Sleighing the Motorcycle Man (25 Days of Christmas: Bikers & Mobsters)

Chapter 1

Carol

Evervale sparkles like it’s been dipped in glitter.

The whole town is a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking, white fairy lights strung from lamppost to lamppost, red velvet bows pinned on everything from doors to fire hydrants, and a towering spruce in the square so loaded with oversized ornaments it looks like it might tip and crush a tourist.

People come to Evervale year-round for a curated Christmas. They book cozy cabins with hot tubs and spend too much on cocoa flights, then post about it with captions like “blessed” and “cozy vibes.”

I used to eat that up.

Still do, mostly.

Blake picks a fight before dinner. Of course he does. That’s his superpower, finding the weak spot in a perfect day and digging his clean, manicured thumb into it.

“We agreed,” he says, leaning on my tiny kitchen island, jacket hung just so on the chair, tie still knotted even off duty. “No pressure about timelines. You promised, Carol.”

“Promised I’d turn my uterus into a calendar?” I laugh, but it sounds thin. “I just asked if you wanted to do the carriage ride after the tree lighting, like last year.”

He smiles like he’s a teacher and I’m slow. “You mean the carriage where couples get engaged for the photo op?”

“I didn’t say that,” I say, though I did.

“You don’t need a ring to feel secure,” he says. “You just need to trust me.”

In the mirror, I stare at the plain gold chain around my neck. I bought it for myself. The peppermint candle on the counter crackles like it’s taking sides.

“I do,” I lie. “I just...”

“You just what?” Blake’s patient. Clinical. The kind of man who’ll one day tell me we should take a break like I’m a quarterly report that missed projections.

“I just want to feel like you’re choosing me,” I say. “Like this is going somewhere.”

“It is,” he says, and kisses my forehead like he’s the dad in a Hallmark movie. “We’ll have a nice Christmas. No drama. But I do have to work tomorrow.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“Yeah, Carol. Some of us live in the real world.”

Then he complains about my late shifts, the cash tips. The way I keep humming, “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”

Hell, what else would I hum?

Unlike him, I work in this small town where every day is Christmas.

He leaves for the city with that tidy, frustrated sigh, promising to call later. I mope at the window watching the taillights of his fancy car bleed into the snowy street, feeling ridiculous for wanting a thing I can’t say out loud without sounding like a cliché.

Forever.

I want forever, and maybe I want it now, on Christmas, the real Christmas. It shouldn’t be the kind of sin that gets me judged.

The phone rings before I can start crying. It’s Sugar Plum from Sno-Globes.

“You wanna grab the holiday shift?” she asks, voice smoking as much as she does. “Ginger Snap called in sick.”

“On Christmas Eve?” I say. “That’s sacrilegious.”

Sugar Plum snorts. “Every day is Christmas Eve around here.”

“Some of us live in the real world, Sugar,” I say, sounding as grumpy as Blake. “What if I have plans?”

“I forget you have that guy from the city. Boyfriend or something more?”

I ignore her question. “What if my mom were visiting?”

“Is she?”

“No, she was here in July. But I put in my time off months ago.”

“Tell it to Ginger’s hangover. Come on, Carol. Double pay and tourists with fat wallets. Wear the green sweater.”

I look at my reflection. Dark hair, red lips, hopeful brown eyes I hate. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Christmas Eve, on my way to work, I hum along with the choir when I pass the square and smell cinnamon on the air like the whole town is baking.

But after last night, it all grates on my nerves.

Tonight, I feel like the figurine trapped inside the snow globe, cute but stuck, just smiling while some giant hand shakes me until I’m dizzy.

Maybe Evervale glitters like it’s trying to distract us from how lonely Christmas really is.

Sno-Globes sits off the square, close enough to hear the bells, far enough that locals pretend it’s not part of the tourist trap.

But it is. The sign’s a wooden board, carved with a busty reindeer with a wink.

We have those inflatable igloos for folks to sit outside and freeze their asses off, because in Evervale we commit to the bit.

Inside, we’re not just a regular bar Christmas threw up on.

Sno-Globes is far from regular. Name doesn’t just refer to the outdoor festive seating. It’s a double entendre. And the reason our sweaters dip lower than they should.

I step inside, and the familiar blast of warmth hitting me brightens my bad mood. It’s not the only thing. The aroma of spilled beer, pine cleaner, and the sticky-sweet peppermint we use in everything from martinis to sweet pretzel bites fills my senses.

I love it. The peppermint, that is.

The bar’s already packed, bodies shedding snow-covered coats while the speakers boom some old crooner promising a blue Christmas without you. Inside Sno-Globes, Christmas is overflowing, and my cheer instantly grows.

Gliding off my red coat, the room immediately gets much colder.

Thankfully, I’m not working the patio. I slide behind the bar and tie on my candy-cane striped apron.

My green elf sweater’s snug and low across my chest, the hem flirting with the black skirt I wore in the faint hope Blake might be inspired.

Instead, I’m pouring joy for strangers. Maybe that’s better.

Joy’s easier when it’s measured in ounces.

“Barmaid!” A tourist in a Fair Isle sweater waves like he’s hailing a rescue helicopter. “Three cocoa bombs, please.”

“Our famous flight? You got it,” I say, smiling like it’s my job because, well, it is.

Leaning over, I drop spheres of chocolate shaped like boobs into mugs and drown them in hot milk. They bloom into a yummy mix of sugar, marshmallows bobbing up like survivors.

“God bless you,” the tourist says, already filming for the ’gram.

Way overqualified to work here, I don’t have to worry about them getting my face in the picture.

“Merry Christmas,” I say and ring him up.

For a while it’s just hustle. I slide beers, shake candy-cane martinis, rim glasses with crushed peppermint that gets everywhere. The regulars nod. The strangers stare. My tip jar fattens, and my Christmas cheer stitches itself back together in small, sticky ways.

I’m good at this, reading moods, mixing medicine disguised as martinis, being the big-boobed big-smiled bartender trying to make a living, promising nothing and giving a little relief anyway. I can pretend I’m fine while I hand someone something that makes them think they are too.

Then he walks in, and the temperature drops a million degrees.

The biker eats the doorway, huge shoulders, leather jacket with the bottom edge dusted in snow.

His hair’s grown in rough, shot through with gray that looks like it earned its place.

Don’t forget that kind of face because it’s broken in interesting ways and healed harder.

He takes off his gloves slowly, like every finger matters.

Guy doesn’t look like he’s celebrating Christmas.

He looks at the bar like it owes him money.

Biker takes the stool at the corner like he’s claiming territory. He doesn’t look at the twinkle lights strung along the ceiling, or the garland wrapped around the beer taps. Biker just scowls at it like Christmas personally insulted him.

I wipe down the counter in front of him. “Let me guess. Whiskey, neat.”

He looks up, eyes a dangerous shade between gray and storm cloud. “You psychic or just good at readin’ bad moods?”

“Bit of both.” I pour the shot. “You the kind of man who bites the head off gingerbread men for sport?”

He huffs, not quite a laugh. “Don’t do Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, I gathered.” I beam as the music changes. “Most people smile when ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ comes on. You look like you wanna strangle the radio.”

“Can’t strangle what’s already dead,” he mutters, tossing back the whiskey. “That song’s been causing headaches since before I could ride.”

“Grinch much?” I tease.

He tips the glass toward me. “That one’s taken. I’m worse.”

“Oh yeah? What’s worse than a Grinch?”

He shrugs, eyes glittering. “Call me Humbug.”

I lean on the counter, chin resting on my palm. “That your road name or just your general personality?”

“Both.”

“Figures.” I grin. “Well, Humbug, you’re in Evervale now. We take Christmas seriously. Like, it’s basically a religion. You might wanna hide before the carolers come for you.”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “They try singin’ at me, I’ll have ’em slayed before the first verse.”

I snort, almost dropping the rag. “Sleighed? Did you just make a Christmas pun?”

His brow furrows. “No. I said...”

“You said ‘sleighed.’ Like Santa. On his sleigh. Evervale has officially corrupted you.”

He shakes his head, eyes narrowing but not mean. “You twist words worse than a preacher.”

“That’s bartender training. Comes with the candy-striped apron.”

“I meant slayed as in killin’ ‘em. Though I can think of some much better uses of your pun.”

“Let me have them, Humbug.”

“A sleigh is something you ride… You wanna ride my sleigh, sweetheart? Wanna go sleighing with me after you get off? I’ll sleigh you, alright. We’ll be sleighing all damn night. I’ll show you my big sleigh. Send you a sleigh pic later.” He throws a wink.

I throw my towel at his face.

He nearly sputters a laugh as he tosses his drink back. “Get your mind outta the gutter. Meant my Harley.”

“Sure.”

He slides the empty glass toward me. “Pour me another. Maybe it’ll drown the holly jolly.”

I refill it, grinning. “You sure you don’t wanna try our seasonal cocktail? Comes with a candy cane and a cinnamon stick.”

“I’d rather drink motor oil.”

“Suit yourself.”

He drinks, slower this time, watching me like he’s still trying to figure out why I haven’t backed away yet. Maybe he’s used to people doing that, reading danger and leaving it alone. But I’ve met enough rough types to know when the danger’s tired more than cruel.

“So,” I say, wiping the counter again though it’s spotless. “If you hate Christmas so much, what’re you doin’ in the most festive town in the US?”

“Work,” he says. “My club’s got business nearby.”

“Club as in...?”

He shrugs off his jacket and glances down at his leather cut underneath, Evervale Executioners MC stitched in red and green. “That kinda club.”

“Oh.” The name hums through me, half fear, half thrill. Shit. He’s from the local motorcycle club here, and I’ve been making a fool of myself telling him everything about Evervale he already knows.

“Well,” I say, leaning in a little. “You picked the wrong bar to sulk in. At Sno-Globes, we’re all merry.”

His gaze slides down my face to my cleavage, then back to my eyes. “I can see why.”

I straighten quick, not that I can hide anything in this sweater.

“You always this chipper or is that just the holiday high?” he asks, scowling.

“Christmas is my season,” I say, shrugging. “Some people tan, I twinkle.”

He laughs then, quiet but real, and it hits me low in the stomach. His frown returns quick. “You’re trouble, bartender.”

“Only for the ones who don’t believe in Christmas magic.”

He shakes his head, finishing his drink. “Magic’s for kids.”

“Or old men who’ve forgotten what it feels like.”

That earns me a look, half-wounded, half-hungry. For a second, I swear the whole room tilts.

He drops a few crumpled bills on the counter. “Keep the change, Carol.”

I freeze. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

He taps the name tag pinned crooked on my chest. “You did.”

“Oh. Well, it says Caroler. We all use nicknames here.”

“So, I guessed right?” His smirk deepens. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I ain’t the type to remember names, but the women who try to sleigh me I ain’t gonna forget.”