Studmuffin Santa

by Tawna Fenske

  I grit my teeth, not liking the direction this has just taken.

  Matthew adjusts his ODFW logoed ball cap and frowns at me. “That true, Jade? We got more than just a small problem here?”

  I know damn well he doesn’t care. My relationship with ODFW has been touchy since the first day I filed for permits to open this place. Reindeer aren’t like cattle or sheep that authorities know how to regulate, and it’s been a learning process for all of us.

  I order myself to keep breathing, to speak calmly and rationally. “There’s no pro—”

  “Actually, Matthew, we’re thinking we might need to file a police report,” Brandon interrupts. “Maybe you could give us a hand getting the ball rolling?”

  I’m so pissed I can’t see straight. Who the hell does Brandon think he is? The last thing I need right now is a bunch of cops swarming around this place. In a town this small, gossip spreads like herpes. If locals think there’s something wrong with the reindeer or the ranch or me, there might as well be. It’ll kill our business in the few days left before Christmas.

  “Everything’s fine,” I snap. “Matthew, I have extra copies of the licensing paperwork. I even kept a copy of the certified mail receipt. I’ll bring all of it down to the ODFW office as soon as it opens today.”

  I hope like hell it’s that easy. My duplicate copies went missing a week ago, but we should have backups. I’m meticulous about paperwork, and I need Matthew to believe that so he gets the hell off my property.

  “I dunno,” Matthew says, scratching his chin. “It’s past the deadline now. I’m not sure I can—”

  “Hey,” Brandon interrupts, directing his attention at Matthew. “Did I hear Austin Dugan is the chief of police now?”

  “Not yet, but he’s up there in the ranks. Sergeant or something.” Matthew nods and looks at Brandon again. “You seen him since you got back to town?”

  “Nah, but I’ve been meaning to give him a call.” Brandon leans against my fencepost like he’s chilling against a bank of lockers after a game, legs stretched out in front of him like he owns the place. “Maybe we can go grab a beer, catch up on old times.”

  Matthew snorts and gives a mean little laugh. “You remember that time Nolan and me pantsed Ziegler in the locker room?” He hoots with laughter, spittle gathering in the corner of his mouth. “Drake held him down and those two linemen—what were their names?”

  “You mean Bollinger and Casey?” Brandon laughs. It’s an uneasy laugh, not as booming as Matthew’s, but still a laugh. “God, those guys were ruthless.”

  “Yeah, remember how Pavlock squealed like a little girl when—”

  “Look, I’m going to get back to work.” My voice breaks through their chatter like a whip crack, and they both snap their attention to me. I straighten my shoulders and stare right back. “You guys can keep doing your little trip down memory lane if you like, but I have things to do.” I take a few steps away, but keep my eyes on them. I’m not willing to turn my back. I just want distance between us, a space between me and the brittle laughter that’s making my skin itch.

  “Aw, c’mon, Jade,” Matthew says. “You got a problem with squealing?”

  He’s baiting me, I know. Reminding me of the Miss Piggy taunts. There’s a flicker of confusion in Brandon’s eyes, but his shit-eating grin doesn’t waver. He’s still playing the game, still hell-bent on being chummy with his teammate.

  My vision clouds with red, and I blink hard to clear it. “I’ll bring by the paperwork later today,” I say. “You can show yourself off my property now.”

  Matthew’s expression darkens, and Brandon’s isn’t too friendly, either. I don’t care. And I don’t wait for permission to go. I turn and march toward the house, keeping my shoulders square, my head high. Laughter rings behind me, echoing through the pasture. I don’t know the source of it, but the sound is like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  By the time I reach the house, I’m breathing hard. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, along with the taunting memories.

  Look at Miss Piggy go!

  Hey, Little Piggy—you want some of this slop?

  I’ll give you something that’ll make you squeal.

  Tears streak down my face by the time I get the door open, but I’m too fucking mad to be crying. I swipe the tears away, stomping off snow in the entryway before yanking my boots hard enough to jar an ankle. I kick them aside and march up the stairs in my socks, heels pounding on the battered treads.

  “Jade?” my sister calls as I stomp toward the kitchen. “Is that you? I’ve got Dutch babies in the oven and sausage in the—”

  She freezes when she sees my face, her smile dissolving like sugar in a jar of vinegar. “What happened?”

  “ODFW,” I said. “Matthew Fucking Lerten says we missed the deadline for license renewal. You know damn well I put that paperwork in the mail. You watched me do it.”

  “You sent it certified, I know.” Amber grips her spatula tighter. “What’s going on?”

  I shake my head, feeling furious and lost and hurt and a whole lot of other emotions I can’t possibly name.

  “I have no idea, but Brandon’s out there yakking it up with him like this is some kind of football team reunion,” I growl. “Give them another ten minutes, and they’ll be setting up the barbecue out there.”

  A wave of guilt floods my chest, and I know I might be exaggerating. It’s not like Brandon was called upon to take sides. But the sting of shame in my throat is stronger than guilt. Shame I haven’t felt for years, not since graduation day. Not since I learned to stand on my own damn feet.

  “It’ll be okay, right?” Amber asks. “You can fix this.”

  I don’t know if she’s talking about the licensing or something else. That something else is brewing hot and fierce in my chest. I don’t answer her, not sure whether to stay here and problem-solve, or to go upstairs and take a cold shower. Maybe I just need to calm down.

  Before I can do anything, a door slams at the front of the house, and footsteps rattle up the stairs. Brandon charges in, looking equal parts annoyed and confused.

  “What the hell just happened out there?” he demands. “What got into you?”

  “What got into me?” I repeat, blood pressure rising high enough to make my head throb. “Let’s see, the guy I’m sleeping with just took the side of some jackass loser from ODFW who’s trying to discredit me. That’s what got into me.”

  Brandon stares like he’s not sure which part of that to respond to first. “I wasn’t taking sides,” he says slowly. “I was trying to earn you some good credit with ODFW, since you seemed so determined to be pissy with him.”

  “I don’t need your help, Brandon!” I slam a hand on the counter, wondering how he could be so dense. “And I sure as hell don’t need any special favors from your goon squad!”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Amber wince. I know I should try to calm down, but I’m too mad right now to do that.

  “Look,” I tell him. “We’re weeks away from Christmas, and the last thing I need right now is trouble with ODFW. I can’t risk anything that could jeopardize our ability to operate, or to get the permits I need to take reindeer on the road for events.”

  Brandon frowns. “And you think being bitchy to Matthew is going to help?”

  I smack the counter again. “Well, spilling all our problems to him or to your cop buddy sure as hell isn’t!”

  “So you’re just going to ignore it?”

  “No!” I snap. “I’m dealing with it. I’ve got the paperwork handled, and I’ll decide for myself whether to go to the cops and which cop to talk to. I sure as hell don’t need your asshole teammates out here—”

  “Asshole teammates?” He folds his arms over his chest and stares me down. “You’re talking about people I grew up with. Friends of mine. What exactly is your problem with them?”

  I glare at him, wondering if he’s daring me to say it. If I want to put it out there. “They’re a bunch of small-minde
d jerks, okay?”

  “I see,” he says slowly. “And is that what you think of me, too?”

  I don’t respond right away. It’s not that I think he’s a small-minded jerk. It’s that I need to take a few breaths before responding so I calm the fuck down and don’t say anything I’ll regret.

  Amber clears her throat. “Look,” she says calmly, clasping her oven mitts in front of her. “Maybe we should all just take a step back and chill. We’re in this together, right?”

  Brandon glances at her, then snaps his eyes back to me. “I don’t know, Jade. Is this a team thing, or are you going to shut me out?”

  I drag my hands down my face, torn between wanting to play nice and needing him to know that I won’t stand by and let Matthew Lerten or any of the world’s bullies rule my life. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.

  But one thing I do know is that this is all coming at the worst possible time.

  “I don’t have the bandwidth for this,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’m up to here with Christmas stress right now. I can’t breathe or think straight, and I have so much to do I can’t sleep. I just—I can’t handle this right now, okay? This isn’t what I signed on for and—”

  It takes me a second to realize Brandon’s face has turned to granite. He’s staring at me with his jaw clenched, not saying anything at all. He’s so quiet even Amber starts to shift uncomfortably.

  “I should go,” my sister says. “Leave you two alone for a minute.”

  “No, I should go.” Brandon stares at me for two more breaths, his knuckles white where he’s gripping the counter. “I think we’re done here.”

  And without another word, he turns and walks away.

  Chapter 12

  BRANDON

  Jade’s words keep echoing through my head as I drive away.

  I’m up to here with Christmas stress…

  I can’t handle this…

  This isn’t what I signed on for…

  Or maybe they’re my mother’s words. Almost verbatim what she said more than a decade ago before hurling my father’s favorite Christmas snow globe at the wall and storming out the door. I honestly can’t tell whose voice is repeating in my brain right now, but I know one thing: Jade King doesn’t need me.

  She made that damn clear.

  I’ve made it all the way back to Ponderosa Resort before I even realize where I’m headed. Kicking the snow off my boots, I stomp into the lodge and head for the bar. I expect to see Sean there polishing bottles or scribbling recipes. Or maybe Mark measuring lumber for the next batch of tables.

  Instead, I spot Bree. She’s standing on a ladder with a light in one hand, aiming a camera down at the hammered copper countertop. She stops clicking and looks up at me as I march behind the bar.

  “You’re welcome,” she says from atop the ladder when I don’t say anything. “For setting out all the candles last night? I hope it got you laid.”

  “Not in the mood right now, Bree.” I snatch a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter, then hunt for a rocks glass. Where does Sean keep the damn things? Or maybe this is an occasion that calls for swilling straight from the bottle.

  I’m still contemplating that when Bree clambers slowly down the ladder. She grabs the bottle from my fist, then uses her free hand to whack the back of my head.

  “What the hell is your problem?” she demands.

  I make a feeble grab for the bottle, but she’s quicker and feistier than I am.

  “None of your business,” I grumble.

  I know I’m being an asshole, but I can’t seem to stop.

  “The hell it’s not my business.” Bree slams the bottle onto the counter, then jams her hands onto her hips and levels me with a death-glare that would make my former drill sergeant’s nuts shrivel. “You come storming in here like someone ran a rake over your testicles, and now you think it’s a good idea to start chugging whiskey? You of all people know that’s the dumbest thing you could do.”

  She has me there. I’m being an idiot in more ways than one, and she has every right to call me on it. Defeated, I retreat to the opposite side of the bar and sink empty-handed onto one of the leather-topped stools.

  After a few seconds, Bree walks around the bar and sits down beside me. She stretches an arm over the bar, grabs a bowl of maraschino cherries, and pushes them in front of me.

  “Here,” she says. “I was using them in a photo, but you need them more than I do.”

  I look up at her. “Maraschino cherries?”

  “You loved these as a kid. Remember?”

  “I remember.” I’m touched that she would, given how little time we spent together. She used to sneak them out of the wet bar where her father made his manhattans, giggling as we scurried away with cherry juice dribbling down our chins.

  I ignore the cherries and glance at my cousin, wondering how much she knows about my upbringing. The fact that she knew about my dad’s drinking tells me it’s more than I realized.

  “So,” she says. “Want to tell me what happened?”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes. You do.”

  I hate her for being right again, but not as much as I hate myself right now. I hesitate, not sure how much to share. How much to let her in.

  “I don’t think things are going to work out with Jade.”

  She stares at me. “Tell me you didn’t bone someone else.”

  “Of course I didn’t bone someone else,” I bark. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

  “Not that kind,” she says, her expression coolly smug. “But I wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Fuck.” I let out a slow breath and clasp my hands together on the bar, sinking my head down onto them.

  A touchy-feely sort of cousin might pat me on the back.

  Bree shoves the bowl of cherries against my arm. “Have one. It’ll help.”

  I look up as she jostles the bowl again, making the little red orbs wobble like superballs. I grab one and shove it in my mouth, mostly to get her to shut up about the damn cherries.

  “Hell,” I mumble as I chew. “You’re right.” Something about a mouthful of obscenely-sweet fruit makes it harder to stay pissed.

  “I’m right about telling someone, too,” she says. “You’ll feel better if you talk about what happened.”

  “I hate you,” I mutter, the exact opposite of the truth.

  “I know,” she says, and I’m pretty sure she does.

  So I start at the beginning. Not just what happened with Jade, but my parents’ split. My mixed feelings about Christmas. Hell, I even tell her about the scene with my teammates at the burger joint last week. I don’t know why, but it’s like someone pulled the cork from a wine bottle, and all the sticky, bitter contents have come glugging out.

  Bree listens quietly, her eyes steady on me. A few times she nods or shoves the cherries at me again, but mostly she just listens. I’m not sure I’ve ever had anyone pay such rapt attention while I pour my guts out like I’m confessing to a goddamn priest.

  She waits until I’m finished before asking a single question. “Do you love her?”

  It’s not the question I expected. I consider playing dumb, but there’s no point. I pick at a cherry stem, uncertain how to answer. “I’m not sure I know what love is.”

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Bree folds her hands on the counter and stares at me. “You’re one of the most loving guys I know. You’ve done more work around this place than any of us, even though we’re not paying you a dime.”

  “You’re family.”

  “That’s love, dumbass.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m really feeling the love.”

  Bree shakes her head. “I’ve watched you with those kids who think you’re Santa. The kindness and patience and sweetness you show them? That’s love, too.”

  “That’s a job.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Bree elbows me hard in the ribs. “You visit your father day i
n, day out, even though he has no idea who you are. That’s love, asshole.”

  My throat feels thick and raw, and I force myself to swallow before speaking. “I don’t know that I’m capable of the other kind of love,” I tell her. “The kind with Jade.”

  “You are.” Her voice has softened, and she gives me such an earnest look that I’m tempted to look away. “But there’s something you should know about loving a woman like Jade.”

  “What are you talking about?” I mutter. “You met her, what—once?”

  “Let’s just say I recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.” Bree presses her lips together, and I can tell she’s weighing her words carefully. “Girls who spend their formative years being picked on or bullied or beaten down. Girls who grow up vowing they’ll never, ever stand for that shit again.”

  I stare at her, taken aback not just by her words, but by the passion in them. The specificity. “You got all that out of a fifteen minute meeting?”

  “I got it because I was that girl, too, Brandon,” she says. Her eyes are tearless, but her voice sounds heavy, like she’s talking through wet wool. “I know what it feels like to be ostracized for being different. Too short, too tall, too fat, too skinny.” She waves a hand, and the expression she gives me is almost pitying. “I asked around about Jade. Folks in town filled me in.”

  “About what?”

  “About the fact that kids bullied the shit out of her for being chubby. Or for being different. A farm kid or whatever.”

  I stare at her, wondering if this is true. I remember my ex-classmates at the burger joint, how they seemed more familiar with Jade’s past than I was. And I remember what Stacey told Sean. Was it worse than I imagined? Did I miss something that big?

  A flash of memory bowls into me like a St. Bernard lunging for a steak. “The pig.”

  Bree narrows her eyes at me. “What did you say?”

  I love that she’s coiled and ready to jump to Jade’s defense, but I hold up my hands. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  I shake my head, buying myself some time as my memory clouds with visions of a high school hallway filled with garish florescent light. A bunch of second-string linemen—sophomores, maybe juniors—tossing a lumpy clay pig as a girl in plaid flannel runs between them, round cheeks streaked with tears.