On Dancer by Annabeth Albert
One
Principal dancer: the most skilled dancer(s) in a ballet company, usually cast in leading roles.
Rudy: October
You need to get over your silly crush, I lectured myself even as I craned my neck, looking for the one and only Alexander Dasher, otherwise known as the source of my personal gay awakening and decade-long obsession. No biggie. Certainly not a cause for stress. This was simply any other country club party, not a reason to be weirdly nervous.
Our mothers were friends. Our paths should have crossed long before this. Well, technically, they already had, but with any luck, Alexander wouldn’t remember my fourteen-year-old self, blushing and stammering when I met him backstage post Romeo and Juliet performance with my parents in tow. Alexander had been a sweaty vision of perfection in ballet tights. I had been fourteen and a short, skinny, pimpled mess of hormones. No, better he meet me tonight as an adult. A professional. A potential colleague. And I would get through the required introduction without even a hint of pink cheeks.
I exhaled hard, trying to come up with a use for all this jittery energy. Naturally, my older brother Waylon chose that moment to seek me out for a greeting and his typical brotherly hug.
“Nice shirt.”
As he released me from the hug, Waylon indicated the white dress shirt that had taken me far longer than hoped to iron. I’d paired it with my nicest pair of slacks, which happened to be black. I’d looked pretty sharp in the cracked full-length mirror some prior occupant of my apartment had left up, but Waylon didn’t seem inclined to agree. Shaking his head, he snorted. “You look like part of the catering crew.”
“Mom said to dress professional, but not super fancy.” I tugged at my too-tight collar. I’d debated adding a tie, but I’d decided that would be overkill. Plus, my few ties were all super nerdy with the sort of inside-joke humor unlikely to go over well at this posh event.
“Well, you took the advice to heart.” Waylon patted my shoulder like he was fifteen years my senior rather than seven. “At least it’s good weather for the party.” He gestured beyond us to a large cement patio where several firepits had been set up along with twinkling white fairy lights. “Probably last tolerable weekend till spring.”
“Yep.” October in Pennsylvania was a mixed bag, the last gasp of nice weather, complete with pumpkin patches and apple harvests, alongside shorter days and cooler temperatures that said another mid-Atlantic winter wasn’t far off. “The fire pits are a fun fall touch.”
“More like a liability.” Waylon’s eyes narrowed in the way only a seasoned litigator could pull off. “Thank goodness we’ve got a babysitter, or the kids would be all over the open flames.”
“You should have brought them.” I didn’t hate my high-achieving brother, or my equally acclaimed sister, for that matter, but I adored my nieces and nephews. Being a beloved fun uncle was far better than being the much-younger surprise brother who had yet to measure up.
“You sound like Mom.” Waylon released a groan as he rolled his shoulders. His dress shirt was light gray, and while we had the same dark-brown hair, pale skin, and short, skinny build, he managed to look far more stately. “Everyone needs an adult evening every once in a while.”
“Eh. Adulthood is overrated.” The two years since I’d graduated from college had hammered that home.
“Says the guy whose usual idea of a party involves dice and orcs.” Waylon laughed like he hadn’t been equally as much of a nerd once upon a time.
“You used to be that guy too.” I gave him a pointed look.
“Yep. And then I grew up.” Waylon shrugged as if he had zero regrets about leaving his character sheets, Odyssey cards, and dice collection to me around the time he met Shannon and became the most boring dude in existence. “You’ll see when you finally settle down.”
“I’m in no rush,” I said airily.
I was twenty-four. Plenty of time to figure myself out and find a use for my communications degree beyond serving as our mother’s assistant at the local ballet school. Besides, Dungeons and Dragons campaigns and Odyssey tournaments were so much more fun than stuffy chamber music and forced mingling like this party.
“As we all know.” Waylon rolled his eyes in the way only an older brother could get away with before straightening back into his respectable civil rights lawyer self. “Oh, there’s Shannon with our drinks.”
“You should go help her.” I gestured toward his wife, who, while lacking even a hint of a nerdy bone in her tall, lanky body, was an otherwise lovely person currently toting two wine glasses across the crowded event space.
“Good call.” Waylon clapped me on the shoulder one more time. “I’ll catch up with you later. I want to hear how your work is going.”
“Sure.” I kept my tone as noncommittal as his.
I doubted he really wanted the latest ballet school gossip. Both Waylon and our sister Helen were only too relieved that I’d been available to step up and help during our mother’s recent health scare. And I’d been happy to do it, and a challenging job market had made my choice that much easier.
Ballet wasn’t my passion, though, my longtime crush on Alexander Dasher notwithstanding, and as Mom recovered, I found myself dodging more and more questions about what was next for me.
Not in the mood to socialize with Waylon and Shannon, nor to seek out Helen or our mother, I drifted out onto the patio, only to collide with a tall man lurking in the shadows near one of the fire pits.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” Understatement.
As I stepped back, the twinkling lights caught the legendary blond hair of Alexander Dasher. If possible, he was better looking up close and personal than my fourteen-year-old self remembered.
“No problem. I’m sort of hiding out.” Alexander shrugged. His voice was as cultured as his parents, not much trace of the Philly-area accent common around our suburb. “And my cup is empty anyway, so nothing spilled.” He held out an empty clear cup. “Are you collecting trash?”
“Uh. Sure.” The better action would have been to correct his assumption that I was part of the catering staff, but what popped out of my mouth was, “Can I bring you a refill?”
“And save me the trip back inside? Bless you.” Alexander smiled then, a broad, generous, elegant gift of a grin that made my impulsive offer more than worth a little embarrassment and mistaken identity. “Seltzer with lime, no ice.”
“Be right back.” I dashed inside to the bar, where, thankfully, the line for cocktails had died down. I was able to return in short order to present Alexander with the requested drink.
“Thank you.” He gifted me another smile, one I happily returned.
“No problem.” My fingers buzzed from the briefest of brushes as I handed over his drink. “I get wanting to hide, trust me.”
“Oh?” Alexander raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “At least you’re getting paid to be here.”
“Actually—” I opened my mouth to explain, but Alexander continued on with a flick of his wrist.
“I shouldn’t complain. My father deserves a good birthday. It’s not his fault my mother and sister keep trying to introduce me to every unpartnered adult at this thing.”
Ah. This would be a less-than-ideal moment to reveal I’d been angling for my own introduction. Instead, I made a commiserating noise. “Family setups are the worst.”
“Exactly.” Alexander took a long swallow of his drink, and my gaze locked on the long, lean muscles of his chiseled jaw and neck. There was no mistaking him for a caterer as his light sweater looked to be knit out of something airy and expensive and was paired with a perfectly pressed pair of dark dress pants. “There’s no easy way to extradite oneself.”
“Your family undoubtedly means well though.” Yet again, I was about to explain our connection when Alexander shifted his weight from side to side. He winced, and months of looking out for my mother kicked in as I gestured at a nearby lounge chair near the fire pit. “You should sit.”
“Not you too.” Alexander laughed, a deep, musical sound, but his forehead stayed creased with tension. “You know you’re doing a terrible job hiding pain when a random server tells you to rest. No offense.”
“None taken.” I gave up on trying to correct him for the moment. Maybe we’d laugh about the misconception later. One could hope. “And you shouldn’t feel guilty about needing rest.”
“Guilt is my middle name these days.” Alexander took a few stiff steps over to the lounger to perch on the edge, extending one long leg out in front of him. “And it feels like all I do is rest. I’m tired of goofing off.”
“Listening to your body isn’t the same as goofing off.” I’d given my mother this same lecture so often I could do it in my sleep.
“Now you sound like my sister.” Alexander released a groan as he flexed his leg before draining what was left of the drink I’d brought him. “Listen to your body. Take your time. Come back slowly.”
“She’s not wrong.” I tried for the right blend of upbeat and soothing for this pep talk. “But you’ll make it back on stage.”
“You know who I am?” Frowning, Alexander sat up straighter.
“Of course—”
“Of course. I guess everyone here does.” He cut me off yet again before making an apologetic noise and softening his tone. “Sorry. I sound like an entitled ass. It’s been a long couple of weeks after the worst summer of my life. I was enjoying a brief moment of anonymity.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to your hiding.” My regret was genuine. Whatever brief moment of camaraderie we’d shared was gone, evaporated like smoke from the fire pit. I held out my hand for his now-empty cup. “Can I take your empty cup?”
“Sure. And now I feel bad, snapping at you when you were just trying to do your job.” He twisted his full lips into something between a grimace and a smile. “It’s not your fault I’m exhausted from the weight of all these questions and expectations over my recovery. My own included.”
“It’s okay. I know a thing or two about expectations.” I slipped back into pep-talk mode. “You need to give yourself a break. You don’t always have to be perfect, and certainly not right now when you’re still healing.”
“Don’t I?” Alexander gave a harsh laugh.
“Sometimes perfect isn’t possible.” I met his steely blue gaze, trying to leave him with the wisdom I’d gained over the last year. “Maybe this is one of those times.”
“You’re very wise for a caterer.”
“I’m not—” I was about to correct him once and for all when a tall, elegant woman I recognized as Alexander’s twin sister appeared in the nearby doorway.
“Alexander? We need you for a photo.”
“Sorry. I’m being summoned.” Alexander hefted himself out of the chair, and back perfectly straight, he strode toward the door, no trace of the earlier pain he’d let me see. “Good luck with the rest of your shift.”
I let him go. I remained on the patio for several long minutes, studying the flames in the metal firepit. I’d finally met my crush as an adult, only to botch the whole thing with an embarrassing misunderstanding I was in no hurry to correct. Eventually, though, the chill of the evening air pushed me back inside, where my mother cornered me near the bar area.
“There you are.” My mom greeted me with a big hug. She’d arranged her short, wispy hair in whimsical spikes that made her look younger, as did the pink that had returned to her cheeks.
“Here I am.” I managed a smile for her. She wore a seasonally appropriate rust-colored dress, and like Waylon, a wrinkle would never dare grace her wardrobe.
“You look nice.” She stepped back to look me over with the eagle eyes of a woman who’d spent decades straightening ballet costumes and wiping dirt off little faces before performances. “A bit too ready to go knock on doors or offer appetizers, but nice. New shirt?”
“Yeah.” My cheeks heated. I was never buying another white shirt.
“Oh, there’s Alexander. I wonder if Tavio’s spoken with him yet.” Mom gestured across the room to where Alexander stood with his sister and their mother. “I so hope Alexander agrees to help us out. Did you want me to introduce you?”
“Later.” I made a vague gesture with my hand. At the start of the evening, I’d had every hope that Alexander would agree to my mother and Tavio’s bold plan to help the ballet school and struggling local company, but now, I was in the weird position of hoping Alexander declined. The sooner he pliéd his way back to Seattle, the sooner I could get over the case of mistaken identity.
All Wrapped Up by CF White
Chapter One
If the Shoe Fits
“Father fucking Christmas?” Rick Thornton slouched in the worn leather booth of a cafe tucked away in the less glitzy part of Soho, the lacquered wood of the table sticky beneath his fingers—a tactile reminder of how far he’d fallen.
“What were you expecting?” Marianne, his agent, glided into the seat across from him with the practiced grace of someone used to delivering bad news. As she had to him many times. But this might be up there with the worst of it, and she shucked out of her winter coat and floral scarf, tugging off her leather gloves with a subtle grimace at their surroundings.
Their meetings had used to take place in far more opulent locales.
But Rick couldn’t roam in those circles anymore.
“King Lear? Hamlet? Fuck, I’d even take Scrooge at this point. Isn’t A Christmas Carol meant to be coming back to the Harold Pinter?”
“That would be fitting.” Marianne clicked her fingers to a roaming staff member. It wasn’t a table service sort of place, considering the queue lining up outside, but Marianne had that air of superiority about her that forced others to bow to her whim. It was what had made her a wonderful agent in the day. “They already have someone playing Ebenezer.”
“Oh, yes? Who?”
“If you don’t already know, it’s probably best you remain ignorant.” She gave him a pointed look that raised his hackles, then smiled for the not-a-waitress and pointed at Rick’s empty mug. “Drink?”
Rick stared down at his tepid tea and thought, what the fuck? How many was too many? “Coffee. Black.”
“Two of those, please.”
The staff member scurried off, leaving Rick having to listen to the worst news he’d heard since the production manager on Richard II read aloud the Evening Standard’s scathing review of his performance to the entire cast. He couldn’t blame the reviewer. They had been on point. The production, made on a shoestring, had been the physical manifestation of “the only way is up.”
He knew now that wasn’t true.
There were dungeons lurking beneath the basement levels of his career.
“Santa Claus, Rick. At the mall.” Marianne’s announcement carried an upbeat lilt clashing horribly with the offer on the table.
“This is ridiculous,” Rick scoffed, voice roughened by years of whisky and cigarettes with the Yorkshire tones clinging on stubbornly despite the practiced dramatic received pronunciation he’d had beaten into him at RADA.
The server returned with the coffees and Marianne asked for a croissant as if she hadn’t downgraded Rick’s decorated career to a jolly man in a red suit. He wasn’t even sure he could replicate the jolly part, anyway. That was an emotion far, far beyond his current reach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt jovial in order to draw on it for his character prep.
“There has to be something else.” Rick’s hand trembled as he reached for the hip flask hidden in his trench coat pocket and with a skilful motion, he unscrewed the cap and poured a generous shot of whisky into his black coffee, the aroma briefly masking the scent of stale pastries and despair.
“It’s eleven in the morning, Rick.”
“Your point?”
Marianne rolled her eyes. She’d long abandoned the need to quell Rick’s reach for the bottle. She was an agent. His agent, at that. Most of her clients had a surface-level addiction to something. Alcohol. Prescription drugs. Hell, even sex. Actually, most had an addiction to sex. It was almost a necessity these days. He had too, once.
And like all addictions, it had eventually caused his downfall.
“Come on, it’s not all bad.” A wry smile quirked at the corners of Marianne’s lips despite the tension. “Think of the children. Their little smiley faces. It’s almost like being adored by an audience.”
“Because nothing screams Christmas cheer like a washed-up actor reeking of booze in a Santa suit.” The bitterness in his tone belied the smirk tugging his lips.
“You could try to, you know, not reek of booze?”
“And you could try to, you know, find me a better job.”
Marianne leaned forward across the table and lowered her voice to her annoying, mother-knows-best flavour. “Look, I know it’s not the West End, but since the…well, you know…” She tactfully sidestepped the scandal that had turned Rick’s once-promising career into tabloid fodder.
“Let’s not.” Rick waved a dismissive hand. He didn’t need to be reminded of the roles that had dried up, the friends who had turned their backs, the relentless whispers following him even into this dingy cafe. Yesterday’s chip paper was no longer biodegradable. It was recyclable.
Again and again.
And those who knew how to utilise social media had drowned his voice out almost completely.
Marianne sighed. “Comebacks don’t come along too often, darling.”
The word ‘darling’ might as well have been a slap across his cheek with one of her leather gloves. Once upon a time, it had been an endearment tossed around by directors and co-stars during standing ovations. Now it felt like a consolation prize. Rick took a long sip of his spiked coffee, letting the warmth and burn settle his nerves. The silence stretched between them.
“I’m not destitute, Marianne. I can still choose whether to work or not.”
“Then why am I here at all?”
Because he wanted to work. Wanted to get back treading the boards. Needed to stop the relentless cycle of falling down when he’d just got back up.
“I’d consider a pantomime,” Rick said, jutting out his chin with irked hope.
A pantomime would once have set his teeth on edge. But he’d take that over another year buried in past glories and drowning in the cloying taste of failure he couldn’t dull with cheap whisky.
“Good to know.” Marianne rattled a sugar sachet before pouring the grains into her coffee and stirring. She lifted the cup to her lips, meeting Rick’s expectant gaze. “You know they complete their casts by August. We’re in December, darling. We are scraping the barrel as it is.”
“Even an understudy? Fuck, Marianne, I’d play Widow Swanky to get me back on the stage.” He masked his shudder with shameful desperation.
It had been a long year doing nothing.
“Considering the back end of the horse, now, are we?” Marianne quirked an eyebrow.
“Who’s at the front?”
Marianne peered under her lashes like an old schoolmarm, reprimanding Rick for having chosen to go there, then clinked her coffee cup onto the saucer. “Rick, darling,” her exasperation knew no bounds, “I say this out of pure love and respect for you. We’ve been together since the early days and I’ve seen you go from the top to, well, where you are now—”
The dungeon.
“—and I’ve stuck by you even when it would do me better to toss you to the curb as others have done.”
Rick winced. He probably should find a smidgen of gratitude for her. Trouble was, it was stuck at the bottom of the pile of all the shit that was his life and it was far too heavy and time consuming to search for it.
“I’ve tried everywhere. Every. Where. Even that poky theatre at the back of Romford. They don’t want your name on their posters.”
Rick slammed back his spiked coffee. It didn’t even touch the sides.
“If it’s any consolation,” Marianne sipped hers far more daintily, “the mall is desperate.”
“How on earth is that a consolation?”
“It means they’ll have you. That should be enough for you right now.” A croissant found its way in front of her and she picked at the crunchy ends, careful not to spoil her manicured nails, and Rick watched on with a grouchy stomach and a pitiful excuse for her ten percent.
“It unnerves me they are looking for a Santa this late into the holiday season. Grottos do their trade after Halloween, don’t they? Literally throw the tinsel over the cobwebs and rake it in.”
“Yes, well, the poor fellow who usually plays Santa for Five Mall got into a brawl at a football match and has a rather fetching black eye. Video of the confrontation with police is all over TikTok and let’s just say, he hasn’t done himself any favours. The mall fired him. But they have a stacked up booking list of children wanting to meet Santa and the chair vacant.”
“Surely anyone could sit in it? It’s not exactly a taxing role, is it? Wear a red suit and bounce a kid on your knee while listening to the endless bits of tat they want under their tree and how last year Santa didn’t bring them the red bike, so this year could little Johnnie have the blue one. With tassels.”
“I see you’ve already done your prep. Well done.”
“Jesus, Marianne.” Rick scrubbed a hand down his face, the coarse stubble he couldn’t find the energy to sort out scraping his palm. “This is humiliating. I’m a trained Shakespearean actor. The Stage called me the most exciting thing to come out of RADA since Hopkins. The Guardian referred to my Iago in Othello as the sexiest spin on the villain we all love to hate! I have awards for my sultry performances, and now you’re putting me in a padded red suit!”
“So recite passages from Hamlet to the children? Give them the gift of a love for the dramatic arts.” She waved a hand in dismissal.
Rick gave her the look she would expect.
But Rick had known the moment he’d received her call summoning him here that he would take this job. What choice did he have? It was this, or spend another miserable Christmas jobless and alone because he couldn’t go home. Not back to the small market village on the edge of the Peak District in Yorkshire he’d escaped from. What would his parents think? What would all those he’d left behind to chase this success say about him? He had his head shot up on the local theatre’s Wall of Fame, for goodness’ sake. His mum radiated pride at him being a glorified West End star. He couldn’t bear the look of disappointment on her face when he had to tell her he hadn’t had a role in over a year. Even if he was forty, he still sought their approval. Wanted to make them proud.
Perhaps he could tell them this was panto?
So he resigned himself to swallowing the bitter pill of rock bottom when he said, “Fine. I’ll do it. But not for the bloody children.”
“Of course not,” Marianne agreed, her eyes softening. “For the comeback.”
“Ha,” Rick snorted, though there was no real humour in it. “Let’s call it what it is—getting back on the payroll.”
“It’s a rather good payment. Not that you need it, of course.” She lifted the cup to her lips, and the smirk hidden behind the porcelain confirmed she had called out his bullshit. “Five Mall want to bring their local shoppers back. It’s been scarce of customers of late, so they’ve spent a fortune for their grotto to rival Westfield’s.”
“Hmm.” Rick had lost his care. And his dignity, it would seem. He stood. “I’ll assume you’ll foot the bill for the coffees?”
“Not hard up, are we? Pay day will be the end of the month.”
“I’ll be fine.” Financially, he would. Mentally? Perhaps not so much.
“Good. Then I’ll send all the details later. And Rick?”
Rick raised an eyebrow.
“Take a shower. I can smell the scrap heap from here.”
Rick resisted the urge to sniff himself, and with a heavy heart and even heavier steps, he left Marianne to her coffee and croissant to snake around the tables of hipsters and lovers sharing cream topped hot drinks to stamp out into the bitter cold of Soho.
The streets lined with twinkling lights prepped for the festive season ahead were particularly bright and beautiful this year. Once upon a time, he’d loved living in this part of the city, especially at Christmas. The usually morose Londoners developed a spring in their step at this time of year. Many even greeted others with a smile. But as he passed by the young, trendy couples holding hands, wrapped up in coats, scarves and each other, their carefree existence had his head down, buried in his collar. It wasn’t so much with Scrooge-like objection, more green-eyed envy of the Grinch.
Had he ever been that wrapped up in someone?
Yes. Yes, he had. Once.
But he hadn’t tied the bow tight enough.
He reached his flat, positioned on a quiet pedestrian area off Broadwick Street and nestled above the corner pub. Silver Place was his lasting legacy of the grandiose life he’d once had, having settled here after leaving his village in Yorkshire for the bright lights of the big city. Right in the thick of it, amongst the bars, restaurants, clubs and theatres he’d once called home, he’d lived the area to its fullest. Now it felt empty. Void. Much as his postal box was in the communal entrance hall, where the other four apartment boxes were bursting at the seams with Christmas cards.
Who sent cards these days, anyway?
Climbing the steps to the third floor, the boards creaked with melancholy, as though they were the ones he’d been treading in the West End for rounding on a decade. On pushing open his front door, the chaos within revealed how far he’d fallen. Trophies and framed accolades from yesteryear lined his shelves—mocking reminders of a time when his name had meant something more. He brushed a finger over a dusty Olivier Award, the metal cold and impersonal.
He then flicked through the mound of unopened bills and notices piled up on the cabinet that had become part of the decor. The only correspondence he had these days was from his bank and the various investments where he’d squirrelled away his nest egg. No fan mail greeted him anymore. And his cupboards were as bare as his fridge, save for a lone tin of baked beans that seemed to echo the emptiness of the place. He was considering selling up and moving back up to Yorkshire, so he didn’t end up dying alone, rotting through the reclaimed hardwood floorboards.
“Santa Claus it is, then,” he muttered to himself, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
How had he, the bright-eyed lad from Dore, ended up here? Well, not here, but alone. He knew how, of course, but he daren’t let himself recall it. The pain was too raw.
Last Christmas, he’d had hope. A future. Love.
It had all been a lie.
In the living area, he slumped into the worn armchair, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he fumbled with the cap of his whisky bottle. The mobile buzzed with an incoming video call, and he hid his drink to answer, revealing the familiar, loving faces of his parents nestled in the cozy living room of the thatched cottage where he’d once dreamed big.
“Ricky, lad!” his father, Gordon, brimmed with such genuine enthusiasm Rick wanted to sink between the chair cushions and hide among the lost bits of coins and crumbs. “Tell us then, what’s this mystery role you’ve been tight-lipped about?”
He wished he hadn’t told his parents about the possibility of a new role that Marianne had alluded to last night. He wished he hadn’t done a lot of things. When sober and inebriated.
“Ah, well.” Rick poured a liberal amount of whisky into his glass, the golden liquid splashing slightly over the rim. His voice wavered a fraction too much for his liking. “It’s…” What was the lesser evil? “Pantomime. Here in London. One of them big productions, you know?”
His mother, Sandra, clapped, wrinkled face lighting up like the Christmas tree they’d already erected behind them. “A pantomime? Oh, that’s wonderful, love! You were always such a hit in those!”
“Who you playin’, son?” Gordon asked, leaning forward with interest etched on his weathered face.
“Principal… er… the lead role,” Rick lied as smoothly as the whisky slid down his throat. The sting of guilt burned sharper than the alcohol, though. “It’s all very hush-hush at the moment—you understand.”
“Of course, love.” his mother’s eyes twinkled with pride. “We’re so proud of you, Ricky. We know it hasn’t been easy and you know you can always come back here. With us.”
“Thanks, Mum. Dad.” He forced a smile, but it felt as hollow as the surrounding apartment. Not that he didn’t want to go back to Dore. He adored his parents. Loved his old village. But he’d been leading a very different existence to the one beckoning him home to don a pair of slippers and sit by the fire. He’d once had an active social life. Friends. Colleagues. Lovers.
He had none of those now.
The call ended with promises of tickets and more details soon, leaving Rick alone with the buzz of silence engulfing the room. He glanced out of the window, gaze drawn to the sight of his neighbours stringing up festive lights along their balconies, laughter and chatter floating up from the street below.
He took another swig from his glass, the whisky warming his chest but doing little to thaw the cold isolation settling in his bones.
“Happy bloody Christmas,” he muttered to the glass, considering it him learning his lines for his next gig as he tipped the last drops into his mouth before setting the empty glass down on the floor with a thud.
So this was it. Just him and the ghosts of his past performances dancing in the shadows of a life that once promised so much more.
Another round for the house?
Holiday Huddle by Felice Stevens
Chapter One
Harte
It’s said life begins at forty, but not in the NFL. Of course there were other active players my age, but they were the superstars teams wanted. There was no place for older second stringers in the world of football.
At least that was what my ex, Maya, had told me with a curl of her lips. Lips I’d once known the feel and taste of as well as my own, sneered at me with disdain when I sat on the bench week after week. All the years I’d been a starter, she could brag and be that football wife—getting the best tables at restaurants and wearing the top designer clothes sent to her. Then I didn’t make starting quarterback after Devlin Summers retired, and she became restless. Unhappy. Ultimately unfaithful.
If I could be truthful with myself…I probably should’ve never gotten married. I’d wanted to live a little. But I was raised to be a dutiful son. We’d had a quiet, uneventful life in our small town—my mother staying home to take care of me, and my father working as a manager in a big-box store. Dinner on the table at six thirty every night and church on Sunday. I was brought up to listen to my elders and that meant following the path my parents told me I was destined for. School, football, marriage. Mostly, I was a people-pleaser who wasn’t the type to stand up for what he wanted. But at eighteen, does anyone really know what they want, except to live their best life?
I’d known what wasn’t going to happen. In the NFL, there was no room for a man who liked men as much as he liked women. Not that I’d ever had a chance to explore that side of me—my small Minnesota town hadn’t exactly made it easy, and I’d been scared to death anyone would find out, especially my parents. We’d had a good enough relationship, but my mother seemed not to know what to say to me other than “Do well in school and Don’t talk back to your teachers.” My father would take me out in the yard to throw footballs, all the while lecturing me on women. “You’re a good-looking boy. They’ll try and trap you, Harte, ’cause you’re gonna be a football player. Don’t get a girl pregnant, ’cause you’re gonna have to take care of that baby. Make sure you marry her first. And stay away from drugs. You can get to the NFL if you play it smart.”
As quarterback of my high school football team, I’d been a star, a standout. Image was everything. I’d kept my head down, stayed out of trouble, and done as told. I could ill afford to explore a sexuality that would keep me from what my parents and coaches all said was my destiny.
Still, a man could dream.
But when I’d finally gotten there, on the field, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, I’d allowed the hype of potential stardom to sweep me up and carry me on its shoulders. Maya Delman had been the head cheerleader and first runner-up for Ms. Teen Minnesota. And she’d wanted me. She’d pulled me into her dazzling orbit, and I’d willingly given up control.
Maya had wanted to get married after I’d been drafted and had brushed aside my wishes to wait and see how my rookie year turned out. We’d had an expensive, splashy wedding, where teammates I’d barely known came as my guests. My college teammate, David Charles, was my best man.
After that, Maya continued to enjoy the football-wife world and happily spent her time decorating our home, only showing up to division playoff games. If I mentioned having children, she’d brush me off with the excuse that we were too young and there was plenty of time. We should be free to enjoy our lives.
Maybe that should’ve been my first clue. Over the years, there’d always been a reason to put off even a discussion of starting a family. She’d entice me with sex and sweet words of how without kids, we’d get to spend more time only the two of us, and I’d let it slide.
Then I was traded and got to play in the Super Bowl, and though we didn’t win, my star burned bright. I was living the life. The dream my parents had for me, though neither lived long enough to see it happen. My mother died from leukemia the year after I was drafted—three months from diagnosis to death. My father fell asleep at the wheel after he was asked to switch his shifts to nights. He crashed into a tree and died instantly. As an only child of only children, I had no family other than Maya, and I clung to her, wishing we could start our family, but she continued to push me off, and I retreated.
I was traded to the Brooklyn Kings and though they were Super Bowl contenders, I’d had a feeling my glory days as a player were waning—I’d been hurt and sidelined for half a season, but I’d tried my best. I’d expressed my fears to my wife, the person I shared my life with, expecting sympathy. Instead, Maya had yelled at me and said I had a loser attitude and ended our conversation, refusing to take my calls after that. On the bye week, I’d gone home to Minnesota, hoping to see if we could somehow find our way back to each other. Instead, I’d found the house emptied and a note saying she was leaving me. She’d fallen in love with David. My best friend. While I’d been in New York City playing, Maya had flown to California, where David’s team was located, to meet up with him.
We had no prenup, and I wasn’t about to fight for someone who’d cheated and no longer loved me. I had my pride. I wondered if David was the first, but it didn’t matter. Once was enough for me. Maya got her divorce and half of everything per Minnesota law.
With Devlin Summers as the franchise quarterback, I wasn’t ever going to be a starter again unless he got injured. And when he and Brody retired and came out, I had hopes until the Kings acquired Patrick Sloane. I knew then that my days on the team were numbered. I didn’t begrudge Patrick the position because I was realistic and understood the game was a business. He was young, and I wasn’t. I was on my way out.
Foolishly, I allowed my personal unhappiness over my divorce to bleed into playing football. I wasn’t at the top of my game, so it came as no surprise that my contract wasn’t renewed. Cut loose from the Kings, I had my agent make discreet inquiries to see if any other team might be interested. That came up a big fat zero, so I took some time to sit in a hotel room, wondering what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. Nothing seemed to matter anymore—most of all, me.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harte,” my agent argued. “You’re a healthy young guy with plenty of money. Start a foundation, get involved in charities. Talk to Dev and Brody—they have a bunch you can work with. I can see if there are any broadcasting positions open, if you want. Honestly, I think you should see a therapist. All the players do after they divorce. The best thing you can do is keep busy.”
I took his advice and joined Dev and Brody’s summer camp for kids in Georgia, and they had me on their podcast, The Huddle.
After the podcast, Dev rested his chin in his hands. “What’s wrong, Harte? I mean, I know it’s hard—your marriage broke up and you retired, but are you okay? Talk to us.”
Unexpected emotions rushed through me. I never talked about myself. There was little to say. My secret would be safe with Dev and Brody—of all people, they’d understand—yet I was uncomfortable in my own skin and wasn’t ready.
My laughter was without humor. “I wouldn’t exactly say I retired. No team was willing to sign me. I’m just…I guess it’s harder than I thought to go home again and start over. Lots of memories, not all of them great.”
“Then move. You can go anywhere.”
“I could. I love the forest and mountains. I’m never happier than being outside, fishing in the warm weather or walking in the snow. But not Minnesota.”
“We have a place in Georgia and a cabin upstate in New York,” Brody said. “Why don’t you come visit us and see? Maybe you’ll wanna get somethin’ nearby.”
These guys were too damn sweet. I hardly knew them, yet here they were, offering me their home and hospitality.
“Thanks. I might take you up on that.”
And I did. I liked their home in Georgia, but I fell in love with the Adirondacks as soon as I drove up to their huge cabin. Within a month I’d found my own home, in Appleton Falls, less than a mile from Dev and Brody’s. Keller Williams, who’d retired after an injury and now coached high school football, lived about twenty miles away, as did Elijah Randolph. It was becoming a regular little retired-footballers’ enclave.
I closed on the house right before Thanksgiving and moved in the first week of December. Appleton Falls was picturesque—it could’ve been the greeting-card standard for small towns—and the residents went all out for the holidays. A huge Christmas tree dominated the town square, and every storefront was decorated like a Christmas present. The iron-filigreed lampposts lining Main Street were draped with evergreen and huge red-and-green bows, and a sled piled high with gift-wrapped packages sat outside city hall, along with a menorah as a nod to Jewish residents. A lit canopy of stars, angels, and reindeer rose above the shopping district.
I passed by large residences set back from the road, their lights twinkling in the night sky. I opened the door to my new home, set my duffel on the wide-plank floor of the living room, and stood for a moment to get my bearings. The wind had picked up, and I smiled in anticipation of a roaring blaze in the big stone fireplace that sat catty-corner in the great room. There had to be a game on somewhere that I could watch on my big-screen TV. My footsteps echoed in the room, reminding me I’d be watching that game alone.
The isolation was my fault—I’d known this day was coming but had never planned for it. Being set for life with money didn’t guarantee happiness if you had no one to share it with and no reason to get up in the morning.
“No black dog tonight,” I muttered to myself. “It’s too beautiful here to be depressed.”
I’d picked out neutral furniture, but the walls remained bare. I’d have to get some pictures and knickknacks to brighten it up. Dark wooden beams offset the pale-yellow walls, and the kitchen had light maple cabinets and a wide marble island. I didn’t cook, but I did like my coffee, and I was happy to see my brand-new machine sitting on the counter, waiting to be initiated.
I left my bag in the hall and wandered about the rooms, grateful for the service I’d hired. They’d set up the furniture I’d ordered, cleaned the inside of any dust, and took care of the outside grounds. Now what I really needed was that beautiful cup of hot coffee. Heat had warmed the cabin nicely, but nothing hit like a jolt of caffeine. And maybe a shot of whiskey along with it.
I fixed the machine and poured a full mug after it brewed. I opened the refrigerator, and my stomach did a nosedive.
Fuck.
No milk.
“Dammit,” I swore and huffed out a sigh. “Better go before the snow gets worse.”
Flakes had begun to fall by the time I’d picked up my rental and driven from the Albany airport. Now, returning to the driveway, I had to brush off an ugly coating of heavy, wet snow from the windshield and rear window. Growing up where the white stuff was measured in feet, not inches, should’ve made driving in it no big deal for me, but these were pitch-black unfamiliar roads in a vehicle I wasn’t used to, and I was a little nervous. I’d already skidded a few times on the drive over. I’d gotten soft and was used to living in the city and being driven everywhere. Back to the regular life for me…
“Just take it slow,” I lectured myself and started the engine. The halogen headlights beamed bright, and the wipers ran at full speed. The signs stated the speed limit was 40mph, but I didn’t dare go above 25.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled into the parking lot of Marvin’s General Store and saw the lights on. Wheeling my shopping cart, I wandered through the aisles, picking up the milk, some bread and cheese, microwaved dinners and frozen pizza, beer and assorted junk food.
“Single man’s paradise, huh?” A tall, good-looking man walked past, tipping his head at my stash.
My grin was wry. “What gave it away?”
“It looks a lot like mine.”
I peered into his wagon, and it was almost identical.
“Guess we have similar tastes,” I said, and the man’s gaze grew intent. I sensed…something. A connection. My face grew warm.
“Maybe?”
Knowing I was bisexual and acting on it were two entirely different things. I’d been faithful to Maya, and even after our divorce, I hadn’t dated much. I’d never had the guts to do what Patrick Sloane had—come out while playing and stay in the game. While we were teammates, I’d had a little crush on him, but he’d been busy fighting his own inner battles and had never noticed. I’d sensed he’d had a secret and was happy he was now able to live his true life with the man he loved.
A shiver of fear ran through me. I wanted to know what it would be like with a man, yet I was scared to death. Of what, I couldn’t say, because I’d watched Dev and Brody, then Patrick and Fallon, so in love and simply living their lives.
“I’d better get going. Snow’s getting heavier, and I’m not familiar with the roads yet.” I wheeled my cart toward the checkout line.
“You just moved here?” the man asked, following and standing behind me. I was a pretty big guy at 6’2 and 220 pounds, but he was slightly bigger.
“Yeah. Off Deer Run Drive.”
“Nice area.” His lips kicked up for a moment under a neatly trimmed beard, and I caught the whiteness of his smile. Laugh lines fanned out from his blue-gray eyes. The zipper of his parka was partly pulled down, revealing a broad chest, and while I couldn’t see the rest of his body, I imagined he was muscular and strong and…
Shut up, Harte. Mind out of the gutter.
I pushed my cart to the register and began to take the items out and put them on the belt. The cashier rang them up, chatting all the way. She wore a bright-red sweater with reindeer and peppermint candy-cane earrings dangled from her lobes. It was like a scene from a holiday movie with the store all decked out in Christmas kitsch. The holiday was only weeks away. Gloom descended over me as I realized I had no one to decorate a tree or even share a Christmas dinner with.
“That’ll be eighty-five dollars and sixty-three cents.” She took my credit card. “You’re new, ain’tcha?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Just moved in.”
She glanced at the name on my card. “Harte McKinney. Why does that sound familiar?” She handed it to me.
“I used to play football,” I answered with a slight pain in my chest. It still hurt saying that.
“Damn good quarterback too,” the man behind me said, and my stomach sank.
“Well, thanks, but those days are gone.” My lips curved upward briefly. “Good night.” I wheeled my things outside, where the snow was now coming thick and fast. I loaded up the back, brushed off the snow, and started for home.
My hands clutched the wheel in a death grip as I crept along the snowy road. Other drivers, way more comfortable with the lousy weather, swept past me, spraying slush on my windshield. The wipers swished at a furious pace, but I was freaking out.
“I can’t see a damn thing. I’m going to kill myself, all because I needed some fucking milk.” My heart hammered, and I breathed in short pants. Headlights blinded me from the opposite side of the road, I skidded and spun out, but instead of gently tapping the brake and steering into the skid, panic overrode my senses, and I jammed my foot down. Hard. I sat helpless as the fence off the side of the road came up to greet me.
I smashed into the wall of wood, and the airbag deployed, squashing my face. Pain rocketed up my cheeks and the side of my body, and I couldn’t move. Trapped, I moaned, my head against the airbag covering the steering wheel.
I don’t know how long I sat there—long enough for the numbness from the cold to creep through me. My toes grew numb. A faint siren wailed in the distance, and in my peripheral vision, red-and-blue lights flashed.
“Don’t move,” a voice called out from the snowy darkness. “We’ve got an ambulance coming.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I mumbled. “And I don’t really want to.”
Soon, a team of firefighters arrived at the same time as the ambulance. They opened the car door.
“Can you move your legs?” one of them asked.
I struggled to wiggle my toes, then moved the rest of my lower extremities. “Yeah. They’re just very cold.”
“Good.”
They cut off the seat belt, and searing, red-hot fire raced up my side. “Ow, fuck, that hurts.” I couldn’t draw a deep breath without pain.
One of the paramedics steadied me. “You might have broken some ribs. Try not to move. We’ll put you on a board, secure your neck to make sure, and take you to the hospital.”
“Great.” Blood ran down my face, and my head pounded. Probably a concussion. I’d been sacked often enough in my career to recognize the signs.
Another car pulled up, lights flashing on the roof. I heard murmured voices but couldn’t concentrate. Everything hurt, and all I wanted was to stop the pain.
“Okay, sir, can you tell me your name?”
“Harte,” I whispered. “Harte McKinney.”
“The football player?”
“Yeah,” I responded, hoping I wouldn’t have to talk about the game. I loved the fans but not with my blood splattered everywhere.
“Okay, Mr. McKinney. Hold still, and we’ll get you out of there in a minute.”
They brought a stabilizing board, which I’d only seen on the field whenever a player was badly hurt. As horrible as it might seem, I’d always been glad it wasn’t me. Maybe karma had come to bite me in the ass.
With care, the two paramedics slid me onto the stretcher and put a neck brace on me.
“Oh God, that fucking hurts.”
“Once we’re in the ambulance, we’ll take your vitals and give you something for the pain. They’ll take you to X-ray once we get to the hospital.”
“Thanks.”
The thickly falling snow coated us as I was loaded into the ambulance, and I shivered violently under the blanket they threw over me. I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering.
“Wh-what’s wr-wrong with me?”
“Shock and adrenaline crash.” A blood-pressure cuff squeezed my arm.
The sirens whooped, and we were off. I might’ve passed out, because I had no idea where I was when I next opened my eyes. I blinked and attempted to raise my hand.
“Ow, ow, fuck,” I cursed. Machines beeped, and I discovered IVs attached to my arm. Nurses and doctors rushed past, treating other patients. My lips felt swollen, and my nose hurt. Maybe that was broken as well. I sighed deeply.
“Glad you’re finally awake,” a somewhat familiar voice said. “You were beginning to worry us.”
“Who’s there?” I asked, irritated that, because of the neck brace, I couldn’t move my head to see. Maybe it was a fallback from my years as a player, but I hated not knowing who was to my right or left.
“Sorry.” A tall, broad figure stepped in front of me, and I squinted. Short, golden-brown hair, a rugged face with a neat beard. My head throbbed from trying to remember. And then it clicked.
“Wait…aren’t you the man I spoke to in the supermarket?”
His lips kicked up in a faint smile. “I am. So we can say there’s no fear of memory loss.” He drew up a chair and settled his bulk next to my bed. Concerned blue-gray eyes met mine. “What happened?”
“It was the snow. It’s been years since I’ve had to drive in such bad weather, and I thought I was taking it slow, but a truck barreled past and his lights blinded me. I skidded and…well…” I waved my hand. “Here I am. But what’re you doing here? And what’s your name, anyway?”
“My name’s Jet. I’m a deputy sheriff, and when I heard on my radio about the accident, I called for an ambulance and drove here. I had no idea it was you.”
Exhausted, I closed my eyes. “Thank you.”
“So. Harte McKinney from the Brooklyn Kings.”
Surprising tears blurred my vision. Embarrassed, I winced, pretending it was from the pain of my injuries and not the fact that I was lost and alone.
“Yeah. That’s me. Except I’m no longer part of the team.”
“You were a good player. I watched you. I played college ball, but not well enough for the pros.”
With a bit of effort, I turned my torso slightly and eyed him. “What position?”
“Quarterback.”
Two men, one in a white coat and the other in blue scrubs, stopped by my bed. “Mr. McKinney?” the shorter man in the white coat verified, gazing at the clipboard he picked up from the base of my bed. “I’m Dr. Lewis. We’ll send you up to X-ray now and see what’s happening with you.”
“Good. I’d like to know myself.”
The man in the scrubs smiled at me. “I’m Mark, your nurse. Can I get you some water?” He wheeled the tray table bedside; on it a plastic pitcher sat along with a cup. “Finest vintage available.”
The attempt at humor failed with me. The aches and pains had coalesced into one big agonizing misery from my head to my toes. “No, I’m fine, thanks.” I shifted and winced. “How long have I been here?”
“About an hour,” Jet answered and took out his phone. “Is there anyone I can call for you? Wife, girlfriend? I’m sure they must be worried, and I can have them picked up in a squad car and brought here for you.”
Did I sense more than a work-related interest in my living arrangements? I hadn’t forgotten the vibe I’d picked up from him in the supermarket. If I were interested in taking that step, I suspected he would be happy to help me. Although, now it would be more like a limp.
I met his eyes. “No. There’s no one.”
A Very Marian Christmas by Lucy Lennox
Prologue
HELP WANTED
Wanted for immediate employment in the Bay Area: Direct Sales Employee. Preferably eager to learn, energetic, and friendly. Must be comfortable around new people and willing to demonstrate products in people’s homes. Free training, work from home, set your own hours. Join us to help expand our market to the LGBTQ+ community! Hiring company is an Equal Opportunity Employer with proven track record for on-the-job training, lucrative sales commissions, employee product discounts, and other generous benefits. Email [email protected] for more information.
Late November - The Marians
“Sam, next time keep your sausage to yourself. My mouth is still burning.”
Griff’s head whipped around, and he glared at his brother-in-law Teddy. “What the hell?”
Teddy threw his head back and laughed. “Aww, you jealous, kitty cat? You jealous your husband fed me his spicy—”
Jamie clamped a hand over Teddy’s mouth from where he sat snuggled up to him on the sofa. He didn’t even look up from his Kindle, muttering, “Jesus,” while the rest of the Marians sitting nearby laughed.
It was the night after Thanksgiving. The Marian clan was spread out around the collection of sofas and chairs by the huge stone fireplace in the lobby of the vineyard lodge. Bellies were stuffed with leftover turkey and casseroles as well as some fresh dishes Sam had been testing out for the restaurant. Livers were pickled with enough wine to sink a ship, and many of the Marians were buzzing happily in their post-food stupor. Thomas and Rebecca had long since taken all the grandbabies to bed, and Aunt Tilly, Granny, and Irene were busy arguing over who would win a fight between Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe.
“Wonder if JFK had a nice sausage,” Granny mused into her poker hand.
“Marilyn had tits and a good thirty pounds on Audrey,” Tilly said, flipping over another card on the river of their Texas Hold ’Em game. “Plus, she was a spiteful thing.”
“Audrey was taller. More likely to use her fingernails and fight dirty,” Irene muttered, throwing her hand in.
“I’ll bet Marilyn knew how spicy JFK’s sausage was,” Granny continued, placing down a full house and eliciting a groan out of Aunt Tilly.
Dante and AJ sauntered out from the back hallway where their room was located, trying not to be noticed.
“Again?” Simone called out across the lobby. The pair froze mid-step, poor Dante blushing deep pink. “Can the two of you lovebirds go one full hour before sneaking off for a booty call?”
AJ responded smoothly. “Dante had something stuck to his pants.”
Pete barked out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll bet he did. Your hands. Nice try there, AJ.”
“Oh my god,” Dante muttered, hurrying to find a seat and get out of the spotlight. AJ followed him, grabbing Dante up from the overstuffed chair before sitting his own ass down and resettling his fiancé on his lap.
“Can you blame me? Look at this guy. Plus, what do you expect after all the sex toys you guys forced on us this afternoon?” AJ asked with a grin. Dante tucked his tomato face into AJ’s neck to hide from his siblings’ teasing.
“You complaining about your impromptu bachelor party?” Pete’s wife, Ginger, teased. “Because I thought it was killer.”
AJ laughed. “Sally the Love Junk Lady? Really? Poor Dante’s face is so flushed right now, I’m afraid he’s running a fever.”
Griff grinned and sat forward from where he’d been leaning back against Sam’s broad chest on the sofa. “Oh, come on. We had to. That’s how you two got together, after all. It’s tradition.”
“We’ve been engaged for less than forty-eight hours,” AJ said.
Simone snorted. “Teddy wanted an excuse to see Sally’s new Magic Manhandler. It was all his idea.”
Teddy began to make a naughty gesture with his hand, as if demonstrating the Manhandler, but Jamie reached out and grabbed his wrist before he could get a good rhythm going. “Save it for later, hotshot,” Jamie said with a laugh.
Derek looked up from where he’d been running his fingers through Jude’s hair where he lay in Derek’s lap. “I was impressed with the new stuff. Figured we already owned everything good she sold, so that was a pleasant surprise. Can’t wait to try out the—”
“Lalalalala,” Jude blurted. “Nobody wants to know what you want to try out, big man. Except maybe me, and you can whisper it in my ear.”
Derek leaned down to whisper in his husband’s ear, and Jude seemed to get extra wiggly in response to whatever words were spoken. It probably wouldn’t be long before Jude had something stuck to his own pants.
“What about that cutie-patootie who came with her? Her new assistant, what was his name?” Ginger asked.
Twelve Marian men blurted out at once. “Noah.”
The room went silent.
“My, my,” Aunt Tilly said with a catlike grin. “Isn’t this an interesting development?”
Blue blushed and turned to his husband with an apologetic look. “What? The kid’s adorable. You can hardly blame a guy for noticing.”
Tristan leaned over and brushed a kiss on Blue’s temple, murmuring, “Agreed.”
“I’d do him,” Beau mumbled into Mav’s shoulder. “Sorry, Mav.”
Mav turned and kissed his head. “Babe, I thought you were asleep. And you can only do him if you invite me along.”
“I was asleep. But then I heard the subject of that hottie come up and had to participate in the discussion.”
“Who else would do him?” Simone asked with a mischievous grin. In addition to Simone, Ginger, Tilly, Granny, and Irene, every single gay man in the room except Dante raised his hand.
“I win!” AJ declared. “I have the only loyal partner here. Love you, Dante Marian.”
Dante shot AJ a look. “And what about you, jackass? You raised your hand.”
AJ had the decency to look ashamed. “I’d just be using him for sex, baby. You know you’re the one who holds my heart. Isn’t that all that matters? Did you see the guy’s ass? I mean, come on.”
“It was a stellar ass,” Irene said sweetly while she shuffled the cards.
“I’d peg it,” Granny said cheerfully. “Plus, now that he’s working for Sally, he can supply his own peg, so that’s a bonus.”
“I don’t think you call it a peg,” Blue suggested. “It’s still just a dildo.”
“Whatever. Semantics,” Granny muttered, flapping her hand at her wife to pick up the pace on the next deal.
“Did you see how nervous and embarrassed he was?” Dante asked. “The poor kid. I felt sorry for him. I’m not even sure he’d seen some of those products before. It seemed like he’d been plucked from a farm in Nebraska and brought here without any preparation. ”
“He seemed to know plenty about preparation when he was demonstrating the lube options,” Teddy added suggestively. Jamie elbowed him in the ribs.
“No, dude,” Beau said. “He really did just move here from bumfuck. Somewhere in Canada, I believe. That’s why he looked terrified.”
“Aww, poor little Noah. We should introduce him around,” Simone suggested. “It can’t be easy moving to a new place and not knowing anyone. The kid needs friends.”
“Fuck friends,” Teddy said. “He needs to get laid. That guy was wound up tighter than Jamie here the night I met him.”
Jamie turned blazing eyes on his husband. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? I don’t remember hearing you complain that night.”
Teddy’s own eyes sparkled as he gazed at Jamie. “Ahh, there he is. Feisty Jamie. It’s been a while, sweetheart. You’ve had your nose in that textbook all week. I was just trying to get your attention. Sister and I have been feeling neglected lately.” He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on Jamie’s mouth, immediately melting whatever ire Jamie had been brewing. At the sound of her name, Sister’s thick black tail beat a rhythm on the floor at Teddy’s feet.
“Gross,” Simone scoffed. “But he’s right. I talked to Noah for a while when we were helping Sally pack up the car, and he said he made the move to the West Coast after a nasty breakup a couple of weeks ago. It sounds like he’s looking forward to being single in the city and playing the field.”
“Bullshit,” Derek said with a laugh. “That guy has serial monogamy written all over him.”
“Agreed,” Jude said. “It’s a shame, though. Plenty of guys would love a turn with that cutie. My friend Baker would be perfect for him.”
“Oh my god, he totally would,” Derek said, eyes widening. “We should set them up.”
“No way,” Ginger cut in. “Remember Tall, Dark, and Handsome from Pete’s firm? He’d be perfect for our little Noah.”
Pete shook his head. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.” Ginger shot him a look, and Pete closed his eyes in resignation.
“You all can forget it. Dibs. We’re totally setting him up with Hayworth,” Maverick said with a grin. “They’re both new to town and would be great together.” Beau nodded his head enthusiastically.
“Oh, that reminds me, you know who else is new in town?” Jamie asked Teddy. “Did I tell you Josh from Denali was just reassigned to Alcatraz?”
“I always knew that perv would wind up behind bars,” Teddy said with a wink.
“Shut up. Alcatraz is run by the park service. Anyway, we should totally set him up with Noah. They’re both so sweet.”
Teddy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I like you calling other men sweet, doll.”
Jamie swooned and stared moony-eyed at his husband for the rest of the conversation.
Dante appeared deep in thought before crying out, “I got it! I’m going to set him up with Jordan from the vet clinic.”
Simone shot daggers at him. “That was going to be my pick. Choose someone else.”
AJ sat forward, pulling Dante close to his chest and pointing an accusatory finger at Simone. “No way. He picked Jordan first, so he gets him. Don’t mess with my man or I will take you down, woman.”
Simone pouted and turned away before whining under her breath. “Then who the hell am I going to pick? You people are the ones with all the gay friends.”
AJ shot a conspiring wink at Dante before speaking. “Oh, Simone. You know who you should totally set that kid up with?”
Simone’s eyes lit up. “Who?”
“Joel Healy from On Your Six Security.”
Derek bit his tongue to keep from barking out a laugh.
“Isn’t he—” Jude began to ask.
“Gorgeous and successful?” AJ jumped in to keep Jude from saying the word straight. Jude looked over at Derek, but Derek squeezed his husband’s hand to shut him up.
“I thought he was straight,” Simone said, unsure.
“Nope. The guy loves cock. Ask anyone. Ask your brother,” Derek assured her before turning to his spouse. “Jude, baby, tell her.”
Jude shot him a look before facing his sister and smiling sweetly. “When Derek says he loves cock, he’s not kidding.”
Derek’s nostrils flared in amusement, and it took all of his self-control not to burst out laughing. “Truer words have never been spoken. AJ, bud, did you need a glass of ice water? You look like you might choke.”
AJ hid his face behind Dante’s head in an effort to keep from cracking up.
Simone still looked confused and… something else. “Wait. Joel Healy is gay? Really? I…damn.”
Derek lifted his eyebrow at her. “Why do you sound disappointed?”
“Well… it’s just that he’s… cute. And… you know… nice. You know?”
“No, sister,” Blue said with a laugh. “We don’t know. Enlighten us. Are you saying gay men can’t be nice?”
“Shut up, Blue,” Simone snapped. “I just thought a smart, successful guy like Joel Healy would be dating a supermodel or something. Even if he’s gay, I’d assume he’s taken. Every time we’ve talked, I thought he was…” She appeared to be thinking things through. “I just thought he was straight, that’s all. Are you sure he’s gay, I mean… single?”
“He is definitely single,” AJ said carefully. “The other day at work I was going on and on about Dante. Joel sounded envious, like he wished he had someone special too.”
“Hm,” Simone said quietly. “That’s kind of sad. He deserves someone special. He’s a sweetheart.”
“Hot as hellfire too. Back to this dildo kid though. We should place bets,” Granny suggested.
Aunt Tilly grabbed for Granny’s arm. “Holy hell on a hockey stick, you’re right.”
“Duh,” Granny said before throwing back the rest of her wine.
Irene smiled at her wife before placing down a winning hand with a flourish. “Poker,” she declared.
“I think you’re thinking of bingo, old lady,” Granny grumbled. “Fine, take my money. I’ll take it out of your ass later.”
Tristan made gagging sounds and tried to hide his face in Blue’s shirt. Blue ignored him and heartily agreed with Granny’s suggestion. “We should! We should totally place bets, make it a game. The person who sets him up with the guy he falls for wins the pot.”
“I’m in,” Simone blurted. “Let’s do this.”
“We can’t tell the poor guy he’s part of a bet,” Ginger said with a grin. “He’d die of embarrassment.”
“No, of course we don’t tell him,” Mav said. “We just all offer to help him meet people in town, and if he so happens to fall head over heels for Hayworth, I mean, one of our friends, then so be it.”
“What’s the prize?” Derek asked. “It’s gotta be something good.”
“Season tickets to the Forty-Niners,” Ginger suggested gleefully. A room full of Marians stared back at her in silence. “Fuck. Tough crowd. How about tickets to that new drag club?” The room erupted in happy chatter.
“Now you’re talking,” Teddy said with a grin.
“Nah, it’s the pot of money, you bozos. No one has time to shop for an extra prize this time of year,” Simone said. “Who wants in?”
They all clamored for a spot in what became known as the Great Holiday Setup, or what Granny insisted on calling OPAH, Operation Pimp-a-Ho.
Regardless of what anyone called the plan, it was decided. They’d invite Noah to bring a date to Marian Christmas, and the couple whose friend was chosen would be declared the winner. No one was allowed to let Noah in on the secret plan, and they only had a month to make him fall in love. Each participant got only one attempt, and they had to do it under the guise of introducing him to new people to help him assimilate to the area.
As they got into bed later that night, Blue turned to his husband, Tristan. “This whole idea is crazy. Nobody falls in love after just one date. Bringing someone to Christmas is a big step.”
Tristan reached for Blue and drew him in for a cuddle. “Baby, I pretty much fell in love with you the night we met and haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since. When you know, you know.”
Blue’s eyes sparkled up at Tristan from where he rested his head on Tristan’s chest. “Smooth talker. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to get into my pants.”
“I do. I sooooo want to get into your pants,” Tristan admitted with a sheepish grin. “Been imagining getting into your pants all day, as a matter of fact.”
“Prove it.”
Within moments, Blue and Tristan were reminded of just how quickly two people could lose themselves in one another when it was meant to be.
The Alpha's Santa-Kissed Omega by Lorelei M Hart
Chapter One
Gustav Van Dijk
“Papa, I’m scared.”
The words made my heavy heart even more laden. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see my not-quite five-year old in his booster seat, looking out the window. His little cheeks were pale, and his eyelids fluttered, a sure sign he was about to cry. Dane, named after my omega who died giving birth to him, was not responding as well as I’d hoped to our move to the United States.
With the holidays coming soon, I’d decided to wait until January to enroll him in kindergarten, and my own schedule with my new company would be light until then. However, I did need to work online a few hours each afternoon and couldn’t do that easily with a fretful preschooler. Also, my son might adjust better if he made some friends. But I’d seen no other children playing near our rental house, so how?
We’d been strolling down Main Street the day before when we came upon a window covered in gift wrap and a big bow. Dane’s mood lifted and he bounced, asking, “Papa, is that a present?”
A chuckle preceded a pair of men emerging from the store, arms around one another’s waists. “It is indeed, little man,” said one of them. “A surprise present for the town, to be revealed next Saturday. I’m Liam by the way and this is my candy shop, Sugar.” He shook my hand then waved toward the other man. “And this is Edison, my mate.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I replied. “I am Gustav, Gus for short, and this is my son, Dane. So a surprise, huh?”
“We like to do a special window for each holiday, make it really special.”
The other man, Edison, rolled his eyes. “My mate has a flair for the dramatic, but he does run the very best candy store in town.”
“Edison!” protested Liam. “It’s the only candy store in town.”
His mate poked him in the ribs. “It’s the best in the country, but you already know that, and I refuse to contribute to your ego.” A twinkle in his eye offset his words. “Would it be all right to give your son a little something from the store?”
Dane’s smile stretched his chubby cheeks. Since it was the first sign of his happy self I’d seen in weeks, I nodded. “I guess so, if he promises to eat all his broccoli at dinner.”
“Papa, I love the little trees,” Dane protested. “Maybe you should make me eat lima beans instead.” He squinted his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “They’re yucky.”
Liam reached behind him into the store. “I think your son is quite the honest fellow.” He drew out a Santa Claus sucker, dark chocolate with a red suit and white beard. “Here you go!”
“It’s like Sinterklaas.” Dane closed his little fist around the stick and beamed at his new friend. “Thank you, candy-store man.”
“That’s Mr. Liam,” I chided softly.
“Thank you, Mr. Liam,” he echoed. “I promise to eat my broccoli—even if it’s lima beans.”
“You’re welcome,” the man said. “Now, I don’t offer this often, but would you like just the teensiest peek at our window?”
“Or even a bigger one!” Dane thrust out his chest.
Edison tilted his head. “I don’t know, Liam. Do you think he can keep a secret?”
“I can, I can!” my son shouted. “I never even told Daddy I broke his cup.”
A brief silence stretched before the two men burst into laughter.
“Dane!” I chided. “We’ll have to talk about that later. But I think you’ve made your point.
“Okay, little man.” Liam led him into the store and stopped right inside. He tugged back a red velvet curtain and let Dane duck his head under for a few seconds before saying, “Okay, that’s it.”
Dane backed out and straightened, his cheeks flushed, mouth in an O. “I won’t tell anybody! Not even my papa.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Liam beat me to it. “I think we all agree you shouldn’t have secrets from your papa, so you can tell him, but only in very private, okay? We don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Dane’s head bobbed. “Okay, Mr. Liam. And thank you for the candy and the secret.”
“Do I detect an accent?” Liam asked. “You aren’t from Holland, are you?” Although nearly everyone learned English in school back home, we by no means sounded like we were born in the USA.
“Exactly right. We just arrived last week.”
“Staying long?”
I flicked a glance at my son, who was busy ripping the plastic off his Santa sucker. “Permanently, if all goes well. I accepted a job here.”
“What do you do?”
“Computer coding.”
“Wow. And why did you choose to come here? I’m sure with your skills you can work almost anywhere.”
I hesitated, and he blushed. “What an ass. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s fine.” I didn’t mind answering. Dane had failed at plastic removal, and Edison was now assisting, so I took a step away and the other alpha followed. I lowered my voice. “I was widowed a couple of years ago, and I wanted a change of scenery. Dane barely remembers his other dad, but everywhere we went, people brought him up and it wasn’t good for either of us. So...when this opportunity came along, I decided to give it a shot.”
“Have any friends here in town?” he asked, without the sympathetic tone I’d learned to hate.
“No, not yet.”
“You do now.” He gave me a pat on the arm. “Come by and visit anytime.”
“That means a lot.”
“That’s okay. We have a family ourselves, three and growing. We’ll have to do a playdate.”
“That would be wonderful. Hey, since you are also a dad...do you know of a good babysitter? I need someone for a few hours in the afternoons.”
“Better than that.” He called to his omega, “Edison, do you have any openings at My Brother, My Sister for the afternoon program?”
He did. And Dane had been wildly excited for the past two days, but nerves had gotten hold of him once he was actually on the way.
I braced myself for what was to come.
