CHAPTER SEVEN WHACK-AN-ELF
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHACK-AN-ELF
LUNA
“There you… What the hell happened to your face?”
At my dad’s greeting the moment I stepped into his living room, I lifted the bag I held away. “If you’re going to be rude, I’m keeping these lemon cookies to myself.”
His concern was still evident, but so was his sweet tooth. “Homemade?”
“Yes. By the most skilled elves in the finest tree bakery.”
I should’ve known the store-bought, processed crap wasn’t going to offer the diversion I wanted, but I’d run out of time to get anything better.
Prepping to go undercover was a shit-ton of work to do in a couple days’ time. For each detail I settled, four more seemed to pop up like an unending game of Whack-a-Mole.
Even though Rhys eventually agreed to let me go undercover at Rye, he’d raised the valid point during his phone call with the captain.
Having me stay with him would create enough questions and skepticism to sink the whole thing before it even began.
Fortunately, the townhouse two doors down from him was empty.
Or it had been before the department commandeered it by paying cash on my behalf for a speedy rental.
The plan was for me to start off there and then switch it up once we figured out the best way to play my sudden inclusion in Rhys’s life.
I’d never been undercover before, so not having a more set plan added another layer of stress to the unknown.
But even if it was carefully laid out to the last tiny detail, things could—and often did—change on a dime.
Especially when my protectee might be a suspect instead.
When I left my dad’s, I would pick up my loaner car before going to my home sweet temporary home.
Before then, though, I wanted to soak in a little family time because once I went under, I wouldn’t be able to visit them until I was done.
Not seeing my brothers?
No biggie. I was used to that.
But not seeing my nieces and nephews—including my furry one?
My heart broke.
“I bet someone else would love these cookies,” I said loud enough to trigger an immediate stampede.
Or at least the rush of running feet and a protective companion.
My fourteen-year-old nephew reached me first, his dark eyes lit with the glee of a bottomless pit promised sustenance.
“Who’re you?” I asked just as his twelve-year-old sister slid to a stop next to him.
Goose—who was a dog, not a waterfowl—waited to be sure they were both settled before sitting right between them.
My heart cracked a little more when I realized that was the end of the stampede.
I looked down to where my dad sat in his chair, and he gave a quick headshake.
Dammit.
I masked my disappointment as my gaze darted between the siblings. “Who are either of you?”
Logan put all his teenage dramatics into an exasperated eye roll. “Aunt Lo.”
“I’m sorry, who? Who is that?” I looked behind me before whipping back around with a confused expression. “Now I don’t know who you are or who I am.”
“Don’t you know?” My brother Turner entered the room and looked at his kids—the human ones, the furry one belonged to someone else. “Teenagers are too cool to say auntie. I usually get bruh, so consider yourself lucky.”
“What’s wrong with auntie?” I asked, outraged at this turn of events.
“It makes me sound like a baby.” Logan gestured to himself. “I’m like a whole foot taller than you.”
He wasn’t. It was more like a third of a foot. But I still resented him pointing that out.
I scowled before looking at my niece Cora. “Who am I?”
“Auntie Lo,” she said.
“And how tall am I?”
“Uh, very?” she guessed.
It was the right answer.
Reaching into the grocery bag, I grabbed a package of cookies and handed her the whole thing.
“Hey,” Logan objected.
At the same time, their father snatched the gifted sweets right back. “After dinner.”
“Speaking of…” I took a few steps with my nose in the air. Once Logan and Cora were behind me, I handed off the stocked bag to them while I kept my brother distracted. “Who had dinner duty?”
“Don’t start with me,” Turner grumbled.
“It’s not my fault you can only cook spaghetti or chili. Is it a firefighter thing?”
“Keep it up, and I’m going to grab the measuring tape so we can see how much taller Logan is.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” my nephew said, spraying crumbs from his full mouth.
Turner’s lip curled in disgust before his eyes narrowed. “Where’d they get those cookies?”
“Huh. Weird. Must be the elves,” I muttered. “Anywho, which is it? Spaghetti or chili?”
“Neither.”
“Both,” Dad corrected, his own hands filled with pilfered lemon cookies. The powdered sugar in his gray beard showed he’d already eaten at least one. “Chili mac.”
“Same meal, different fonts,” I sighed.
“Go wash up,” Turner told his kids, confiscating the cookies before they trudged away.
Goose didn’t follow after. He kept his stoic doggy gaze locked on his target.
The discarded shopping bag.
“So what’s up with your face?” my brother asked when the coast was clear.
“What’s up with yours?” I shot back. “Fall from the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down?”
“Luna Oscar,” my dad warned, like he was about to ground me. I nearly moved toward my childhood bedroom from muscle memory alone.
I’d spent a lot of time grounded.
I pretended to check a watch I wasn’t wearing. “Isn’t it time to eat?”
“We’ve been waiting on you,” Turner said. “Why did you message to be sure everyone would be here if you were going to be late?”
“It’s an hour drive. And I had to stop for—I mean, bake those cookies.” It wasn’t a lie. Well, the baking part was a joke, but I had stopped. I’d also driven back roads with a lot of misdirection in case anyone was trying to follow me.
It would suck to blow my cover before it started.
It would suck far worse to bring danger to my family’s doorstep.
I came from a long line of law enforcement officers.
Uncles. Cousins. Grandfathers on both sides.
My dad was a retired lieutenant. My oldest brother, Grayson, was a fancy-pants FBI agent in Hawaii—the lucky jerk.
Silas was a detective in Worcester. Maverick also worked there as a K9 officer, though I stood by the fact that Goose did all the work.
Turner, in typical middle-child fashion, had to be different by being a firefighter.
But even with all their experience and first-hand knowledge, I knew better than to tell them about the near miss right before announcing I would be undercover. They would spend the whole time worried.
So I reverted to jokes. “Stripper heel. Such is life for a member of The Mod Squad.”
Turner must’ve channeled Logan’s teenage dramatics because he gave an exaggerated eye roll before leaving the room.
Picking up the shopping bag, I paused to look inside as I waited for my dad to stand without making it obvious I was hovering. My body tensed when he stumbled a bit, but he found his footing without needing the assist.
“I know what you’re doing,” he grumbled, more winded from the effort than he should’ve been.
“I’m just making sure those little Hoover vacuums didn’t eat everything.”
He gave another grumble as he looked at my scraped forehead with its technicolor bruising. Since his concern wasn’t getting him answers, he switched to his cop-face and stared me down.
“Bar fight,” I said since that wasn’t a lie. Not a total one, at least.
“Breaking one up or starting one?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
When we reached the kitchen, Turner and his wife, Maggie, were putting the finishing touches on dinner. Silas and Mav were in their way as they heatedly debated… something. Everything. Anything. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen them have a conversation that didn’t end in a dispute.
They looked over at my approach.
Silas gestured to his own forehead. “Did you want us all here so you could announce you finally got that lobotomy?”
“Exactly.” I spread my hands about six inches apart. “I had them remove a big chunk because I wanted to see what it would be like to have your IQ, Three-tries.”
My family might’ve been big and bad, but I wasn’t exactly a slouch. I’d made detective younger than any of them—my dad, uncles, and cousins included. More than that, I’d done it on my first attempt. It’d taken Silas three tries.
Hence the nickname.
His face fell quicker than Lincoln Logs in an earthquake.
Dad chuckled. “You rolled out the red carpet for that one.”
I expected Mav to jump in. He might not have been able to use the nickname since he wasn’t a detective, but he rarely missed the opportunity to rag on Silas.
Instead, his focus was on the dog glued to my side. “Did you bring contraband into this house?”
“Who me? No. Never.”
“Then why is my dog over there?”
“I’ve got a pocket full of weed,” I lied.
Mav tried his own version of a cop-face.
It was less effective, but he still wasn’t dropping it.
I placed my free hand under my chin, the picture of innocence. “Maybe he prefers my sparkling personality.”
Goose’s tail wagged, likely in anticipation of the contraband I very much held.
But I used it as proof. “See? He knows Auntie Lo is the best.”
Unsurprisingly, Mav wasn’t buying it. “He’s on a specific diet.”
“I know. And since he’s carrying the partnership, I wouldn’t sabotage that.” I pulled out the specialty treats. “These babies were more expensive than the cookies meant for human consumption.”
As dishes were carried to the dining room, I turned away and snuck one of the fancy doggy snacks to my buddy. When I spun back, I expected Mav’s disapproving glare.
But it was Silas hanging back. “Sorry Addy couldn’t come.”
I didn’t bother to say it was okay because we both knew it wasn’t. Giving her structure by sticking to the strict custody arrangement was probably the best thing for his four-year-old daughter, but it didn’t change the truth. “I miss that kid.”
“You and me both. Next time.”
We tried to get together for family dinner once a month, but with the nature of our jobs, it didn’t always work out. We settled for making sure someone was popping in to check on Dad.