Mountain Man Santa (Naughty and Spice)

Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

JERRY

Y ou’re mine, whether you like it or not . What the fuck is that supposed to mean? It wouldn’t be the first time my mouth got me in trouble. Opening the door to the dining room, I exclaim in my deepest tones, “Ho ho ho!”

Instead of being greeted by cheery children’s faces bright-eyed with wonder, nervous looks from parents buttoning up coats overwhelm me. My hands fall to my sides, and I feel defeated. Between my mom’s harassing phone call, my interview with Stacey’s brothers, and now this snowstorm, life has finally ground me the fuck down.

I wanted this night to be special for the kids. And despite the stupid costume and the even stupider apron, I came so close. But then one of Hollister’s notorious blizzards had to kick in.

Dammit! Sometimes, I hate living in this mile-high cow town. It’s not like New York doesn’t get its fair share of snow, but I’m pissed off and need a geographical location to blame. Hollister, it is.

A couple of parents step forward, frowns on their faces. “We’re sorry, Jerry…er, Santa. But the weather’s getting terrible. If we don’t leave now, we might get stuck here.”

I nod, trying to act cheery. “Understood. Please take whatever you can food-wise, and every child gets a gift from under the tree on their way out.” The three new high school employees stand by the packages in red and green, handing out surprises. I survey the room, disappointed by the families shuffling out and the kids looking heartbroken.

Roxy and Delilah dive into grabbing to-go boxes and filling them with cookies, pastries, and other holiday fare to pass out to families heading out.

“Bye, Santa,” one little girl exclaims. Then, another and another. Soon, all the kids join in, an adorable chorus of high-pitched cries. I guess I underestimated how much I enjoy this event and seeing the children’s faces light up. Christmas won’t be the same. I do my best Santa impression, deep-voiced and merry, until frowns turn into grins, and the remaining kids leave with smiles plastered on their faces.

Jack, one of Lily’s younger siblings, who she raises full-time with her husband, Turner, grabs my hand. A quiet little boy of no more than six or seven with a messy shock of scarlet hair and penetrating blue eyes, he whispers, “Santa Jerry, are you taking requests?”

His timid voice and wide eyes warm my heart. Squatting down, I hear a sickening ripping sound before I catch myself. Stacey’s warning has become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Walking awkwardly in reverse until my back leans against the dining room wall, I pull the little boy along with me. Finally, leaning against the hard surface and trying not to look and feel like a total dweeb, I ask, “And what’s that, kid?”

“Can you tell the real Santa to throw in some extra Pokemon cards this year? I’ve been pretty good except for the whole burning down the house thing.” Lily’s five younger siblings were orphaned when their parents died in a car accident. Once she took over caring for them, the mischievous kids got into a world of trouble, including nearly incinerating their family cabin.

Despite the seriousness of the fire, Jack’s confession makes me chuckle, and I feel a little less like a spectacular failure about the messed up evening. Any reasonable person would recognize the weather’s outside of my control. If a kid can ask to be forgiven for a house fire, I can let go of feeling like a putz over an act of God.

But I’ve worked in kitchens since I was a pre-teen, learning everything from my dziadek. These lessons included how to carry the entire burden of the restaurant and make it too fucking personal for the good of my mental health or sanity.

“Alright, Jack, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“Oh, and Santa Jerry…”

“Yeah, kid.”

“Can you make sure Lily and Turner take home extra cookies?”

“Sure thing,” I reply without hesitation. Unwilling to leave the safety of the wall, I order, “Load up on cookies for your little brother, will ya?”

Turner stands next to her, wearing his tan Stetson and winter-weight Carhartt. “The last thing we need is children bouncing off the cabin walls, thanks to a sugar overload.”

Pointing at Jack’s twin sister, Rosie, whose mouth is covered in red, white, and green frosting and sprinkles, I say, “It’s already too late for that. But then, you’re the one who decided to become an instant family man.”

It’s not lost on me how Stacey looks up, eyeing my interaction with the cowboy and custom home builder. Not so long ago, Turner was the kind of guy I thought would never settle down. Now, he’s got the patience of Job, dealing with the constant whirlwind of destruction that is his children. From Jack and Rosie at the youngest end of the spectrum to pre-teens Daisy and Poppy, growing more awkward and morose with each passing day.

“I wouldn’t change it for the world,” Turner replies, winning a happy kiss from his redheaded bride. “Although there are times I miss the orderliness of my former cabin.”

Now, his wife goes from wrapping her arm around his waist to smacking him lightly. He chuckles, “But I’ve got a spitfire to make up for all that. And one of these days, we’ll have a quiet house again.”

“Not until we add a few of our own kids to the mix,” she adds with a smile.

Turner says, “Which would make me the happiest man in the world. Although, at this point, I’ll have to invest in a school bus to transport everyone.”

The servers and a few stragglers in the room, like Hawk, Roxy’s husband, laugh at the observation. Hawk and Turner are foster brothers from the Rough & Ready Ranch. Honestly, I thought more of their foster brothers would be here tonight, but storm warnings have put a real damper on things. The last few families clear out, making the bell on the front door chime as they wave goodbye and thank us for the abbreviated evening.

I relax against the wall, wondering how bad the tear actually is. Fortunately, I wear black boxer briefs, so even a worst-case scenario won’t be obscene. Black briefs don’t exactly fit with the whole Santa schtick, however.

Delilah listens to our conversation quietly without saying much. Finally, she adds, “If all goes well in court, Holden might be celebrating with us next year.”

“I hope he’s out much sooner than that,” I reply.

Tears well in her eyes, and she smiles sadly, going back to packing cookies. About a year ago, she had high hopes that he would get out. He’d accrued plenty of good time credits, and things looked hopeful. But at his parole hearing, an army of his victim’s family members showed up, and denial of his parole became a foregone conclusion yet again.

It’s a strange case with plenty of evidence indicating Holden acted in self-defense. After all, he got jumped from behind by a group of frat boys outside a bar and had the tar beaten out of him before pulling a knife to get the upper hand.

In the process, he stabbed one of his assailants multiple times, snagging his femoral artery. The man bled out and died at the scene before first responders arrived.

But said victim was the son of one of California’s most powerful senators. And the only witnesses to that night’s events were the other frat boys. To top it off, Holden already had a rap sheet filled with minor drug offenses and petty theft. And he fled the scene, failing to call for help. Talk about the perfect storm of bad luck and even worse decision-making.

Glancing out of my peripheral vision at Stacey, I notice how somber her face looks after Delilah’s quiet statement. I’d love to know what the curvy server’s thinking.

When the help for tonight and their families have to-go boxes filled to the brim with holiday treats and their puffy jackets, gloves, scarves, and hats in place, we say our final goodbyes.

Hawk, a Shoshone-Bannock helicopter pilot and team roper, looks at me curiously, asking, “Are you ever gonna come off that wall, man?”

I chuckle. “Probably better for me to hang out right here. I’m experiencing what you’d call a wardrobe malfunction.”

Turner and Hawk laugh. “How so?”

“Well, it’s complicated, so I’ll spare you the details. But Santa tore the seam outta the back of his pants.”

“Seriously?” Lily asks, laughing.

“It’s been a long day, but if that’s the worst of my problems after this sh—” I stop short, remembering the little ears in the room. “After this less-than-stellar day, I guess I’m doing good.”

More laughter makes me begrudgingly smile, but all I can think about now is getting home to my cabin, building a roaring fire, and drowning my sorrows in some bourbon.

“What else do you need us to do?” Delilah asks, staring apprehensively through the vast front restaurant windows at the white curtains of snow shrouding the landscape.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Does everyone feel safe getting home?” I ask, looking around the room.

“Stacey, do you need a ride?” Hawk asks. Although the sunshiny blonde drives a red Touareg fully capable of conquering the snow, she’s never been a big fan of driving in blizzard conditions. Roxy side-eyes her husband with a frown, shaking her head.

“That would be fantastic, actually,” the coppery blonde says, shooting me a look stuck somewhere between worry and longing.

“Nope,” Roxy cuts in, shaking her head. “We can’t give Stacey a ride because…you know, that thing. We have that thing in the truck taking up the whole back seat.”

Hawk’s brows knit. “What in the world—” she smacks his arm, arching her eyebrow. “You know, the thing that means we can’t give Stacey a ride home, so Jerry has to.”

I’m ready for two shots of bourbon at this point. Not only do I have a sassy elf to deal with, but now I’ve got a second meddling one trying to play matchmaker. My Polish babcias, who are both hellbent on marrying off their grandkids to fellow Poles, would be more subtle in their pairing activities, for crying out loud.

“Delilah, you good?” I ask.

The redhead wearing Bohemian clothes and one-of-a-kind jewelry nods confidently, “The Jeep’s got this, but no offense, I better get a move on. Stacey, would you like to go with me?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Stacey’s face grow ambivalent. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was jealous. Over Delilah and me? That makes no sense.

“No, thank you, Delilah. I’ll be fine.”

“Thanks for everything, Dee,” I say, hugging the redheaded hippie without removing my back from the wall. “Drive carefully, and text me when you get home to let me know you’re safe. Oh, and tell Holden I’ll visit the next time I’m out his direction.”

She smiles from ear to ear. “He would like that. Thank you.”

“And this goes without saying, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call or text.”

“Thank you,” she wraps her jacket tightly around herself. Offering help is the least I can do under the circumstances. Even though my friendship with Holden has been limited by his prison time, we exchange occasional letters. And I visit when I can. A natural extension of getting to know him has been promising to keep an eye on his girl. Unlike Aleksy, I’m a man of my word.

Stacey steps forward, her face tight and unreadable, to hug Delilah. “Thank you for your help tonight. It was fun working together.” Her voice strains, and her cheeks flush.

Next, we say goodbye to Roxy, Hawk, Turner, Lily, and their rambunctious crew. By the time the door shuts on the last person, and I lock and turn over the closed sign, my heart pounds so loudly in my chest that I’m sure Stace can hear it. I hold my breath, watching her for a long moment. She bustles around, not making eye contact with me. I guess she’s not the stand-by-me type after all.

I grumble, “I’m going in the back to change.” As I saunter away, her hot eyes bore into my back. Shooting a glance over my shoulder, I catch her checking out my ass.

As a former mixed martial artist, I’m used to having women eye my physique. Just not one I can’t keep my own eyes off in return. Her cheeks burn, and I tease gruffly, “I’m serious about those sexual harassment charges.” Stomping into the kitchen, I cover the distance to my office with a heavy heart.