

  “Was it the right action?”

  “That’s usually determined by the outcome, isn’t it?” An enigmatic answer, but it lent much to consider. “You sound unsure of yourself. Confidence is vital in publicity, Martha.”

  Publicity. Of course. Because you still don’t recognize that I’m invested in this team beyond being the Blue daughter with a spot in S-Dubs.

  “A publicist’s image is vital, too. You’ve been flying under the radar lately, which is appreciated. The franchise doesn’t need more inconveniences.” A muscle tic between Tem’s eyebrows revealed controlled anger, which was expected, since Alessandro Franco’s latest attack had become a part of the feds’ and NFL’s investigations and had hit the media.

  “Glad I could meet the publicity department’s standards.”

  “It’s progress.”

  Oh. So, no, she hadn’t met standards. She’d made “progress.”

  “I should get back to schmoozing,” she said, receding into the swell of guests and event staff as heart-grinding bass exploded and the massive LED screen lit with electric color.

  Martha sampled appetizers, then let the intensity of DZ Haze’s extreme rap seduce her to dance—first with some men from the team’s defensive line, then with her sister Charlotte, then alone in a simple sway.

  A gravelly whisper on her neck stopped her completely. “No stripper moves?”

  “Aren’t they meant for bedrooms and poles?” Instant arousal had her skin heating with hyperawareness and her thighs aching to be touched.

  “Mmm,” Joaquin groaned into her ear. “No. For me. Your moves are meant for me.”

  Martha’s head tipped back to rest against him and her eyes closed. Spicy cologne teased her; the hardness of him felt both safe and sinful.

  You’re too close. She should say the words, remember where they were and what was at risk. But the desperate, gotta-have-you passion rendered her silent.

  She wanted him to strip off her snakeskin, own her with his body, his hands and tongue and teeth. Compete for her, instead of conceding to her fairy-tale fantasies.

  Scraping the diamonds circling her biceps, he said, “There’s an after-party, right? I can be there—”

  “My place,” she interrupted. “You can help me take down the Christmas decorations. Then you can help me take down my hair. Then—”

  “Martha.”

  She giggled at the pleading groan, turned around and almost jumped him. With her back against him before, she hadn’t known he was wearing a silver-gray shirt, dark jeans and sunglasses.

  If he grinned, if that dimple appeared, she was going to take off with him.

  “Your purse is vibrating.”

  Martha lifted her handbag and dug out her phone. Unfamiliar number. Engulfed in rap music, she couldn’t hear a word the caller said and shouted “Sorry!” into the phone before disconnecting the call.

  “Couldn’t hear. I’ll let them call back and leave a message.” But the phone buzzed softly once, then stopped.

  “Oh, a text.”

  “Take care of that,” he said, turning to leave her with her phone.

  She opened the text. There. Again. Heart-stopping fear. “Joaquin, wait!”

  He pivoted and was there when she almost collapsed. “Give me the phone.”

  Wordlessly, she showed him the text.

  It’s Avery. Help me. I’m sorry about the shoes.

  “Avery? That kid you’re tutoring?”

  “Was. I was tutoring her. She’s pissed at me. But she’s in trouble.” Martha squared her shoulders, bolstering herself, battling the returning wo
oziness. Should she allow him access to this aspect of her life? “You don’t have to be involved—”

  “Martha.” Joaquin’s arm banded around her, and she could lean on him if she needed to. “We’re going to get her.”

  *

  Lagoon Rock Road. The place was from Joaquin’s past, and pushing the Escalade beyond its limits with his foot heavy on the accelerator and his hand tight on the steering wheel, he saw memories of neglected houses, barren yards, malnourished dogs, stripped automobiles and the flash of police cruiser strobe lights.

  Mixed up with a group that had accepted him as a scrawny kid with the stones to do just about anything, he’d followed an order to hot-wire a car on Lagoon Rock and had ended up locked in juvie.

  Over the next few years he was picked up in other neighborhoods for a variety of stupid shit from truancy to street gambling, but you never forget your first time.

  Crime had been rampant back when he was beating those streets. The thought of a scared kid sticking to the shadows, trying to find her way to safety, triggered his instinct to protect. And somehow, the realization of how important she was to Martha made her important to him, too.

  At the pavilion Martha had tried to give him an out that he hadn’t taken. Wresting control of other folks’ business was one of his unpopular fortes, and usually he didn’t care. But Martha needed someone beside her, not leading her.

  Tonight she needed safety and support. In the driver’s seat, with one of his security specialists available at the touch of the Bluetooth speakerphone, he provided that.

  When Martha had found out the kid was a ways from home and tiptoeing around on Lagoon Rock, she demanded his word that he wouldn’t interfere with how she wanted to play this. No police or county family services ambushes. The girl—Avery Paige—didn’t trust freely.

  “Avery hopped a fence. She’s in someone’s backyard.” Clutching her phone, Martha twisted toward him in the passenger seat. “It’s a wood fence with graffiti.”

  “Okay.” Wouldn’t narrow things down by much, but he could work with that. “Avery still on the line?”

  She shook her head, swearing on a shaky sigh. “Phone battery’s low.”

  “Text her. Ask her to stay where she is, if she can. Get low, watch and listen. Don’t draw attention. She’ll look like a target.” Aware of the take-charge tenor in his voice, aware that she might figure he was being an alpha asshole about it, he kept talking. He knew Lagoon Rock and streets similar to it. The next minutes could take the kid’s situation from critical to tragic if she got careless and detected on the wrong person’s radar. “We’ll get through to her when we get close.”

  Text sent, she waited motionless until a soft buzz sounded. “She texted ‘okay,’” she said. “Spelled it out. O-K-A-Y. Most kids go for textspeak. Shortening words, sticking in numbers that sound like letters. Avery, she doesn’t shortcut.”

  As she spoke, she started to relax, resting against the seat and loosening her grip on the phone. If he could keep her talking, it might hold the panic at bay. “What do you mean, she doesn’t shortcut?”

  “Avery commits. From-scratch recipes. Cleaning up the mess from one project before she digs into another. Solving algebraic equations using a paper and a pencil, instead of a calculator.” Martha slanted toward him, calmer now. “She’s had to adapt to so much. She’s only thirteen. Somebody should’ve told her how smart and cool and tough she is. I should’ve.”

  “You can. Get her home—”

  “Avery ran from home. Last month she hid in a park to avoid going home.”

  Joaquin frowned, easing the Escalade onto Civic Center Drive. “What’s making her run?”

  “It’s not what. It’s who.”

  “Yeah?” Still carrying some scars from the hard knocks he’d taken before he learned to defend himself, he had a special brand of loathing for people who terrorized kids. “Maybe somebody should introduce them to fear.”

  “Maybe someone will, but it won’t be you. Avery needs care and consideration, not violence.”

  “She needs to be protected.”

  “Not through violence.” Martha’s hand curved firmly over his shoulder. “And you’re good for more than that.”

  Was he? Fighting was the central purpose of his life. It was what he’d been trained and conditioned for. As his uncle had told him, he had no reason to stop fighting.

  Joaquin didn’t try to cut down her words or shrug off her grip. He loved her voice in his ears, how her touch radiated comfort completely through him.

  He loved?

  “Let’s start looking for wood fences,” he said, trying to catch the thought before it sank too deep. “And get her on the phone.”

  The ghost town atmosphere that welcomed them as they approached Lagoon Rock Road was familiar—as though he belonged to these streets. In a way he did. They were part of his past, something he’d survived.

  Bringing down the speed, he navigated Lagoon Rock while Martha spoke in the phone. Suddenly she said to him, “I see her—about three houses ahead.”

  A slight figure was sliding down a fence, and met the ground with a wobble.

  In a flash Martha disengaged the locks, he hit the brake and she shoved open her door. She jetted down the beaten sidewalk, leaving him to nose the SUV forward.

  Joaquin got out, but stayed back, watching the grungy, waiflike kid outstretch her arms and stumble to Martha, bawling.

  And something bright and weightless cut into him, the way the headlights’ beams carved into the dark street. A feeling that he was seeing a version of Martha Blue he’d never met.

  That version of her stayed the night, shielding and encouraging Avery at the hospital, where she was treated for lacerations and a sprained wrist she’d earned tumbling off a fire escape. As no more than a friend of the kid’s tutor, he was pushed to the fringes, overhearing bits of conversations as the hours drifted. A social worker, a pair of cops and Martha’s sister Danica showed up.

  “Avery’s being released,” Danica told him, meeting him at a cooler that offered lukewarm water.

  “Back to her foster mom?”

  “No. According to Avery’s statement, her foster mom’s son has been intimidating her for months and tried to assault her earlier yesterday.”

  “Piece of—”

  “The cops are getting acquainted with him,” she said, giving his biceps a firm clap. “Thanks for being here for Martha through all this. I’ll get them home.”

  “What?”

  “Your shift’s over.”

  “What do you mean, ‘them home’?”

  “There was a crapload of red tape, but they got their way. Avery’s being released to Martha.”

  *

  “Eliáš Brazda’s going to beat you.”

  Joaquin, who’d been hitting the speed bag in a steady, accelerated rhythm, suddenly gripped it in his wrapped hands.

  Adjusting his skullcap, he tracked Jules as he did a perimeter walk around the ring, then finally meandered to him.

  “Brazda’s not going to outclass you,” Jules clarified, revealing a newspaper tucked under an arm. “He’s going to beat you, hit you where it hurts. Because his camp knows you can be hurt. Here’s your weakness, right here on the Sun’s front friggin’ page.”

  Joaquin snatched the newspaper, making a concentrated effort to remain impassive, knowing his uncle was watching for a reaction. It wasn’t easy, when his eyes narrowed on the headline Boxing Prince and NFL Princess Make a Royal Rescue.

  Damn it. The press had been the least of his considerations when he’d escorted Martha and that scared, scraped-up kid to the hospital the other night. When he’d finally left, it had been only because he’d known they were safe with Danica.

  Skimming the article, he saw more details about the Las Vegas Slayers’ postseason celebration and his upcoming pay-per-view fight than his and Martha’s “inspiring act of heroism.” He figured it was because the hospital hadn’t disclosed the kid’s name, and the Blue
family and his publicists had declined to comment. Good looking out.

  “Uncle Jules, what’s wrong with you? Relax, man.” He passed back the paper and turned to the speed bag. “Shouldn’t you be used to seeing my name in the papers?”

  “Not hugged up with words like heroic and compassionate.” Jules spat the last word, reaching up to block the speed bag with jittery hands. “Joaquin Sinner Ryder isn’t a hero. He’s a goddamn champion because he’ll go through any man to win.”

  Adrenaline and anger moved through his system like liquid lead. He couldn’t break momentum, couldn’t slow down. Adapting, he swerved, targeting a heavy bag.

  The unit he’d destroyed still hadn’t been replaced. Which was odd, considering the pride Jules had always taken in this place and that he’d demanded cash to replace the damaged bag. “When’re you going to get a new bag?” he grunted.

  “One’s on back order.”

  “Got companies in a pissing match to stock this place with equipment,” he said, mopping sweat off his forehead. “Why wait on a back order with that kind of money? Give me the name of the company. I can get a replacement installed—”

  “Questioning me?” Jules growled, and Joaquin paused, noting the threads of red in the man’s eyes.

  He’s tired, stressed, and it’s breaking him. Desperate to believe that, he discounted the suspicions his uncle’s anxiety and bloodshot eyes provoked. He rejected the memory of Martha telling him that Jules had been “jumpy” on Christmas. He tried his damnedest to not look at his uncle and see a trace of his mother.

  “Want the money back?”

  “No.” The money Joaquin didn’t miss. Jules was a grown man, his elder, his uncle, his trainer. But where was the money? In the gym’s safe? A business account?

  Jules raised you. He saved you. He gave you this life. Don’t doubt him.

  “I manage this gym my way, Joaquin.”

  “Okay, I can respect that. Now get out of my way.”

  Jabs, footwork, snapbacks. Stay graceful and merciless. Bar outside distractions—including his trainer—from his head.

  But Jules was too close, interference he couldn’t shut out. Load that left leg going into the hit! Protect your chin! Bring down that elbow or you’re open for the body shot that’s gonna make Brazda champ!