A Corpse for Christmas (The Naughty List #7)

Chapter 1

TYLER MORROW

There were a million reasons why this was a shitty idea, but I didn’t have much of a choice.

I’d lost my job at a doughnut shop—it shut down—and if I didn’t find another gig quick, I’d end up on the streets. I’d done that for about two years, and I refused to go back.

Never again.

Sucking off randos never got me anywhere but beat up, and the shelter I’d lived in wasn’t available anymore. They only accepted teenagers, and I was twenty. Too old.

While my roommate, Foster, was a decent guy, no cash meant I couldn’t pay rent, and he’d find someone else. I hated the situation and so did he. But that was life. If I knew anything about that bitch, it was that she loved to fuck me right up the ass without lube.

Today I was downtown, looking every bit as out of place as I felt in my worn jeans, holey winter boots, and a button-up shirt I’d found on sale, all topped by a secondhand coat.

I hated the part where I begged for work while dressed as a pauper.

I couldn’t prove I was a good employee if my outfit didn’t show effort, or at least, that’s what I’d learned most bosses thought.

Not everyone could afford a nice suit—or even a shitty used one.

New Gothenburg was covered in sparkling Christmas lights, as if the businesses on this block had coordinated.

The multicolored bulbs blinked rapidly, which hurt my good eye.

Farther down was a Santa standing on a street corner, laughing and handing out candy canes to curious children who waddled up to him.

He was probably raising money for something because the woman standing next to him was holding a green bucket.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and ignored the attention I was getting. It wasn’t unusual, especially with the burn scars spread across the right half of my face that twisted my skin and cut into my bottom lip.

I was a monster.

Except, I wasn’t. Not inside.

I’d never hurt a soul, no matter how much pain had been inflicted on me. Strangers didn’t care about my life story, though. They saw my wrecked face and made assumptions.

A single piece of paper was heavy in the pocket of my pants, and I pulled it out to go over the list of names.

I didn’t need the physical copy anymore.

The information was etched into my brain.

The people who’d ruined my life. It wasn’t only my outsides that were burned, but my insides were scorched, too.

Because of this list, I had so much pain.

1. Mike Shanahan

2. James Orr

I’d crossed him off because . . . . Well, my friend Ari and his boyfriend had already dealt with him last year.

3. Aaron Newland

4. Mario Wilkerson

5. Warren Andrews

6. Eddison Wheelwright

And the most important one of all, the one who’d destroyed my life as I knew it—

7. Chuck Wheelwright

Someone bumped me, and I mumbled an apology. I had problems seeing out of my right eye and it had become natural for me to take the blame.

The guy grunted out “fuck off.”

What a nice fella. I rolled my eyes, shoved the list back in my pocket, and contemplated élégant.

I’d peeked inside yesterday afternoon and caught a glimpse of the “understated glamour” they bragged about on their website.

Apparently, that meant white tablecloths and red glass hurricane lamps as centerpieces.

The chances of getting a job at the bistro were high because the pay for dishwashers was shit and I doubted many sane people had applied. You’d have to be desperate to give this job a chance.

Unfortunately, I was that desperate.

I took a step forward, then hesitated. Was this how my life was going to be?

Struggling? Of course it was. I used to joke with Mom that our family was cursed.

One of our ancestors had pissed off a witch and we were stuck living a shitty life.

Mom didn’t have to worry about it anymore.

She’d drunk herself to death on cheap booze.

But I’d left her life before that, when she was still married to Chuck Wheelwright, the insane detective who’d made it a habit to track her.

She’d divorced him at some point after I’d left, so at least he wasn’t my stepfather now.

Which was probably wise for Mom, too, considering she’d been fucking his brother.

I shook away my thoughts. The past was the past, and now I had to live for the present.

If only it was that easy. When you were thrown into poverty, getting out of it was the biggest fight of your life.

“Move! You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

” A woman huffed at me as she hit my left shoulder, and I winced at the pain that streaked down my side.

I grabbed my arm, scarred from a work accident.

It still hurt in the cold sometimes. I shuffled forward, my heart catapulting into my throat.

A braver man would’ve told her off, but I’d never had the guts to speak up.

It took a lot for me to reach a point where I talked back to someone.

I was weak—that was what my stepfather used to say.

I curled my shoulders, making myself as small as possible. I took a step, then another, before I stopped again. Fuck. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I move?

A café door on my left opened and “I Wish You a Merry Christmas” blasted from inside. Real voices joined in. They were horribly off-key and grated on my nerves, but they were happy.

At least someone was.

“Excuse me! Let me help you! You want help, right? Of course you do,” a man called.

A familiar warmth in the voice snagged my attention.

I glanced to my left, thinking the person was talking to me, but he wasn’t.

The tall man rushed toward a slouch-shouldered woman struggling with a stroller at the edge of the sidewalk, ready to cross a busy street.

She froze and said something I couldn’t hear as she patted her gray bun, but the man took the stroller from her, never mind that it looked like she was arguing.

Her face turned red as the large apron she wore under her open coat flapped like a sail in the wind.

She went to grab the stroller back, but he laughed, completely impervious to her anger.

The pedestrian light turned white, and he stepped out into the crosswalk.

The sound of screeching tires on the slick road bounced around the city buildings.

The woman screamed as a truck came roaring toward the man and the stroller.

The man jumped back in time, but the front of the truck struck the stroller, sending it flying down the street.

Apples flew up into the air? Those were apples, right?

My stomach dropped, nausea slapping me hard, as I started forward, then froze up while my muscles turned to lead. The disaster happened too fast. There was nothing anyone could do but watch.

The man shouted and scrambled toward the demolished stroller. “Fuck, no! The baby!” He stopped short when he reached the accident site.

A crowd formed around the sidewalk, watching with horrified expressions.

“Oh fuck! It’s not a baby.” The man turned toward the woman, frowning, and even from here with being half blind, his face was one I could never forget.

His bold eyebrows were low over his eyes and his rounded nose was scrunched.

When he was upset or confused, his bottom lip tended to stick out.

He ran a hand over his dark buzzed hair and his eyes widened.

Why wasn’t he wearing a hat in this weather? “It’s . . . not a baby?”

“My apples!” The lady rushed forward, falling to her knees to pick up the fruit scattered across the asphalt.

The truck door opened and the driver nearly fell out, stumbling as he took in the chaos.

His paleness was visible as he flopped on the sidewalk holding his chest. Was he having a heart attack?

His bald head gleamed with sweat, even though it was probably about thirty degrees this morning.

People surrounded him, checking on him, while the lady continued to shriek about her destroyed apples.

The do-gooder rushed over to the woman and tried to help her pick up her fruit, but she shoved him angrily.

This was too much drama. Well, now I knew how awful it would be if I saw a baby getting mowed down by a truck.

Jesus, I did not need that shit right now.

My heartbeat slowed down from the supersonic speed it had been traveling.

I had enough on my plate without adding other people’s problems, and they already had an audience.

I checked out the bistro again and took a deep breath. I had this. Rolling back my shoulders, I dragged my foot forward.

“Tyler?” The surprised shout from the man who’d tried to help with the stroller distracted me.

I glanced over in time to see him running toward me, waving wildly.

I had to turn my head to see him completely because of my right eye.

I caught clear sight of him just as his foot hit something—I didn’t know what because there was nothing there.

His wide grin contorted in horror as he went tumbling into a dormant rose bush that lined the solitary apartment building on the street full of stores.

I blinked, surprised, and without thinking, hustled toward him. I ignored the distasteful and curious looks I got as I hurried past pedestrians. When I reached the man, I stared into the bush he’d fallen into. “Are you alive?”

He laughed, but pain laced the sound as he turned his head toward me.

The dark stubble was new for him, but it had clean lines and looked good.

Made him look older. I winced, and not because of the thorn scratches along his cheeks and chin.

At least he was wearing a suit and warm coat, which saved a lot of his skin.

Now that I was up close, the reason he was familiar hit me square in the chest. The man currently lying in a rose bush was my ex-stepbrother.

Eddison.