Chapter 25 Brayden #2
“Since right this second when I realized it was an option.” He tugs at the Santa hat on his head, adjusting it to a jaunty angle. “Come on, I'm already halfway there with the hat.”
Cece looks up at me, uncertainty written across her face. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head—weighing the disaster of having no Santa against the potential disaster of Wrecker in the role.
“He's actually good with kids,” I tell her quietly. “His sister has three little ones. They adore him.”
She blinks, surprise flickering across her features. “Really?”
I nod. “He's their favorite uncle. Takes them to the zoo, builds them blanket forts, the whole nine yards.”
Wrecker beams at my endorsement. “I can do the 'ho ho ho' and everything. Watch!” He takes a deep breath and lets out a booming “HO HO HO!” that echoes through the fellowship hall, making several church ladies jump and clutch their pearls.
“Maybe dial it back about twenty percent,” I suggest.
Cece laughs—a genuine laugh that lights up her face. “The church’s costume is in the back. Come on. I’ll show you where it is.”
I watch Cece lead Wrecker toward the back room, the Santa hat bobbing with each excited step he takes.
He's practically bouncing, talking a mile a minute about how he's going to “crush this Santa gig” and asking if there's a specific way to say “ho ho ho” that won't offend the church crowd.
I can't help but smile at his enthusiasm, though I only let them go because I know Wrecker will keep her safe.
The moment they disappear around the corner, I turn to Big, my smile fading.
“Did my aunt really call you?” I keep my voice low, glancing around to make sure none of the church ladies are within earshot.
Big's massive shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “She did. But so did Joe.”
“Joe? Our lawyer Joe?” That catches me off guard. “Since when does he have your number?”
“Since he's done some work for the club in the past.” Big scratches his beard, eyes tracking the room with the constant vigilance I've come to expect from him. “Helped us out of a few tight spots. Man knows how to navigate the system.”
“So you're telling me, my aunt, my lawyer, and my club president are all in cahoots behind my back?” I ask, not sure if I should be pissed or impressed.
Big chuckles. “Not exactly behind your back. More…bolstering your efforts. Your aunt was worried about Cece. Said that Kincaid prick might try something after the restraining order went through.” His voice drops even lower.
“Joe filled us in on the rest. Figured we could be useful, so here we are. Just enough of a presence to make a point without turning it into a spectacle. Four bikers helping with a church charity? That’s a heartwarming news clip.
Twenty bikers? That’s intimidation—and not the kind your father’s congregation would appreciate. ”
I nod, gratitude pushing up through the anger that’s been welded to my ribs these past few days. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe a damn thing.” Big claps a hand on my shoulder, steady and solid. “She’s yours. That makes her family.”
In all my years with the MC, I’ve never brought a woman into the fold this way. Never had anyone who mattered enough to bind my club life to my personal life. I haven’t even given her a property patch yet, and they’re already stepping up to protect her.
The realization hits deep, stirring something fierce and proud in my chest.
Damn, it feels good to be a Heaven’s Reject.
“So what's the plan?”
“Domino's on the door,” Big answers, nodding to the club and their positions. “Skelly's floating, keeping an eye on all entrances. I'm staying wherever she is, and you...” He gives me a meaningful look. “You just try not to murder anyone in a house of God.”
“Tall order,” I mutter, but I appreciate the thought they've put into this. “What about Wrecker?”
“Santa's job is to see everything,” Big taps his temple with one thick finger. “He can see who comes in, who's watching too closely. Plus, who would fuck with Santa?”
I snort at the image of Wrecker in a Santa suit beating the shit out of Ethan. Talk about Christmas miracles.
“Mayor’s not gonna appreciate us being here,” I say, watching more volunteers trickle in. “Ethan won’t either.”
“That’s the idea,” Big replies. “But remember—we’re here as model citizens helping with a charity event. Pure community service. Anyone who complains ends up looking like an asshole.”
The sound of Cece’s laughter pulls my attention.
She’s walking back with Wrecker, who is now fully suited up as Santa.
The beard’s crooked, the hat’s sliding off, and the entire outfit looks two sizes too small—pant legs hovering above his boots, coat buttons fighting for their lives against his shoulders.
But the grin on his face radiates genuine joy, and damned if it isn’t exactly the kind of ridiculous brightness today needed.
“How do I look?” Wrecker asks, spinning with his arms out. “Jolly enough?”
“You look as though Santa hit a growth spurt,” I say, and Cece laughs again.
That sound hits me right in the chest, warm and grounding in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“We'll make it work,” she says, adjusting his fake beard. “The kids won't care if the pants are a little short.”
Wrecker strikes a pose, hands on his hips. “Santa doesn't skip leg day. That's my official story.”
Big walks over, eyeing the costume with amusement. “Maybe stuff a pillow in there. You're looking a little lean for the big man.”
“Already on it,” Wrecker says, patting his midsection. “Got two throw pillows from the pastor's office. Don't worry, I'll put them back.”
Cece’s eyes widen. “You took pillows from my father’s office?”
“Borrowed,” Wrecker corrects with a wink. “It’s for the children, sweetheart. I’m sure Jesus would approve.”
Before Cece can respond, the doors to the fellowship hall swing open, and I turn to see Reverend Montgomery striding in with purpose.
He stops dead in his tracks when he spots Wrecker in the too-small Santa suit, his expression cycling through shock, confusion, and something that might be reluctant amusement.
“What in heaven’s name...” he begins, approaching our little group with measured steps.
“Dad!” Cece hurries over to him, clearly trying to head off any potential conflict. “I was just coming to find you. We had a slight...adjustment to our Santa situation.”
The Reverend studies Wrecker—his tattooed neck peeking out above the Santa collar, his boots showing beneath the too-short pants. “I can see that.” He turns his attention to Wrecker, who’s standing there with his beard slightly askew, looking like the world’s most dangerous mall Santa.
“And you are?”
“They call me Wrecker,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean, I'm...Robert. Robert Wreckman.” I nearly choke trying to suppress my laugh. Wrecker's never used his real name in the five years I've known him.
“Robert has volunteered to be our Santa.”
“The costume is a bit...snug,” he observes dryly.
“Santa's been hitting the gym,” Wrecker says without missing a beat. “Mrs. Claus says I've been letting myself go.”
A startled laugh escapes the Reverend, quickly covered by a cough. “Well, Mr...Wreckman, was it? I think you’ll do just fine as our fill-in Saint Nicholas.”
Before anyone can respond, the kitchen doors burst open and a flurry of church ladies spill into the room, all talking at once and waving clipboards.
“Families are arriving!” one announces. “Everyone to your places, please!”
The room explodes into motion. Volunteers hurry to the craft tables, kids dart between legs, and Wrecker adjusts his Santa beard with a resigned sigh. Cece turns, lighting up as she surveys the chaos, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
She looks happy. Genuinely happy.
And I can’t stop watching her.
Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure she keeps that light in her eyes. I’ll make sure she stays safe.
Even if it means standing guard in a church full of tinsel and sugar cookies.