Chapter 6
Carol
The storm broke sometime before dawn.
When I wake for the second time, the world is pale and too quiet.
The power’s off again, so the room is cold enough to turn my breath to ghostly puffs.
Here I am in nothing but a sweater and panties.
Humbug’s side of the bed is empty although I crawled back in the bed and fell asleep, letting him spoon behind me.
For a second, I lie there, pretending the hollow in the mattress is still warm, pretending I’m not the kind of woman who sleeps with another woman’s husband in the middle of a blizzard. However, the scent of smoke and leather still clings to the sheets and pretending gets harder by the heartbeat.
Jolting out of the bed like it’s on fire, I pull on my skirt and my red coat. I step into the clubhouse hall. It’s quiet except for the slow tick of cooling pipes. A couple of the Executioners are sprawled on couches, dead asleep. I move soft, ghosting past, boots in my hand.
There’s no sign of the biker who rocked my world last night. And I notice there’s no note from Humbug. No goodbye. Maybe that’s mercy. Maybe he couldn’t look at me, either. He didn’t even give me his number. No matter. I wouldn’t have taken it.
The front door sticks, like it’s frozen, then gives with a groan. Outside, the snow is knee-deep and glittering, the kind of beauty that hides what it’s burying.
I step into my boots. The walk home takes forever. I keep seeing the biker’s eyes in the dark, hearing his voice when he groaned my name like it was the first good word he’d ever learned. By the time I reach my building, my legs are numb, my conscience louder than the crunch under my feet.
Seeing Blake’s car parked outside, free of snow, I let myself in quietly. He’s at the counter in a suit, coffee mug in one hand. The apartment smells like his coffee, bitter, brewed way too strong for my taste.
“Carol,” he says, relief breaking his face into something almost kind. “You’re safe. Thank God.”
“Yeah.” I hang my coat on the peg, fingers shaking. “You heard?”
“Whole town’s talking. Robbery at Sno-Globes. Some biker stepped in.”
My pulse skips. “Yeah. It was bad.”
“You should’ve called me.”
“I didn’t want you driving in that storm.”
“I didn’t. I just got here.” He crosses the room and pulls me into a hug that feels like an obligation. “I was worried sick.”
I let him hold me, stiff and awkward. His arms are clean, his shirt smells like laundry detergent and starch.
“I’m sorry about the other night,” he murmurs into my hair. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I just… Christmas gets to me. The pressure, you know?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
He leans back to look at me, eyes all soft. “Where the hell have you been all night? You stink. Have you been smoking?”
If only smoke was all I had on me.
I weigh telling him the truth. That I was in a biker’s bed, doing much worse. Nah. “Police station,” I lie.
Crinkling his nose, he buys it. “We’ll start fresh. Tonight, dinner at my parents. You love their ham.”
“I do.” I don’t. Maybe I am a liar. Since I’m a cheater, I add it to the list.
“Merry Christmas, Carol baby.” He kisses my forehead, same spot as always. I close my eyes, but the wrong mouth flashes behind them, rougher, hungrier, real as I think of Humbug.
Blake lets go, and I slip away to the shower. The water’s hot, punishing. I scrub my skin until it stings, but nothing washes off. Not the scent, not the memory of that big biker between my thighs.
Every time I blink, I’m back in that dark room. The scrape of Humbug’s beard against my neck. The growl the biker made when I whispered his name. The way his breath hitched as he touched me, like he’d just been handed something holy and didn’t know how to hold it.
Guilt is supposed to feel heavy. This seems electric. Still wrong. Remorse that sparkles.
I brace my hands against the tile and let the water beat against the back of my head until my legs shake. I want to cry, but tears would mean admitting it meant something, and I don’t know what’s worse, that it did, or that I want it to.
And I long to do it again so bad, I detach the handheld shower head and direct the spray at my clit.
Damn, just the memory of that biker’s cock is enough. Panting, I lean against the slick wall of the shower and thumb the spray to jet. I use the water pressure’s friction until I moan out, “Humbug.”
Once I recover, I scrub even harder.
The water is off now, and the world seems almost blinding. Wrapping myself in a towel, I gaze at my reflection. My lips are puffy after all the kissing from last night. The tears I won't cry make my eyes red, and I hope concealer hides the love mark on my collarbone.
I touch it, just once. Ouch. A memory.
A warning.
I hear a motorcycle rumble and jump. I go straight to the window. But no one is there.
Out in the living room, Blake hums along to a Christmas playlist. That’s not like him. He’s really laying it on thick.
“You okay?” he calls.
“Fine!” I lie, louder than I mean to.
I get dressed, go through the motions, my morning cocoa, mascara, and small talk. Blake is trying. He always tries, in the way safe men do predictably, politely, until you forget what wanting dick feels like.
He steps behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and I flinch before I can stop it.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I spin in his arms. “Nothing. Still shaken from last night.”
“Of course.” He kisses the top of my head. For once, I’m happy he rarely kisses my lips.
“Shaken not stirred,” I joke. Bartender humor that Blake doesn’t respond to. “I’ll be okay.”
“You’re strong, Carol. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
Strong. Yeah, I’m so strong he didn’t think about coming over last night when he heard about the robbery.
I nod, smile the smile he needs, but inside I’m somewhere else entirely, on that biker’s bed in the dark, wrapped in a man who saved me and shouldn’t have touched me, listening to the storm breathe around us while the rest of the world fucking disappeared.
By the time we reach Pine City, the streets still glitter with the aftershock of last night’s storm. This time of year, everywhere looks like Evervale. Every tree downtown is wrapped in white lights, every lamppost draped with ribbons. It should feel magical. It doesn’t.
I’m still thinking about last night. Humbug’s tongue inside me.
Now I’m in Blake’s car, sitting straight-backed while he talks about stocks and family expectations like we didn’t break up three times over those same things.
“Mom’s excited you can make it this year,” he says, glancing at me like I’m a child who might misbehave.
“I’m excited too,” I lie.
The truth sits heavy under my ribs. I haven’t stopped thinking about another man’s hands gripping my ass.
The Bentleys live in an oversized townhouse that looks like it was made ready for magazine covers with white lights, evergreen garlands, candles in all the windows, not a single thing out of place. Blake’s mother answers the door in pearls and nude lipstick, smelling like Chanel and judgment.
“Carol, darling!” she trills. “We were worried the snow would trap you in… what’s that little town called again?”
She knows damn well what it’s called. “Evervale,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Right. The Christmas place.” She gives a tinkling laugh. “It’s so quaint.”
I step inside. The house is warm, the kind of warmth that makes you want to wipe your feet twice and lower your voice.
The twins are already there. Brittany and Blair, identical smiles, identical diamonds flashing on their left hands. Sleek hair, neutral sweaters, and the air of people who never have to clock in anywhere.
“Carol!” Brittany says, air-kissing me on both cheeks. “Still tending bar in that snow globe?”
“Sno-Globes,” I say, thankful they pretend they don’t know about the real boob related theme. “Still.”
Blair smirks. “Must be… festive.”
“Festive pays the bills.”
Blake clears his throat. “Carol likes Evervale. She grew up there.”
The sisters exchange a look, one of those wordless twin conversations that always ends in someone else’s discomfort.
“Yeah, Sno-Globes gave my single mom a job when other places wouldn’t.”
No one comments on that.
Dinner is ready, a long table heavy with prime rib, lobster and sides that look too perfect to eat. And a small country ham made just for me. Blake’s mom thinks since I don’t come from money, that’s what I must like. Or maybe it’s because I told her I was allergic to shellfish.
Staring at my hands, I realize I’m being too harsh. It’s super sweet Blake’s mother cares about me, makes something special for me. I’m just being a grump.
It’s like Humbug rubbed off on me. Hell, the biker rubbed all over me and inside of me. I fight a blush rushing up to my cheeks just thinking of it.
The men talk about markets and mergers. The women talk about wedding venues and how hard it is to find reliable nannies these days. I keep my hands folded in my lap, nodding in all the right places.
One of the fiancés, a guy named Grant who sells real estate, leans back in his chair. “So, Carol, you really work in that little Christmas town? Must be a cute gig.”
“Cute’s one word for it,” I say, smiling politely.
“Oh, come on,” Blair says, swirling her wine. “People actually go there year round? I heard they have, like, a reindeer parade and fake snow cannons.”
“It’s real snow,” I say. “And folks love it. Makes them happy.”
“Adorable,” Brittany adds, voice dripping honey. “But don’t you ever want… more?”
I feel Blake’s hand find mine under the table, squeezing just enough to say please don’t start.
“More than being happy?” I ask. “More than Christmas every single day?”
Blair’s fiancé chuckles. “She’s got you there.”
Brittany isn’t finished. “I’m just saying. Evervale’s a destination. All the jobs are menial. Don’t you want to retire someday?”
“I could die tomorrow,” I say. “Why not celebrate the best day of the year every day?”
They stare like I’m a broken record.