Filthy Scrooge

by Quinn, Taryn

  In the meantime, it would be just me and my old Taylor acoustic, a roaring fire, and a case of Coors.

  Hey, I never said I had highbrow tastes. So sue me.

  Blowing out a breath, I heaved the ax through the chilly air, savoring the pleasant burn in my muscles. I was chopping way more wood than I’d need for a weekend at the cabin. If I was lucky, I’d make it back to Turnbull a few times over the winter. With the single dropping, we’d be branching out. Spreading out to do shows some distance from LA, which meant all the press that went with that. I’d be talking myself hoarse before I was expected to go up and bleed out onstage for the price of a ticket.

  That was my role. My new role. The one I’d craved since I was a kid with a cheap thrift store guitar, a joint in my back pocket, and the requisite amount of teenage angst that made me think I could be a great songwriter.

  Now I was getting my shot, and the battered composition notebook I’d been lugging around for years—first in backpacks, then in briefcases during my brief stint working at Ripper Records—was definitely getting a workout.

  Just like my arms. I slammed the axe into the snowpack and threw back my head. Shit. The chill seared my lungs, yanking out my breath in icy puffs. And I still wasn’t smart enough to go inside.

  Nope, I kept splitting logs, continuing on until the overcast afternoon turned into dusk. The foggy dark hung in ribbons of mist around my forest, and I didn’t stop until the distant cry of a lonely coyote made me think maybe it was time for that fire.

  We didn’t get a lot of coyotes out this way, but we had some. In this much dense forestation, you got quite the range of creatures. Even the occasional black bear. My mom had told stories about one coming up to the back door and rattling the knob of her folks’ old ramshackle place, but I had to think that was bullshit.

  Maybe I just hoped it. If a frigging bear couldn’t just break down a door, fuck the rest of us who rued being so goddamn polite all the time.

  Still, much as I lobbied for the rights of bears and coyotes, I wasn’t stupid enough to be whaling on logs after dark. Not when I had a twelve-pack and a hot shower waiting for my sore ass.

  “Getting soft,” I muttered after stowing the axe and piling up the wood to haul inside.

  I grunted as I made my way around the side of the cabin in the knee-deep snow, part of a cord of wood in my arms. Obviously, I needed to hit the gym harder before Wilder Mind went out on tour. My body freaking hurt. I was covered in sweat. Probably looked like a frigging maniac with snow sticking to my beardy face.

  I jumped around night after night onstage in closet-sized clubs and bars, but I wasn’t as hardy as when I’d lived in good old Turnbull full-time. Back when I’d worked on cars and picked up odd construction jobs to get by.

  It had been blind luck and a dose of small town friendliness that had even gotten my ass out to LA. Lila’s mom and pop ran the local orchard, and my mom had gotten to talking to Lila’s mother one day about how I didn’t want to be stuck working construction for the rest of my life. One thing led to another and under six months later, I’d been on a place out to LA to meet with Donovan Lewis, the head of the record label Lila worked for. We hit it off and though I didn’t know shit about selling anything that didn’t come in a bucket or wrapped in cellophane, I’d ended up as an account rep.

  Representing artists. Me. The guy who’d barely graduated high school but could schmooze a quart a milk out of a cow. Or so my mom had claimed to Lila’s mother.

  Because a way with cows surely meant a way with egotistical, often drugged out musicians. Right.

  Somehow it had worked though. Lila said I had a knack. Donovan had given me raises. A bunch of them, in short succession. The mogul some jokingly referred to as Lord Lewis didn’t shortchange his talent, and he’d seen something in me. I owed him and Lila a shit-ton of gratitude. First, for hiring me to represent some of their musical acts, and then for trusting me to front a band.

  The band part I had more familiarity with. I’d been stroking an acoustic long before I’d stroked my first girl. Let’s just say I’d done my share of touching both, and leave it at that.

  One more thing about Turnbull? They had some damn fine women, but it was hard to see them clearly under all the layers of outerwear when it snowed for what felt like half the freaking year. I preferred California women anyway. They seemed more good-natured as a rule. Maybe all the sunshine and hot temperatures put them in a better mood.

  And goddammit, I loved me a woman in a bikini.

  When I reached the front of my property and heard the squeal of tires, I didn’t react fast enough. Put the image of a half-naked, tanned woman in the mind of a man who’d nearly frozen his nuts off and who wouldn’t miss a car fishtailing off the road?

  Right into my ditch.

  Tires spun, spewing up snow and dirt and tiny rocks, and a horn went off about sixteen times. And I stared, my wood in my arms. Shocked as hell that anyone had even come down this practically deserted road in the first place, never mind took the curve way too fast and gone ass up in the ditch.

  The chick was now attempting to shimmy her way out of the driver’s side window. Painfully. With no shortage of groans and screeches and noises no adult female should ever make.

  Since she was moving—and frantically at that—I had to figure she couldn’t be too badly injured. Still, she could have done harm to herself she’d yet to realize.

  With more than a small sigh, I set down the wood on the short set of steps to the cabin, brushed off my hands on the thighs of my jeans, and trudged down the snowy hill to where the squealing damsel’s car was lodged.

  She turned her neck and gave me the biggest, brightest smile I’d ever seen. I was a little taken aback, since she was half in and half out of a window and her car was fucked up, if not totaled. It appeared to be an older model under the snow and grime, and an accident like hers could screw up the frame. If that happened, the vehicle was shot.

  Not that she seemed worried overmuch.

  “Hi!” she called over the rushing wind, her voice as cheerful as her expression. “Thank God for you.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I came around the ditch and eyed her lopsided car. “Yep, well and truly stuck.”

  She blinked at me from under the pink fringe of a stocking cap. “It’s just a little fender bender.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why are you climbing out of the window?”

  She wiggled. “Because the door won’t open.”

  “Seems a bit worse than a fender bender to me.” I came around the driver’s side, hooked my hands under her armpits in her heavy down coat, and simply plucked her out of the car.

  Only afterward did I think of possible internal injuries. Though what possible injury could’ve allowed her to jump and dance around now that she’d been freed, I did not know.

  The other thing I noticed about her right away? She was dressed as if she was in competition with the Michelin man, except her bulk was made out of layers. Many layers. She had earmuffs under her hat to go with her bulky scarf, huge coat, ski pants—likely layered over thermals—and some serious freaking boots with enough snaps and ties to secure a horse.

  And yet she was still jumping around, blowing on her gloved fingers, and laughing like a crazy person.

  “Whoa, that was nuts. I seriously feared for my life. I saw Jesus and heard angels and all that stuff.” She frowned at her car with its likely bent axel. “I paid extra for the best snow tires. I still skidded. That seems like a warranty violation. Don’t you think?”

  What I thought was this chick was going to talk my head off.

  “The forecast predicted two feet today. Typical lake effect. Are you not from around here?” Though it was hard to believe someone from a warmer climate would’ve been that well-prepared, but maybe. They did tend to have thinner blood than us hardy northern types.

  Though what the hell was I saying? I was a California boy now too.

  Happily.

 
I’d never actually heard someone roll their eyes at me before, but her disgust was palpable. “Hello, look at me. Do I seem unprepared for this weather? If anything, I overprepared. In my trunk, I have a spare battery kit, a First-Aid kit, a tire repair kit—”

  “Lady, I got it. You’re prepared. You just spun out. It happens.”

  She propped her hands on her hips. Or at least where I figured her hips would be. Hard to tell with her coat.

  “Very pragmatic of you, buddy, but now what? I’m stuck and I need to get to Mrs. Pringles’ before she goes to New Year’s Eve mass. This is her first year without her husband, and she puts on a brave face, but she and Joe were so in love. It was sweet to see, really. And if I can’t get there before mass, then I’ll have to wait until she gets back, or worse yet, go join her in the church, which would be okay except I kind of got ex-communicated last year.”

  I wiped away the flakes collecting on my face. I would’ve hoped my expression coupled with how I looked might’ve intimidated her—big, burly, bearded—but if anything fazed this one, it wasn’t me glaring at her during her endless monologue.

  “I’m sure I’ll regret asking this, but why, exactly, do you need to go to grandmother’s house?”

  She brushed snow off the arms of her coat. It was coming down faster than she could efficiently whisk it away. “Oh, she’s not my grandmother—”

  “That was a joke, Red.” I gestured toward her attire. Red and pink everything, which didn’t go together but somehow seemed to suit her. “You also have a car instead of a basket, but let me mix a metaphor or two.”

  “Ah. Big bad wolf, is it then? Sorry, you don’t seem to fit.” She marched toward me and grasped the side of my pants. “Wile E. Coyote sweats aren’t exactly scary, tough guy.”

  “Don’t touch,” I growled and that made her step back and cock her head, much like a puppy. Instead of a floppy ear, she had the bouncy pouf on top of her hat. “I can’t just touch you.”

  She seemed to think about that. It was getting darker, and the snowflakes falling between us were coming faster and harder. But if I wasn’t mistaken, she was pondering that comment as if I’d just said the most important thing she’d ever heard.

  “No,” she said after a moment. “I guess you can’t. You shouldn’t. Just because Derek ran off with Trini isn’t a reason for me to let strange men touch me. Especially ones wearing sweatpants.”

  “What’s wrong with sweatpants?”

  The most ridiculous thing about this whole conversation? I didn’t want to touch her. I was almost sure. So what if it had been a while for me? That was by choice. God knows I had women throwing themselves at me front, back and center, and it only promised to get worse as things took off with the single. I’d backed off the fuck-and-duck game simply because I’d gotten bored.

  I was tired of fake women cloaked in pretenses who just wanted me for my fame. As much as I exploited my growing fame to get any damn thing I wanted.

  Never said I wasn’t a fucked-up bastard, now did I?

  “There’s nothing wrong with them, per se. They’re just not fashionable.”

  In spite of the fact that my face felt like it was freezing into place, I cocked a brow. “Oh, and that eye-searing combo you have on is? You practically have on a snowsuit. Like a child.”

  Her cheeks reddened. I don’t know how I could tell the difference considering she’d been awful damn pink from the wind to start with, but somehow I knew I’d gotten to her. “I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman who likes to be prepared.”

  “Huh.” I crossed my arms and jutted my chin toward her car. “So how’s that working out for you?”

  She stepped forward, kicking up snow with her gigantic boots. Then she let her gaze wander down the front of me and let out a little harrumph. “And you know what else? Statistics say that eighty-eight-point-six of grown men who wear sweatpants are either still living in their mother’s basements or they’re serial killers.”

  Deliberately, I moved into her space, dwarfing her with my size. And yet again, she did not back down. “Those are some odds, Red. Are you feeling lucky?”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  Maggie

  I was supposed to be afraid of this guy. That was what he wanted me to be anyway. Why else would he be looming over me as if he wanted to do me bodily harm?

  But I wasn’t buying it. Let’s go over the evidence.

  Wile E. Coyote sweats.

  Enough concern to pluck me out of my car like a wilted vegetable.

  Back to the Wile E. Coyote sweats.

  Also, possibly the kindest, softest, most intriguing brown eyes I’d ever seen. Surrounded by a frame of inky lashes. Such a heavy fringe that snow kept gathering on them until he grew impatient and blinked it away.

  But that was neither here nor there.

  “First of all, there are most likely no serial killers in Turnbull or the surrounding towns. That’s extremely improbable, given the size of the population.”

  “So are your dumbass statistics, but I didn’t call you on them, did I?”

  I wasn’t pouting at being called a dumbass. Lord knows I’d been called much worse. As the youngest of six, I’d gotten used to verbal abuse at a young age. I almost enjoyed it.

  Just because I looked small and defenseless didn’t mean I was. I tended to sneak up on people like a bunny.

  Aww, she’s so cute and fluffy—CHOMP.

  “Then again, you’re not making any effort to assist a stranded traveler, so maybe you are planning to Ted Bundy me. Where’s your fake cast, huh?” I gave his arms in the sleeves of his surprisingly thin coat a glance before pretending to search the snowbanks around us. “Where’s your VW Bug with the passenger seat taken out?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Ted Bundy. One of the most famous serial killers of all time. Don’t you people respect the titans in your field?”

  “What people is that, exactly?”

  His bored tone was making me feel stupid. So much for going toe-to-toe with this giant behemoth. He didn’t find me amusing and he obviously had no intention of helping to free my vehicle.

  So time for plan B.

  “I’ll just get my bread.” There was no helping my clipped tone as I stomped back toward the ditch. Not that I could even be sure he’d heard me. With the howling wind and the crunch of my boots on the snowy, uneven ground at the side of the road, maybe he hadn’t heard a word I’d spoken.

  Then his big hands clamped around my upper arms and he hauled me back as if I’d been on the verge of falling into a fire pit. “Hold it. What bread?”

  “Kindly unhand me.”

  He made a low noise in his throat and without looking back at him, I knew he’d done that cocked brow thing again. Pretty hot. I couldn’t move one eyebrow independent of the other, so I tended to appreciate skills in others that I did not possess.

  “You have no reason to try to get back in that car.”

  “Yes, I do. I need my bread before it gets cold.” I sighed. “Well, any colder than it already is. My hot bag can only do so much.”

  “Your hot bag? Woman, you make no sense.”

  “Stop calling me woman, and it’s an insulated bag to seal in warmth. I used it to protect Mrs. Pringles’ bread. It’s her favorite, pumpkin chocolate chip.” I craned my neck to look up at him, intending to shove his big paws off me, but his head was tilted and his lips were parted, revealing just a hint of bright white teeth.

  And those dark assessing eyes were searing right through every damn layer of my clothing.

  “Kindly unhand me,” I repeated, not missing the slight chatter of my teeth. I wished I could blame the cold. It was so much worse than that.

  I was by the side of the road with a disabled car and a possible Ted Bundy wannabe with soulful eyes, and I didn’t even really care that he was keeping me from my bread.

  Mrs. Pringles’ bread. Same difference.

  “You might injure yourse
lf further if you attempt reentry. Let the professionals handle it.”

  “Further?” I frowned. “I’m not injured.”

  Was I? Quickly, I took stock. Everything still worked. Arms, legs, mouth. Definitely mouth. Sure, my heart was beating a bit too fast and my thoughts were skidding out of control, but that was normal for me. My dad called me “fanciful,” which he partially blamed on my obsession with the macabre. My mama said I spent too much time with my head stuck in a book. My brothers—all three of them—called me some variation of Magpie, my childhood nickname that had stuck like a damn flytrap. Maeve and Regan, my perfect older sisters, just sighed at my supposed antics and went on with their lives.

  So yeah, mental babbling was typical for me. And often, actual babbling, though the dude hulking over me was not inspiring to foam at the mouth as I usually might.

  I didn’t know men like him. The guys I attracted were safe, nice boys. The kind who went to church on Sundays and pulled their elderly neighbor’s newspaper out of the bushes and always referred to my parents as “Sir and Ma’am.” They didn’t have edges. They didn’t skimp on their manners. They definitely didn’t miss their morning shave.

  As far as assisting someone with car trouble, they would’ve been sweet and helpful and fixed the problem before I could ask. Not brusque and dismissive and now rough as the brute hauled me around and set me a few feet away from my vehicle.

  “Stay there.” He pointed at me. “I’m going to take care of your problem so you can get on your way.”

  “About time. Do you have a truck hoist?”

  He was already moving toward my car. He studied the door for a moment, then yanked on the handle. It opened for him with only the slightest effort.

  Traitorous car.

  Fumbling inside, he realized my window was the crank-up kind and shut it so the front seat didn’t fill with snow. “Guess the door wasn’t so stuck after all,” he shouted over the wind.