Krampus Kruk

Chapter 1

Driving away from my mom’s house, I’m in search of a drink—alone. Dinner had been an unbearable volley of fake news and thinly-veiled racism between her, my stepdad, and stepbrothers. I couldn’t stomach it any longer.

This is why I live in Chicago and rarely go back to small-town Wisconsin. I’ll never be close with any of them. We have nothing in common. This is only night one of an extended visit, though, so it’s too early to tell them all to shut the fuck up—yet.

I grip the wheel of my hybrid, needing to focus on the road.

Deer could dart out, but I can’t stop replaying every ignorant comment.

My brights cut through the darkness, and in the distance, I spot the glow of Crimson Inn.

It’s a seedy dive bar with a few rooms I’ve driven past countless times but never dared to enter.

Tonight, though … Fuck it. It’s the closest place to get a drink, and I need to calm down.

I laugh bitterly, imagining how out of place my tacky Christmas sweater will look in a place with a reputation for outlaws.

I park, and a text buzzes through on my phone.

It’s my mom, probably trying to guilt me about leaving.

I run my hand through my dirty-blonde hair, considering what to do.

Read it and likely be more triggered, or ignore it?

As I walk toward the bar doors, I decide I’m not reading it.

My teeth chatter and my sweater jingles, reminding me I left without grabbing a coat.

I turn the phone off and tuck it into my purse as I step inside.

The place is surprisingly cozy in a dated sort of way.

It hasn’t seen any renovations since the seventies, but the dark wood and crackling fire give it a warm vibe.

Christmas music drifts in the background.

Red and green lights are strung along the windows and across the bar.

The crowd isn’t as rough as I expected—more like locals avoiding their families, just like me.

I take a deep breath and head into the bar.

“You sure you want to be here?” a deep voice asks as I slide onto a stool. I glance sideways, already bristling at the intrusion, while hooking my purse over the back of the chair.

“Very.”

The man, older, cocks his head and grins. “Very?”

“I need a drink.”

I’m not indulging him further, although my eyes flick over him.

The lines on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes are the only things that keep me from thinking he’s less than forty.

He’s probably in his sixties, but his body defies the number—broad shoulders, no belly, the kind of fitness that says I’ve got time and money to spend on myself.

The sleeve tattoos extending to his hands on both arms fit the outlaw reputation of this place.

The contrast between his thick, white hair and black t-shirt strikes me, and I quickly push away the thought that he’s attractive.

My mental state must be worse than I thought if I’m finding a guy twice my age hot.

He’s older than my stepdad, not far off from my grandpa …

but he looks fucking nothing like either of them.

My mind drifts again, and so do my eyes.

The man nods to the bartender, and an older woman with a kind smile steps over but doesn’t hand me a menu. Okay. It’s not the kind of place to have a cocktail list. I scan the bottles lining the shelves.

“Woodford, heavy ice.”

He chuckles, clearly surprised, taking up the stool next to me before he looks down at my sweater. “The tinsel fooled me.”

“Not tonight, Santa. I’ve had a fucking day.”

He laughs, deep and rich, and despite myself, I smile. “Let me buy this drink so no one bothers you,” he offers.

“Does no one include you?”

He shakes his head but raises his glass to mine. “I’ll leave,” he says, leaning in just enough to murmur, “I’m the scariest one here anyway.”

A shiver runs down my spine. I’m too rattled—or maybe too curious—to dismiss it outright. My body is intrigued, that’s for sure, a smirk growing on my face and my heartbeat escalating.

“Why’s that?” I ask after he takes a few steps away.

“Don’t you know curiosity killed the cat?”

“Good thing I have nine lives.” I take my first sip, the burn from the whiskey warming me.

“How many have you used so far?” he asks, sliding back onto the stool.

“At least a couple.”

He studies me, his eyes light blue, icy like a Siberian husky. “That’s a lot for someone barely legal.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not that young, and we don’t joke about jailbait anymore, Santa. It’s weird to sexualize young girls.”

He smirks. “You’re a full fucking brat, aren’t you?”

“Depends.” I giggle with a shrug.

His eyes rake over me again, this time slower. “You’re twenty-five?”

“Twenty-nine. The Botox is throwing you off.”

“Why are you doing that shit?” he asks, almost scolding.

“To fool random men at the bar into thinking I’m twenty-five.”

He leans in, resting his head on a fist. “Are you an asshole, or are you flirting with me?”

I bite my lip, letting the tension stretch. He smells really good—not like cologne or like he just showered. No, it’s just … man. I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe it’s pheromones.

“Both.”

“Good.” He raises his glass, and I tap mine to his.

I laugh softly. I’m flirting with a much older man—and it’s fun. Thirteen years was my previous record. He’s definitely older than forty-two. One night with Santa. I don’t hate the idea.

“Should you really be drinking ahead of your marathon gift-giving session?” I ask, leaning into the persona I’m building for him.

“I’m retired.”

“The kids are going to be pissed.”

“The spoiled shits will manage.”

We hold eye contact—this guy smiles, and the bar’s chatter fades into the background as I feel the heat of his gaze intensify. It’s magnetic and … thrilling.

“You’re trouble,” he says finally.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Yet.” The single word is heavy with intent.

I glance at my drink, weighing my options. A smart woman would finish this whiskey and leave. Tonight, though, smart feels overrated. The thought of going home … terrible. Santa’s lips part like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.

“What?” I ask, too curious.

“I’m deciding what I’m going to do with you.”

“Hopefully it’s not murder.”

“Tinsel,” he growls, staring at me deeply before eyeing my drink.

“Tinsel,” I mock.

“What do you want to happen here?”

“Nothing,” I sass.

“Liar.”

I wish my cheeks didn’t fucking betray me, but they’re flushing red. He’s right. “You think I want to sleep with an old man?”

“I think you don’t want to think anymore.” He eyes my empty drink. “Do you want another one?”

“I thought I wasn’t thinking anymore.”

He nods at the bartender, and she pours us another round. Whiskey for me, vodka for him.

“Hardcore,” I mock, seeing he’s drinking straight vodka.

“I’m not one for frills.” He pulls at an ornament on my sweater. The top of his hand is tattooed, a crown with stars.

Bad Santa. I giggle to myself, raising my drink to my lips.

Examining him, I consider my options. If I don’t go home tonight, that would start a next-level ordeal. My mom will scream at me in the morning. I shouldn’t fuck some random guy to regain a sense of control. I shouldn’t lean into the bad habit.

Fuck it.

“Why are you the scariest one here?” I ask.

“You care?”

“No.”

He chuckles, looking at his hands before really staring at me. It’s like he’s studying me, his gaze shifting from one of my eyes to the other. “Want me to kill him?” he asks, then takes a sip.

Him?

“Him who?”

“The guy who put you in this mood.”

“It’s not a guy. It’s my family.”

My mind flashes to my stepbrother Evan ranting about how his taxes are wasted on people leeching off the system.

I rolled my eyes—because I pay more in taxes than him and his brother combined.

I stayed silent, sipping my water, because it would have done nothing to say corporations, not people, are the real leeches.

“Family,” he groans. “The worst.”

“Right?”

Like my stepbrother Jason insisting me having roommates is the same as him living in my mom’s house. I have a roommate by choice. I can afford a place on my own. He can’t.

“So, no guy?” he asks, and I catch the hope in the question.

“No Mrs. Claus?” I counter.

“Been there, done that.”

We share a knowing chuckle, and the air between us shifts—less sharp, more familiar. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone home from the bar with a guy I barely know. At least I’m not drunk.

“Are your kids older than me?” I ask, testing the waters, assuming a guy his age has kids.

“Yes.”

Alone at the bar on Christmas Eve … I don’t need to know why. “Isn’t it weird you want to sleep with me then?”

He leans in, brushing his lips against my ear, his voice low and deliberate. “I don’t want to sleep with you. I want to fuck your bratty ass.”

“Anal. Bold,” I deadpan, masking my shock.

He chuckles, his hand giving my thigh a quick squeeze over my jeans before resting there. “You are something else.”

“I get that a lot.” I sip my drink.

“I’m sure guys your age don’t know how to handle you.”

I shrug. “Nope.”

His eyes slowly rake over me again. “Do you want to be handled?”

I hum, considering the vibes he’s throwing around. Alpha. Masculine. The kind of guy who looks like he fucks even at his age. “I think it would be really funny to bring you to Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

His hand lifts from my thigh and grazes my hair, pushing it behind my shoulder. “You’re asking me out on a date?” He sounds amused at the notion.

I check him out again. Bringing a random man to Christmas dinner might be absurd, but it’s not any more absurd than my family’s beliefs. The thought makes me smirk.

“Don’t tempt me, brat,” he says into the silence.

“Like you would go through with it …”

“Depends on how tight that pussy is.”

“Santa!” I breathe, my eyes widening at his boldness.

He shrugs, cocky.

“I’m not going home with you,” I say, though the words feel hollow even as I utter them.

“Too bad,” he says, squeezing my thigh again.

I should swat his hand away. He’s too comfortable. No. I’m too comfortable with him.