A Ruthless Christmas by K.L. Savage

 

Christmas Eve

“No glitter, Maizey. You know the rules.”

“Badge! Come on; it’s Christmas. Glitter will make you look like a snowflake.”

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her. “I don’t want to look like a snowflake.”

“Putting glitter on you is on my Christmas wish list. See!” She shoves the paper so far in my face that I can’t even read it.

Kids are so annoying, but Maizey is okay. I can deal with her. I never want kids of my own, though. Hell no. “I don’t want glitter. That’s just a wish you’re never going to be able to get.”

“I’m telling Reaper,” Maizey huffs.

“Telling Reaper, what?” Slingshot asks, shoving a taco in his mouth as he stands in the doorway.

“Did you take your pill?” Maizey and I ask in unison as we watch him unwrap another taco from his bag.

“Yes, I took my pill. God, get off my back.”

“Ew, Uncle Slingshot. Your back is stinky, ’member?” Maizey curls her nose in disgust, and I can’t stop laughing at how serious she looks.

“It is not. You two are mean. I was going to let you put glitter on my face, but forget it. Be that way,” Slingshot sharply spins on his heel and walks away, head held high.

Maizey lets out this scream that has my toes curling as my ear drums rumble. She throws her makeup brush down and runs after Slingshot in her princess gown. “Come back, come back, Uncle Slingshot. I didn’t mean it.”

“You did!” Slingshot argues with a seven-year-old girl.

I shake my head and grab the pink bedazzled mirror to see what Maizey has done to me this time. “Oh God,” I groan when I see bright blue eye shadow, pink lipstick, and my hair in small piggy-tails on top of my head.

“You look so pretty,” Sarah compliments me, chuckling when she sees my appearance.

She has a bandage on the side of her head still from the accident, but other than that, she looks great. “Do not,” I grumble and stand, stretching my arms over my head.

“You’re good with her, you know. I know you say you don’t like kids but, Badge, you’re a natural at it.”

“Where’s Reaper?” I ask her, wanting to change the subject. I don’t like talking about kids. It makes me feel awful, like something is wrong with me when I say I don’t want to have a baby. It’s just how I feel. Maizey is cute and fun, but at the end of the day, I can give her back when I’m sick of her.

Not that I’m ever sick of her, but if I ever was, I could give her back.

Sarah’s blonde hair falls in her face as she straightens her body from being perched against the wall. “He went to go pick up the rest of the gifts since Patrick and I were interrupted.”

“How are you doing?” I ask softly, and her face falls. She lays her hand on her stomach and takes a minute to compose herself, but the emotion is written all over her face.

Doc told them about the inconclusive test, and Sarah cried for hours. We didn’t see her the rest of the night when we brought her home from the asylum.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.” I bring her in for a hug, and Boomer comes over behind her. He’s wearing a Santa hat and has a grenade in his hand. “Boomer?” I draw out his name, wondering what plan he has conjured up.

“Who wants to go blow holes in the sand?”

“Oh, oh, I do! Let me get my shoes on.” Sarah claps her hands in excitement. I often wonder how the hell they’re related, but then I see shit like this, and it all clicks. “I’m so glad you’re here. I love you,” she says, giving him a quick hug before she runs to get her shoes.

“Damn, Badge. You look hot.”

“Fuck you, Boomer.”

“Want to go out sometime? Can I get to second base?”

I push him out of the way, and he slams against the wall, laughing his ass off.

I walk into the living room, catcalls ringing through the air, and I find myself under a mistletoe. Before I can make my escape, a small hand tugs on mine.

It’s Maizey.

“What?”

“Pick me up,” she orders.

I pick her up by her arms and saddle her to my hip. “No glitter,” I warn.

“No glitter,” she agrees and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Mistletoe kisses instead.” Maizey gives me another kiss, and my heart warms from her thoughtfulness.

I place a kiss on her forehead, then set her down on the floor before she’s off running again. Everyone’s eyes are on me, and I curl my lip, annoyed they saw me vulnerable. “What the hell are you guys looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“Not a thing.”

“Nice rack,” Skirt says, giving me a wink.

I flick Skirt off, and he covers his daughter’s eyes with his hand, so she doesn’t see. She’s five minutes old or something like that. She can’t fucking see anyway.

I have to wear the makeup until I go to bed. That’s the deal every time. I always have to hear jokes from everyone else. I make my way to the couch and sit next to Poodle, who’s petting Lady as she sleeps.

“I’m sorry about Lady.” I’ve must have said that fifty times since he told us about the cancer. Poodle doesn’t even look up to see how ridiculous I am with makeup on; he stares at Lady, trying to make her feel better by loving on her with gentle strokes across her belly.

It’s going to be a sad day when Lady dies.

I hope Christmas day is filled with joy. It’s a day the club really needs. With Lady on her last few days, Sarah maybe not being pregnant, Reaper finding out he has an uncle he doesn’t know and a sister he didn’t know existed, and Tongue being related to a psycho—which is not surprising—tomorrow needs to be a good day.

It has to be.

It’s why I’ve fucking volunteered to be Santa for some damn reason.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I do this to myself?

Right. At least I get cookies and milk. That will be worth it.

Because I don’t even like kids. I can’t stand them.