Dad Bod’s Daring December (Dad Bod Christmas)

1. Ember

Chapter 1

Ember

The scent of musty books and lemon-oiled shelves greet me as I push through the library’s heavy wooden door, its weight a comforting barrier from the chill outside. This small sanctuary of calm, tucked away in the heart of this Colorado town, is worlds apart from the chaos I left behind. A place I now, somewhat unexpectedly, call home.

My gaze sweeps across the rows of neatly organized shelves, their spines whispering promises of new beginnings and self-reliance. I walk slowly, letting my fingers drift over the books until I spot the section with home repair guides and pull a few from the shelves, their weight solid in my arms.

I trace the words on the back of each book until I find two on carpentry and one on plumbing. Sure, I could use YouTube or find tutorials online, but something about having words on paper in front of me can’t be beat. There’s a permanence, a stability to it that reassures me. Like the farmhouse, these books are pieces of a new life I’m determined to build from scratch.

I take the books to the checkout counter and smile at the woman behind the desk. Her tag tells me her name is Rosa.

“Find everything all right?” Rosa asks, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners with motherly concern.

She scans my stack of DIY manuals, a feeble armory against the battle I face with creaky floorboards and peeling wallpaper. Her hands move with practiced ease, and I notice the slight tremor in her fingers, a trace of age and wisdom woven together.

“More than enough to keep me busy,” I reply, offering a smile that feels a bit too strained.

Her gaze lingers on me as if piecing together the fragments of the new life I’ve begun to build out here. She watches me carefully, that motherly kindness shifting into something sharper, an intuition I suspect she’s honed over years of reading people as easily as she reads books.

“Do you have a library card?”

I shake my head in the negative, and she hands me a form without saying anything else. Picking up an ink pen from the counter, I fill out the form, handing over my brand-new Colorado driver’s license as my personal identification. She enters my information into the computer before she looks up at me with curiosity.

“New faces are rare in Alpha Mountain,” she observes, her fingers deftly navigating the checkout process. “What brings you to our little corner of the world?”

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “Just needed a change of pace.”

I lower my gaze, feigning interest in the stack of books as memories prick at the edges of my mind. The truth is a heavy burden that forms pictures in my mind of the night that made me flee my lifelong home. Flashing sirens, shouting, and the acrid stench of gunpowder. And the bodies…

I shiver. Las Vegas morphed from a glittering dreamland into a nightmare. My neighbor, once a shadowy figure coming and going at odd hours, turned out to be someone much more sinister, a drug dealer whose troubles didn’t care to know about property lines. He left the property under a sheet that night on a one-way trip to the morgue.

Rosa nods, her eyebrows knitting together slightly, perhaps sensing the omission in my words. “Well, we’re glad to have you. This town could use some fresh energy.”

“Thanks.” I shift the weight of the books in my arms, eager to retreat to the solitude of my new home, the one I saw online and couldn’t resist.

The money from my grandmother’s inheritance wasn’t meant to sit in a bank. Gran raised me after my parents died when I was six in a car wreck and always encouraged me to find my slice of happiness. And when I stumbled upon the listing for that old farmhouse, with its wrap-around porch and untamed garden, it felt like a sign.

“Did you buy a place nearby?” Rosa asks, pulling me from my reverie.

“Uh-huh, just outside of town.” The memory of the real estate agent handing me the keys, the firm handshake promising a new start, is a lifeline I cling to. The idea of belonging somewhere, of creating roots in a town far removed from the neon haze of Vegas, is a comfort I’ve leaned on more than I expected.

“Good for you, dear. It’s important to have a safe place of your own.” She emphasizes that last word. Safe . It causes a chill to run down my spine despite the sun streaming through the library windows.

“Safe” was supposed to be a given, not a question mark. But here I am, swapping one set of uncertainties for another. Only this set is more about where I can find work and whether I can redo hardwood floors on my own.

“I think my new home is safe. It’s out in the sticks, well away from town. My neighbor isn’t exactly friendly, but I can live with that. I don’t need to be friends with everyone, I guess.” I end with a shrug that makes her smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Do you know his name?” Rosa asks.

I nod. “His mailbox says his last name is Vanderbilt. I don’t know his first name.”

Rosa’s brow furrows, and she leans a little closer over the counter.

“The old McCormick place, is it?” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Yes, that’s the one.” My smile blooms with pride despite the library’s hush enveloping us. The image of my new abode fills my mind, its creaky floorboards and the musty scent of history nestled in every nook.

“Charming spot,” Rosa says, but her eyes don’t meet mine. They flit to something unseen, something worrisome. “Just...be careful, Ember. It’s not exactly safe out here either.”

I pause, the weight of her words sinking like stones in my stomach. Sure, it’s not Vegas, but trouble can find its way anywhere, can’t it? I shrug it off, trying to laugh, but it comes out hollow.

“Careful? Why? Is there something I should know?”

Rosa hesitates, then seems to fold into herself, her earlier openness waning. “Well, someone else had their eye on that house. Just... watch your back, all right?”

The warning hangs between us, unsettling and vague. I thank Rosa and leave with the small stack of DIY books tucked under my arm.

The cool winter air greets me as I step outside, and I draw it deep into my lungs, trying to shake off the unease. Home repairs and plumbing. I focus on these tangible tasks, grounding myself in the reality of leaky faucets and peeling paint.

My car chugs a contented purr as I drive back to the farmhouse. The sun dips low, casting an amber glow over the land that’s now mine. The thought steadies me. I outbid someone… So what? It’s my home now. My sanctuary.

Pulling into the gravel driveway, I take a moment to admire the two-story white farmhouse. It stands proud against the sky, its aged wooden beams holding stories of the past. The porch needs work, and the garden is wild, but it’s mine. All mine.

No one can take this from me, I vow. Whatever shadows might come lurking, I’ll face them head-on. This is where my new life begins, with each plank of wood and every stubborn weed. It’s a duty I’ve taken on willingly, a responsibility I won’t shirk.

I gather my newfound knowledge of home repair, eager to make changes, to fix what’s broken. It’s not just about the house; it’s about fixing me, too, piece by piece.

The low rumble of engines shatters the night’s peace, and my eyes snap open. Darkness wraps around me, but I don’t need light to recognize the sound piercing the quiet Colorado evening. Motorcycles. My heart pounds a staccato rhythm against my ribs… fast… too fast.

I slip out of bed, my feet finding the cold floorboards as I pad silently toward the window. The curtain is cool and flimsy in my grasp. I part it enough to peer out into the night.

Headlights dance across my lawn, casting wild, elongated shadows that twist and turn with the roaring bikes. At least a dozen of them circle my house like predators. Their laughter and yells slice through the air, discordant and jarring against the backdrop of serene mountain silhouettes. My grass and my gleefully bought and set up Christmas decorations are nothing but a playground for these vandals. The reindeer has deflated along with the snowman, which has tire tracks all over it, and the lights have gone out.

“Idiots,” I whisper to myself in a futile attempt to steady my nerves.

Each motorcycle that tears through my property feels like a direct challenge, a blatant disregard for the sanctity of this place I’ve claimed as mine.

Then, without warning, the night explodes. A shotgun blast echoes, shocking in its loudness, and instinct takes over. I drop to the floor, my hands flying up to protect my head. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, threatening to burst free. The windows rattle with the force of the sound, and I hear the bikers howling even louder, spurred on by the chaos.

I press my cheek against the cool wood, trying to make myself small, insignificant.

Be careful. It’s not exactly safe out here either.

Rosa’s words from earlier today swirl in my mind, a warning that now feels eerily prophetic.

Safe. The concept seems almost laughable now as I lie prone on my bedroom floor in the house I thought would be my fortress. The house where my new life was supposed to begin, away from the dangers I left behind in Las Vegas.

“Nobody can take this from me,” I mutter.

But as the motorcycles continue their relentless assault outside, tearing up everything I’ve started to build, I wonder if I was wrong. If my sense of duty, my responsibility to this land might come at a cost I didn’t anticipate.

I close my eyes, focusing on the sound of my breath, willing the tremors in my body to stop. This is my home. They can’t have it. They won’t.

Another shotgun blast punctuates the night, and I realize this is no longer about fixing leaky faucets or peeling paint.

It’s about survival.

And I’m terrifyingly unprepared.