Dear Santa (A Blazing Little Christmas)

by O'Reilly, Kathleen

  The innocent eyes stared up at him, seeing things, good things in him that weren’t there. She, who’d never seen the darkness in humanity. He, who couldn’t escape it.

  No. No. No. No. No.

  Quickly Cory withdrew from her and began to dress. He needed to leave, he needed to leave now. Rebecca watched him from the bed, and he didn’t want to meet her eyes, but his eyes didn’t obey. His gaze kept wandering over her, seeing the places where he’d touched that slight body, where he’d trod. Red marks marred her arms where his hands had gripped too tightly. There was a purple bruise on her breast where his stubble had been. She had the look of a woman well used.

  For the second time that evening, he put on his boots, ready to go. He waited for her to stop him, but there was a new look in her eyes. She wouldn’t stop him anymore. Rebecca Neumann had finally wised up. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to stick around, not for anyone.

  “Not bad furniture-banging there, huh?” she asked, her mouth still swollen from his kiss.

  Damn her. Cory stood, taking one inopportune step toward the bed. “I’ll leave now,” he stated stupidly because he still thought she’d stop him. Instead she stretched like a cat, and Cory felt the tortured urge to pounce.

  Her eyes dared him to pounce.

  It was the challenge that did him in. Cory’d never been one for a challenge. He walked out before he’d do something she’d regret for a very long time.

  Chapter 6

  Rebecca fired A pillow at the door, which accomplished nothing, but proved her foolishness. As if the previous ten hours hadn’t.

  Some Christmas present. Four orgasms, one hickey and a bad case of stubble burn. And those were only the physical symptoms. Still, she’d known exactly what she was getting into.

  A one-night stand.

  She got up and stood near the window, watching the late-night sky light up with stars. The whole scene was like something from a fairy tale, a Normal Rockwell painting come to life. But right now, it sucked eggs. Big eggs.

  The fire was crackling happily, uncaring of her foul mood. It was 2:00 a.m. and she wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. This was Christmas, this was her vacation. Why couldn’t something go right for a change? Was it too much to ask?

  Five minutes later there was a quiet knock on the door. This time Rebecca grabbed a robe from the bathroom and went and opened the door.

  Cory—not that he looked happy to be there.

  “Road’s still blocked?” she asked, trying to be casual.

  He nodded curtly. “Nobody was at the front desk—guess everybody’s down for the night. If it’s all right with you, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  And somehow they’d moved beyond the one-night stand to the no-night stand. “The chair might be more comfortable.”

  His eyes cut from hers to the stuffed chair. “I’m used to the floor.”

  In the top of the closet she found some blankets and an extra pillow. She tossed them in his general direction. “I’m going to soak my feet. I hope the noise won’t keep you awake.”

  Actually she hoped it would keep him awake for hours upon hours, but that wouldn’t gain her points on the sophistication scale, so she turned on her heel and went off into the bathroom. As far as she was concerned, Cory Bell was on his own.

  * * *

  The whirring sound kept him awake. She said she was soaking her feet, but she’d been at it way too long.

  The floor was hard, but Cory wasn’t a stranger to hard floors. When you slept on the floor, it was easier to get away fast.

  Some habits died hard, some habits never died at all.

  He stared up at the ceiling, wishing for anything that would numb the damned knot deep in his gut. Everything irked him. The holidays, the trees, even the twinkly lights. If it wasn’t for her—no, scratch that—if it wasn’t for the snow, he wouldn’t be here at all.

  Cory pulled the blanket up tight and closed his eyes. He might not be able to sleep tonight, but he’d be sure that she would never know.

  * * *

  Rebecca raised her feet from the bubbles, but even the soothing scent of cucumber and melon didn’t help. What the heck was wrong with her? Was she deficient in some way? Never. Except for fallen arches, she was absolutely perfect.

  Okay, he was right. She wasn’t cut out for one-night stands. Maybe that was why she was sitting here giving herself a pedicure at 3:00 a.m., wondering what was wrong with her? Darn it, did he have to be so cold, so uncaring, so…one-night-standish?

  Arg. She picked out the pale mauve nail polish, but forgot about the metal towel rack overhead. She hit it. Hard.

  “Ow.”

  “You okay?” Cory called from the other room.

  So now there was care and concern for her well-being? She glared at the closed door. “Lovely.”

  “Don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Oh, no. No hurt here.”

  “Sure you’re okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “Was that sarcasm?”

  “No sarcasm.”

  “It sounded sarcastic.”

  She gathered the robe around her and flung open the door. “There. Was. No. Sarcasm.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “No, I’m painting my toenails and unless you have a secret desire for a career in the beauty industry, you’ll leave me alone.”

  He sat up, pushed the blanket aside. She was both relieved and disappointed to see that Cory had gone to bed in his clothes. “I’ll help.”

  Rebecca took a step back, hiding her feet under the robe. Her feet were the reason she never wore sandals, never wore flip-flops, never exposed her naked feet to men—ever. They were ugly. “You can’t paint toes.”

  “I do great interior and exterior work. How hard can a toe be?”

  “Ten.”

  He scoffed. “How hard can ten toes be?”

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, giving him a suspicious once-over. When she’d walked in, his face was paler than earlier, and his eyes, well, his eyes looked nervy.

  “I couldn’t sleep. You’re pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed,” she stated for the record.

  “Whatever,” he said, not quite listening.

  Rebecca was used to regaining lost attention. That, and she wanted his eyes less nervy. “I’m a little pissed.”

  Some of the color returned to his face. “A little?”

  “I’m a little more than pissed, but this isn’t that bad, comparatively.”

  “You fall into rages often?”

  “You haven’t met some of the kids I teach.”

  “Monsters?”

  “I got fired,” she said, her toes peeking out from under the robe.

  That got his attention. “From your job? Was this recent?”

  “Two days ago,” she admitted, though it seemed like four lifetimes ago. Still, it felt good to say it aloud.

  “Then I think you should really let me paint your toes.” His face wasn’t filled with sympathy and his eyes held their normal flat darkness, but the air turned. The night was softer, warmer. Some of the old ghosts had left the room.

  Maybe it was time. Out of all the men she’d ever lain with, Cory Bell was the man least likely to run screaming from her feet.

  She settled herself on the bed, her feet tucked safely under her, and he took the nail polish from her hand. She watched, waiting for him to admit defeat and hand it back. He didn’t. For the first time she noticed the deep scars on his right hand. Four neat half-moons scored in the middle of his palm.

  He saw her look and closed his fingers over the marks. Then he unscrewed the lid and pulled out the brush, and she laughed.

  “You have to shake it first.”

  And he shook it all wrong. Rebecca took the bottle, shook it correctly, then handed it to him.

  “I bet you were hell in the classroom.”

  “I was a sweetheart. Except when they deserved it. And then—”

  “You want me
to paint your toes or not?” he asked patiently, waiting for her to produce her feet from the safety of white terry cloth. He was going to see her fallen arches.

  It’s not that they were huge banana boats. They weren’t. A tiny, trim size six. Everything about her she could live with, except for her arches. Flat feet. Done in after eight years of gymnastics and cheerleading. It wasn’t a big flaw, and somehow that made it worse. It wasn’t an elaborate stretchmark, or an extra pound of flesh that she could exercise away. It was prosaic, and ordinary, a physical characteristic that couldn’t be hidden under full-coverage concealer. And she hated it.

  Suddenly his eyes were too knowing, too aware. She couldn’t do this. She held out her hand for the polish. “Here. I’m not going to make you do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “I changed my mind. I don’t need to paint my toes.”

  “Why not? You’ve got somewhere else to go?”

  “I just don’t want to.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I want to do something for you. In the big scheme of things, painting your toes seems like a wise choice.”

  It was her moment of truth, to finally show someone her flaw. He was waiting, watching her expectantly. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, and they weren’t ever going to see each other again. So what if he laughed? First she pulled out one foot, then the other.

  There was no laughing.

  Silently he took the brush from the bottle and started painting her little toe.

  It was an amazingly anticlimactic moment after a lifetime of apprehension. Rebecca studied his bent head and wondered at the thoughts there.

  She didn’t talk while he worked, just watched him with cautious eyes. He concentrated so carefully, his hands not shaking, and every now and again, he’d bite his lip. In high school, she’d heard rumors, and as an adult, she’d seen that rigid, disciplined demeanor before. The first time, it was a small boy in her class. Eventually he’d been taken away from his father, yet Rebecca never knew the details.

  She longed to put the life back in Cory’s eyes, longed to stroke his hair, longed to hold him close and keep him safe, but she realized she was about twenty years too late. So she began to talk, simple things at first, the story about how she ruined her mother’s garden by using hair spray on the roses, the time she thought she could sing and how she decided to run away to Juilliard, until her father said she had a voice like a wounded hyena. Cory laughed at that, she saw it. He started to talk, too, not like her confessions, but stories about the renovations that he’d done for people, stories about his trips to Canada, never sharing anything about his childhood at all.

  After a while, she stopped talking and merely watched him, silently, jealously, wishing for Christmas miracles that never would occur.

  * * *

  Saturday, December 21

  At first light, Cory rose and dressed, keeping the promise to himself. It was easier to escape in the dawn, when most everyone slept like the dead. Rebecca was a restless sleeper, a cover-stealer and a clinger. He hadn’t slept that well in years.

  He paused by the bed, watching her, her eyes closed, her face so peaceful and full of dreams. She was glorious and sexy and everything he’d wanted her to be. She pushed aside the blankets, exposing a long length of bare thigh, and he almost stayed. Almost climbed back into bed, burying himself in her body, burying himself in her heart.

  But people like him, the ones who lived in the sordid shadows, didn’t get the cheerleaders of the world. They never would. One day he’d wake up from a nightmare, and she’d ask about it, and he would lie. And the lies would go on from there. The knot tightened inside him, telling him to run. There were some secrets he’d never share.

  He swore quietly, pulled on his coat and left.

  * * *

  Rebecca knew the second Cory left her side. She kept her eyes shut, listening to the rustle of clothes, fighting the sting of one wayward tear that seemed to want to escape. No regretful tears over a one-night stand. She’d bet that that was one of the rules. The door closed and Rebecca buried her head in the pillow.

  * * *

  When Cory got downstairs, the lodge was awake, people ready and waiting for Christmas. The seconds ticking past, bringing the holiday closer and closer. It wasn’t Christmas specifically that made him antsy, any holiday would pretty much do it for him. Any time when families got together and outsiders were treated, well, like outsiders.

  When he was a kid, he’d tried to do the right thing, knowing one wrong word, or look, and he’d be cast from the house faster than you could say “emotional difficulty.”

  That’d worked for a while until 1984. His fourth foster family, the McGraws, had had him for nearly two months. Then Mrs. McGraw had left the house for a long weekend in Atlantic City, leaving Cory alone with Mr. McGraw, who was the first pervert Cory had come across. Less than twenty-four fun-filled hours later, Cory hit the streets. Fuck me once, shame on you. Fuck me twice, shame on me.

  After that, he’d gotten tougher, smarter, faster. When situations got dicey, Cory was gone, out the door, no looking back. This time, he had to get past a maid rushing up the stairs with a breakfast tray. And Mrs. Krause who was carrying a pile of towels. She spotted him and stopped.

  He tried to avoid looking guilty, but Cory had looked guilty his entire life. “Morning.”

  “Leaving so soon?” she asked, cutting right to the chase.

  “Yeah. Figured I’d move out as soon as the roads were plowed.”

  “They are clear. Mr. Trevayne said his goodbyes an hour ago. Too bad you’re leaving, though.”

  “Yeah. You have a nice place,” he offered.

  “If you’re heading toward town, maybe you can take a couple of guests to the train station. They were looking for a ride.”

  Cory glanced away. “Sorry. Going the opposite direction.”

  Mrs. Krause clicked her tongue.

  “I should get out of here,” he stated, because he could feel her niceness drawing on him, pulling him back toward the warm confines of the lodge, of Rebecca.

  “Be careful of the ice. Mighty slick. Could drive right into a ditch and disappear altogether.”

  And that was the idea. “Thanks for the warning.” Cory gave a halfhearted wave and headed out the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Helen Krause hollered for her husband. “Roland!”

  Roland Krause came from the kitchen, scratching his head. “You don’t have to yell. Not deaf yet.”

  “Cory Bell just left. Tell me how far he’s going.”

  The old man gave her a knowing wink. “Not far without the battery cables.”

  “You think he’ll check it?”

  “Probably. But with all the young hooligans running around in this area—whoo-ee, makes me wish I was forty years younger—”

  “When you were one of those young hooligans.”

  He patted her on the rear, and she felt a blush in her cheeks. “I could chase you around the living room if you’d like.”

  “Not now, Roland. We have guests.”

  “All right, Helen. For you, I’ll wait. Forever if I have to.”

  Helen watched her husband walk away, still doing her heart good after all this time. She sighed, quit her mooning and returned to work. There was still much too much to do.

  “MY, MY. Back again?”

  Rebecca greeted him at the door in the terry-cloth robe and this time, her red wool socks. He tried to ignore the thump-thump-thump in his chest.

  Which immediately put him on the defensive. “Don’t start. They took my battery cables. Tell me what kind of whack job disables cars in the middle of a snowstorm?”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Battery cables, huh?”

  “You want to go down there and see for yourself?”

  “No, I believe you,” she answered in a voice that called him a liar.

  Ah, hell. He should have known she wasn’t the “forgive
and forget” type. Rebecca Neumann looked as if she could hold a grudge forever.

  “Okay, I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m sorry, but I’m doing the right thing here. You should understand that. I’m doing the right thing.” The hard slate-gray of her eyes didn’t seem to comprehend the truth in his words.

  “I don’t need you to do me any favors.”

  “And you don’t need my problems, Rebecca.” It was the understatement of the year.

  Time to start over, he decided. She was leaving on Tuesday. He could stay a day, maybe two, if only to show her that he wasn’t worth the effort. Cory planted a small smile on his face. “Look. I’m still stuck, so let’s make the best of it, okay? What do you want to do today? Sky’s the limit, and well, actually the weather’s the limit, but I’m game to whatever you want to try.” There weren’t many options, and in Cory’s mind, most didn’t involve clothes. It was a win-win all the way around.

  “Let’s go outside,” she said. He examined the froufrou paraphernalia she had littered around the room. Outside?

  “In the snow?”

  “Well, duh. We could walk to town.”

  Cory made a rude noise. “Bunch of antique stores? No, thank you,” he said, still thinking an afternoon lying in bed would be prime. “We could go ice-skating,” he offered. A compromise and better than antiques.

  “I can’t skate.”

  “Good. You can learn.”

  “You can?”

  “Hockey. Junior high. Put a stick in my hand and I can fly.”

  “So you could teach me?”

  “Hockey?”

  “I think I have to learn to skate first. You’ll have to teach me.”

  “I can’t teach.”

  “I can’t, either, but they did pay me for it.”

  She had that sultry gleam in her eye, and he knew she’d beaten him. Maybe deep in his black heart he’d wanted her to beat him. Fan-tastic. Today was whatever Rebecca wanted. “I’ll try, but if you break your ankle or something, I’m not liable.”

  * * *