Murder Under the Mistletoe (The Naughty List #4)

Chapter 1

STREETER

“I need you here, Streeter,” my boss says, his voice sounding tinny through my phone speaker. “The weather is getting worse. I want this place in tip-top shape before I shut ’er down until the storm passes.”

I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling.

If it were anyone else, I’d tell them to fuck off and hunker down to ride out the incoming storm.

But my boss, Mr. Wilson, is a decent guy.

When I blew into town needing to start a new life, he hired me on the spot and let me rent this place for practically nothing.

If all he wants me to do is stock some shelves at his general store, I can go in for a few hours.

He’s been in these mountains for a long time and knows when to let me knock off before I’m snowed in.

Sighing, I sit up and push my hair from my face. “Yeah, okay. Gimme twenty minutes and I’ll be there.”

He releases an audible breath. “Thanks, Streeter. My good-for-nothin’ son won’t pick up his phone. I’m sure he turned it off so he won’t have to come out in this cold weather.”

“All good,” I say as I climb out of bed and make my way to my shower and turn it on. “See you in a bit.”

“See ya.”

I hang up the phone and blow out a frustrated breath. I really wanted to stay in and relax. Oh well, a few extra hours will swell my paycheck.

I give the shower a few minutes to heat while I grab my Bluetooth speaker and cue up my favorite playlist.

Beyoncé bellowing how crazy in love she is blares from the speaker and I relax, hyping myself up for work on my day off.

While I’m showering, I sing along to all the queens of R&B and Pop.

I duck my head under the spray to wash my blond waves, thinking it’s probably not the smartest thing to wash my hair when it’s ball-chillingly cold outside, but whatever.

When I get home from work, I won’t be in the mood to do it, so I might as well get it done now.

As I’m stepping out of the shower, “All I Want for Christmas” starts playing.

“Fuck no,” I grouse, reaching over to my phone and slapping the “next” button before Mariah can start her first verse. I love Mariah, but that song grates on my fucking nerves. Nothing puts me in a bad mood faster than that fucking song.

Standing in front of my mirror butt-ass naked, I go into the playlist and delete the song, wondering how the fuck it even got there. I think my best friend, Camden, added it. He’s a dick like that.

Turning off the Bluetooth speaker, I dial Camden’s number and walk over to my dresser to pull out some clothes.

“Talk to me,” he says, inhaling deeply. Must be puffing a jay.

“Did you fucking add that song to my Baddies playlist?”

His bark of laughter answers my question and I scowl, wishing I could reach through the phone and fucking strangle him. “Took you long enough to hear it. I expected this call ages ago.”

“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d fucking kill you for that.”

Most people would take that as a joke, but I know Camden doesn’t. He and I are a lot alike, killing without remorse for slights that most people would think petty. Had anyone else put that song on my playlist, knowing how much I hate it, I would have cut their fucking head off.

“I know,” he says, exhaling through the speaker. “It’s supposed to storm soon. Wanna hang out with me? It’ll be fun.”

Camden and I fucked around for a few months when I got here a year and a half ago, but we weren’t feeling a relationship. When we want to get off and can’t find any hookups near our small-ass town, we call each other up to scratch an itch, though.

“Nah,” I say, shoving my legs into my briefs, then my jeans. “I gotta work. When I get back home, I’m gonna lie around and watch the snow fall or some shit.”

“Good shit. Call me if you change your mind. I can take the snowmobile over there if the snow gets too deep.”

“Gotcha.” We hang up and I finish getting dressed for work, tossing on the stupid vest with Wilson & Sons on the back. If I didn’t like Mr. Wilson so much, I’d never put this dumb shit on.

I throw my puffy jacket over it and head out the door.

The drive to work is short, only about ten minutes. I could have walked since it’s not too cold out, but I don’t want to be miserable walking back home when the temperature drops.

When I get to the store, I jog to the entrance, the automatic doors opening and the vents blasting me with hot air.

Mr. Wilson peers up from the register and relief crosses his face.

“Thank God.” He finishes ringing up the customer in front of him, and when that’s done, walks around the counter to me.

“There are a bunch of boxes in the back for the hardware aisles. I don’t know if any locals will be in to grab extra batteries or flashlights, but the tourists might not have packed accordingly, so I need that stuff out.

Think you can unload them in…” He looks down at his watch and curses.

“Four hours? I know it’s askin’ a lot, but that’s about all the time we got before the temperature drops and we gotta get the hell out of dodge. ”

I nod and remove my jacket. “I can do that. Let me put my coat away and I’ll get started.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Street,” he says and pats my shoulder. His hand brushes my hair and he gives me one of those fatherly looks he’s fond of. “Shouldn’t wash your hair in this weather. You’ll catch a cold.”

I crack a smile and head towards the back of the store where the locker room is. “That’s an old wives’ tale, Mr. Wilson.”

He barks a laugh. “I guess you’d know. I haven’t had hair in about forty years.” He rubs his bald head for emphasis.

After I put my coat away, I grab as many boxes as I can carry and head to the hardware aisle.

Dropping the boxes on the floor, I use my box cutter to open them, and then look at what needs to be stocked.

I pull out my AirPods and stuff them in my ears, pulling up my Baddies playlist. Before I press play, I go through the playlist to make sure Camden didn’t add “All I Want For Christmas Is You” more than once. He’s an asshole who would pull that type of shit.

Sure that the song is good and deleted, I press play and bob my head to Britney Spears telling me how toxic she is.

I work quickly and efficiently, scanning in all the items before I put them neatly on the shelf.

A few of the tourists lodging at the ski resort stop in and grab some essentials, asking what supplies they might need in case they’re snowed in.

I tell them, getting more and more annoyed every time someone makes me stop my music.

I already don’t want to be here, so I’m easily irked by the interruptions.

Finishing my first set of boxes, I trek to the back to get more. I have ten more boxes to stock, some filled to the brim. Checking my watch, I see that I’ve already been here for two hours. There’s no way I’ll get the rest of the boxes done.

I open each box to see what’s inside. After doing a brief inventory, I figure out which boxes to stock by what shelves are empty and what most people will grab in a last-minute bid to be prepared.

Once I have that all sorted out, I grab three boxes stacked one on top of the other, and head back out to the floor, wanting to complete this last bit of stocking so I can go home. I’ve already done my grocery shopping and I’m prepared in case I get snowed in. Mr. Wilson made sure of that.

My music is turned down low, so I can hear the arguing in the aisle ahead of me. “Trevor, come on. We should head back. The weather app says there could be fifteen inches of snow overnight. We’ll be stuck up there. We’re the last road on the mountain with no neighbors.”

I know the cabin he’s talking about. It’s owned by some corporation, and they rent it out much like Mr. Wilson does with the places he owns. No one goes up there during inclement weather because it’s hard to get up there for a rescue if it snows too heavily.

But that’s none of my business.

There’s a scoff, then someone—Trevor, I assume—says, “That app is a lie. I watched the news before we got here. We’re only supposed to get two inches, three tops. Get whatever bullshit you think we’ll need with your paranoid ass. We need to get to the cabin before—”

As I round the corner, a tall man with spiky dark hair and piercings in his face bumps into me, knocking me into a shelf, and sending my AirPods flying and the contents of the boxes scattering everywhere. A small twink stumbles beside him, glaring up at the pierced asshole.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going, motherfucker,” Pierced Asshole growls at me, getting in my face.

I look at him with a practiced, bored expression, though anger rises in me at his fucking audacity. If he knew who I was and what the fuck I’m capable of, he wouldn’t be so fucking confrontational.

“How?” I ask. “I had boxes in my hands. Not like you had to come barreling around the corner.”

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? I could buy and sell you like that.” He snaps his fingers. “So if I were you, I’d be careful.”

“And if I’m not?” I ask, ticking up an eyebrow.

Pierced Asshole puffs his chest out as if he wants to tell me exactly what, but the twink whose hand he has a death grip on says, “Trevor, that’s enough.

It’s not like he bumped into you on purpose.

” The twink bends down and scoops up my AirPods before Asshole McGee can step on them. “Here. Sorry about that.”

He’s… Christ, he’s gorgeous. Curly dark hair and big brown eyes. Full lips. Very pretty.

He pleads with his eyes for me to take the AirPods from his hand, begging me not to cause any trouble. But it’s not like I started it. He’s lucky I don’t fucking finish it.

I glare at Asshole for another moment, trying to control my temper so I don’t pull out my box cutter and slit his fucking throat right now. He ticks up a pierced eyebrow, as if daring me.

Before I can make good on my thought, the twink steps between us, pushing against Asshole McGee’s chest. “Calm down, Trevor,” he says.

“You should listen to him,” I say, keeping my voice low but allowing a lethal edge to creep through it. I take the headphones from the cute twinks hand.

“Yeah?” Asshole McGee says, a taunting smile on his face. “Or what?”

Fucking dick.

“Or nothing,” the twink says, putting more force into his shove to get the asshole out of my face. When he stumbles back a few feet, Twink turns back to me. “I’m sorry about him.” He bends as if to pick up some thousand-hour candles. “He’s—”

“Don’t apologize for me, Remington,” Asshole McGee says, grabbing the twink’s arm and pulling him back roughly. “And he doesn’t need your help. It’s his fucking job. Maybe he can see the shit on the ground better than he saw me.”

With that, he yanks on the smaller man’s arm, almost causing him to trip over his feet. Before they hit the end of the aisle, the smaller man—Remi—turns to me and mouths, “Sorry again.”

I let the amiable expression drop from my face and close my eyes, trying to calm down before I fucking lose my shit.

I moved to this small, almost sleepy tourist town so I wouldn’t be tempted to choke people out, but that douche really tried it.

If he’d pulled that shit two years ago, he’d have been bleeding out before he could shoot me that smug fucking smile.

But I told myself that when I moved here, I’d turn over a new leaf.

No killing anyone just because they pissed me off.

I wanted to keep a low profile and not drop bodies in a town where not much more than shoplifting happens.

So far, I haven’t wanted to slit anyone’s throat, but Asshole McGee came closer than anyone has in years.

For the rest of the shift, I try to push down my rising anger, but it’s hard. Knowing that someone got away with talking to me like that doesn’t sit well with me. I’m not a “turn the other cheek” kind of guy, but if I want to live a normal life, I have to be.

That pisses me off even more.

Not even my Baddies can get my mind off Trevor and his smart-ass mouth.

When I’m done with the stocking, I break down the boxes and take them to the back. I let Mr. Wilson know I’m leaving—getting a head nod in return—Janet Jackson crooning in my ear. But even her sultry vocals can’t get me out of my pissy mood.

God, I really want to kill that fucking guy. More than I’ve wanted to take a life in years. No one talks to me like that and gets away with it.

It wouldn’t be hard to get up to the top of the mountain before it storms, kill that douche and his little twink—no witnesses—then go home like nothing happened. With the snow coming, they wouldn’t be found for weeks.

The cold air whips over my face as I exit the store, helping to clear my mind and calm my red-hot anger. It wouldn’t be smart to kill someone here. I’m trying to start fresh, no bodies in this tourist town because of me.

I’m starting to calm down when two things happen that have my anger shooting through the fucking roof.

When I get in my car, my AirPods dies just when Janet is asking if someone wants to taste her. I grunt, irritated that my shit died so abruptly. Then I turn the key in the ignition and my radio is turned up to full fucking blast.

Playing “All I Want For Christmas.”

With anger coursing through my veins, I turn the volume knob so hard to the left that it pops off in my hand.

“Fucking shit!” I curse, throwing the bit of plastic against the windshield, where it breaks into pieces and tumbles over the dashboard.

I reach into my glove compartment and snatch out the wired headphones I have stashed there for emergencies.

Jamming the plug into the phone port, I seethe as I try to get Janet to calm me down, but it’s no use. Dead AirPods, shitty fucking song setting my mood off, and that fucking asshole coming into my store with his bullshit?

Fuck it, Douche and his twink are fucking dead.