9. Rudolph, the bubble butt baker
Chapter 9
Rudolph, the bubble butt baker
KLEIN
J itters dust over me like sifted powdered sugar as we drive across the bridge, heading into Clearwater proper.The closer we get to Redleg HQ, the antsier I become.
Aaron scanned both cars for trackers and IEDs before we left our house. It isn’t fear of a Lenkov ambush causing my left hand to tap relentlessly on the top of my thigh.
And I don’t have a bridge phobia.
In truth, it’s not even the trip with my mother that worries me. I’m confident she’ll be fine. Our Redleg family will have our backs. Mia and I have gotten managing Ma’s moods under control. Kate’s done a terrific job teaching us how to soothe and prevent most episodes. Besides, Ma always loved the holidays, Christmas in particular. I don’t expect the festivities at the party will upset her. And if I’m wrong, I’ve got two backup plans in place.
So, no. It isn’t any of that making me jumpy.
It’s the dessert buffet filling the backseat of the car behind us.
Tonight, I’m coming out to my Redleg family about my love for baking, thus subjecting myself to a future ripe for ridicule. And I’m doing it willingly.
Like a Harvey.
What started as a desire to learn a few of my mother’s pie recipes before her disease progressed turned into a full-fledged baking bug.
Wait. That sounds weird. I’m not baking bugs. Gross.
I meant my new hobby. One that I’m enjoying more with each lick of the spoon.
Before you get grossed out, I never reuse a testing spoon. I’m not a heathen.
Anyhow, having Mia by my side has made me feel more secure about all the facets of my personality. The Dom and the gentle lover. The compassionate friend and sometimes jealous boyfriend. The tech gear geek. Hacker in training, happily playing third fiddle to the rest of the intel team. The protective military operative. The aficionado of exemplary music. The old soul and the jokester. The stone-cold fox. The big booty boy.
And yes, even the baker.
With my forced exhale, my lips flap audibly.Mia slips her hand over the console, wrapping her fingertips around my bicep. The bright red polish of her seductively painted nails catches my attention, bringing a sneaky grin to my face. She claims she picked that color for Christmas. But I call bullshit on that.
She did it because she knows it drives me wild.
Damn . The mere memory of those harlot red nails encircling my cock makes my balls heavy.
Adjusting in my seat, I shift my focus to the road. Can’t get hard with my mother in the back seat. Talk about inappropriately disgusting. Yikes.
Mia leans close, whispering, “I can feel your pulse in your elbow, Cal. Sheesh . Calm down. We have our SIGs, and Aaron has our six. We’re good.”
“It’s not that. I’m just . . .”
While I search for the words, she connects the dots.Not surprising since she knows me so well. “Worried about the baking thing?”
“So far, only Tomer knows, and he?—”
“Ahem.”
“And you,” I amend.
“And did he care?”
My head kicks back, and I hit her with a faux scoff. “He’s not exactly the benchmark to judge reactions against.”
She bares her teeth, teasing me with a tiger growl before letting her face go lax. “Despite wanting to bust your balls over teasing him, I won’t do it. Because you’re right this time. Even with his lighter vibe these days, he’s still Tomer at heart.”
“Exactly. So you see why I’m less than thrilled about outing myself?”
She pulses her fingers around my bicep, her nails digging into my flesh just enough to give me some wicked ideas for Christmas kinky time later tonight. Assuming, I’m not unable to rise to the occasion from the blanket of baking shame.
“If anyone gives you shit about it, I’ll sic Lettie on them.” Mia giggles into her hand. “I’d defend you myself, but she’s more experienced than me.”
“That’s the truth.” The memory of sugar-sweet Lettie turning into a pit bull when sticking up for Tomer propels a deep chuckle from the back of my throat.“She’s totally Big Al’s daughter.”
At the next red light, I crick my neck for a peek into the backseat. “Doing okay back there, Ma?”
“Yes, dear,” she replies meekly, her wrinkled hands wrapped gingerly around theseatbelt’s shoulder strap.
My sinuses sting, and my throat clogs with an onslaught of emotion, but it somehow calms my nerves simultaneously.
Gratefulness drapes over me. She’s been lucid all day. If it weren’t such an improbablethought, I’d believe she saved up all her lucid moments from the last month for tonight. Ma always had a way of making Christmas special for us. Despite her condition, she’s managed to do it again.
One last time?
I hope not. But just in case it is, I try to carve it into my psyche, so I can hold onto it forever.
A lump forms in my throat, and my view of her grows hazy with pooling moisture.
Mia taps my arm.“The light, Cal.”
Jerking my face back to the windshield, I blink free from the heavy thoughts and ease my foot onto the gas pedal.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Mia pulling out her phone with her free hand. The radio in the car connects two seconds later.
With a satisfied smirk creeping across the car to me, Mia slips her phone back into her purse.
The sound of familiar jingle bells fills the space, followed by the deep bellow of Dean Martin repeating, “Rudolph.”
By the third Rudolph , my mother starts singing along, immediately launching into the chorus.
Ma’s favorite song by one of her favorite crooners.
Mia’s first Christmas with us, and yet she already knows. I’d expect nothing less.
Feigning frustration, I shoot her a scornful side-eye, but I can’t keep up the act for long. Soon, my glare warms into a lustful wink.
I fucking love this woman.