Chapter 23

Nolan

Finger fucking the woman I’m gonna propose to with the man I’m also gonna propose to in front of the woman I would’ve never proposed to who also hated said man is the type of Tiny Tim Christmas miracle shit I didn’t even know I needed.

Guess you could say this would be a different type of dick ens tale.

Probably a better one, if we’re gonna be honest.

“Come on, Mutt,” Rabbit whines on a dramatic bounce that causes her full tits to delightfully jiggle. “You have to have a cup of hot chocolate with us.” Her irresistible smile somehow gets even more so without permission. “Don’t suddenly turn into The Grinch Who Fucked Up Christmas .”

“I wanted to be The Grinch Who Fucked the Woman He Helped Knocked Up Before Christmas , but noooo ,” I good-naturedly goad. “You two wanted us to ‘save something’ to do at home.”

The Kid lightly chuckles, grabs my hand, and tugs me into the food truck line with them on a flirty, “You need something to keep you warm until I can, Sir.”

Not growling is damn near impossible.

He looks extra fuckable in that sweater.

I know that’s why he wore it.

To…punish me for being on call.

But like I fucking said earlier…building a life is expensive.

And so is having a family.

And getting engagement rings.

And buying that interior design kit for the dad van he doesn’t think I was paying attention to him drooling over during breakfast the other day.

“Fine,” I surrender on a reluctant smirk. “I’ll buy us a round of hot chocolate.”

“ I’ll be buying us a round of hot chocolate,” Rabbit interjects prior to pointing at the menu. “ And jumbo marshmallows, which cost extra.”

“You’re not paying,” The Kid swiftly refuses.

“And what the fuck are jumbo marshmallows?” My eyes narrow during my scanning of the choices. “And why the fuck are there so many flavors?” There’s no stopping my shoulders from dropping in irritation. “Seriously? What the fuck is unicorn hot chocolate?”

“What I will be ordering,” our girlfriend happily sasses while pulling her thick locks into a high bun on the top of her head. “ With jumbo marshmallows. ”

Our gazes instantly lock. “Just to piss me off?”

“Of course,” she snickers, grin growing wider, “it’s the natural order of our existence.”

“And I will be having red velvet,” Kid announces, fingers still connected to mine, despite his eyes glued to our woman tucking her favorite pen into her hair. “No marshmallows, extra cream cheese whip cream.”

“Right,” I sardonically snip, “because marshmallows would make that gross.”

They both snicker at my expense, leaving me no choice but to smile again.

Fuckme.

Can’t help it.

They laugh, and I swear to the big tow truck driver in the sky that my heart really does grow two sizes or whatever.

They smile, and I swear to the same lord of towing that I know exactly what I was put on this earth to fucking do.

How the hell am I gonna handle adding a son into the shit?

What’s gonna happen to me?

Am I gonna randomly just break out into fucking song?

Insist on wearing matching outfits?

Actually drink obnoxiously flavored beverages?

Car gods help me now.

“What do you like to drink in the winter, Mutt?” Rabbit lovingly links her fingers with Kid’s other set as we collectively move forward. “Whiskey? Scotch?”

“ Guinness ,” The Kid and I answer in tandem.

She keeps her snarky smirk. “Should’ve known.”

“Probably,” our boyfriend teases in return. “That’s basic winter Sir shit 1-0-1.”

“So, he doesn’t get seasonal depression ; he gets seasonal obsession ?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t get obsessed,” leaves me less firmly than it should. “I jus’ fuckin’ appreciate the shit, like any normal man would.” An innocent shrug is wedged between declarations. “I mean who in their right mind doesn’t appreciate things that dark ,” my gaze begins traveling downward across Rabbit’s frame, “and thick ?”

“I certainly do,” Kid concurs on a flirty eyebrow waggle.

“You two are the wrong kind of thirsty.”

“Or the right kind,” our boyfriend practically purrs.

However, before I can add anything to his proclamation, an unfortunate vibration in my pocket begins requiring my attention.

The instant my grip is separated from his, he mumbles under his breath, “ Ifuckingknewit. ”

Rather than acknowledge him, I check the tow request.

Mentally calculate the cost of me just arriving.

Weigh the decision of taking the ticket versus letting someone else.

Sure, it’s far from where I am now, but not too far from the shop.

And if they don’t need more work, that’s a quick drive back to get into their stockings.

That I like.

Maybe I’ll even have a Guinness afterward.

You know.

Just to stay in the fucking holiday spirit.

“Need to go?” Rabbit cautiously questions, redirecting my attention to her.

“Yup.”

“ Ifuckingknewit ,” pouts our partner as he slides an arm protectively around her waist.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Kid. You’re pissed, but can you be pissed and kiss me goodbye?”

Kipp grows an almost bashful beam – the same way he always does when I insist, he kiss me in public – indicating he won’t stay mad.

He can’t.

There’s something about having no shame in our relationship where other people can see or judge or give a fuck – despite the fact, I do not give a fuck about them – that always soothes his spirits.

Boosts his ego.

Gets him a little turned on.

Fuck, I hate that we can’t do shit about that here.

Stupid kid friendly festival.

Vacillation to brush his lips against mine is nonexistent, much like Rabbit following suit.

Both tell me goodbye – sadness poorly hidden in their respective voices – yet both receive ass squeezes that immediately put the twinkle back in their eyes.

Which is good.

I already feel fucking guilty enough having to go.

I can’t afford to feel like shit even more leaving them with “not getting that puppy you want for Christmas” expressions.

Hustling through the crowd to get back to my truck doesn’t take long, and neither does accepting the request from the customer.

The fact that most of the cops that patrol the area where our two towns meet are occupied providing assistance to the festival allows me to speed without concern of whose pockets I’m going to have to “charitably” fill, a useful tool that will shed quite a bit of time off my trip.

Or at least one that would’ve if I didn’t have to stop for fucking gas.

Frustrated grumbles pour out of me as I oscillate my glare between the fuel tank needle and the long, empty road ahead.

There’s not a gas station in either direction for a good stretch.

It’s one of the top reasons tourists call me out here.

They assume they’ve got enough to get them to the next town – our town – only to become stranded on the side of the road when they realize shits a lot further than it looks on their GPS.

I don’t mind it because it’s easy money.

Except now .

When it’s likely to cost me money.

Pulling over near the Death Canyon population sign is quickly followed by me getting out of my truck to retrieve my spare can.

See.

I told The Kid something is fucking wrong with my gage.

There has to be!

I had damn near a full tank – according to the fucking thing – when we got to the festival and now, I’m running on E?

No.

There’s no fucking way.

We don’t live that far from the city line, and it ain’t that far from fucking line to line.

Something is wrong with my fucking truck.

And I don’t like not knowing what.

Did someone fuck with it?

Has someone been fucking with it?

Am I just being paranoid because that’s what happens when you deal with a psychotic brat for months?

Once I reach the back end of my vehicle, I click the switch for the tool light I had installed, only to yet again be disappointed.

How did that stop working?

And fucking when?!

Irritated grunts become irked grumbles as I fish my phone out of my pocket, hit the flashlight button, and lift it to find the area where I keep my spare cans bolted down.

To my surprise, they’re not there.

At all.

Again.

Not fucking possible.

There’s no fucking way that my cans aren’t here.

They have to be.

Moving the light around frantically from side to side, visually inspecting the territory, convinced Kid just put them back in the wrong place, something that would be unlike him, but not nearly as fucking preposterous as the damn things growing legs and going for a fucking stroll through town.

Additional huffs are expelled during my continued search that annoyingly has me coming up empty handed.

Literally .

I have no gas in my fucking tank, I have no gas to put in my fucking tank and am supposed to be picking up someone else who is stranded, something I can’t fucking do if I’m stranded myself, which shouldn’t be possible unless someone stole my shit.

Another unhappy grunt bounces my frame as a gust of cold slaps my cheek is a sobering manner.

Ofcourse, someone stole my shit.

‘Tis the season to steal from me…falalalalala…fuck off.

This happened last year too.

Some asshole swiped some of my tools – probably for quick cash at a pawn shop – when I stopped to grab a burger in Crystal Waters.

Huh.

Maybe going to Crystal Waters is the fucking problem.

Perhaps next year we should plan to go somewhere else for a holiday celebration.

I don’t know.

Disney, maybe?

Pulling up Kid’s number to call for aid – an irony not lost upon me in spite of my increasing irritation – is accompanied by me casually leaning one bent arm against the truck for support. Not having many contacts – let alone many I call – gets me to him fast; however, before my thumb can hit the button an unexpected, sharp pain lands in my kidney causing me to drop my device along with my jaw in agony, unknowingly providing the assailant with the perfect opportunity to cover the territory tightly with a damp rag. My body instantly attempts to flail, to throw the arm backwards for a counterattack, to do whatever it can to create space between me and the unseen aggressor, only to find itself trapped due to the attacker’s arm slung snuggly around my throat.

Faint, sweet smells savagely begin conquering my senses, one by one.

Overpowering my nose.

Mouth.

Burning my eyes.

Skin.

I do my best not to inhale.

Not to ingest more of whatever’s slowing down my movements.

Functions.

Twisting and turning and throwing my weight around to escape are nothing more than wishes as every muscle in my body becomes subdued by the chemical compound until I drop lifelessly to the ground to the sound of two whispered words, “ She’s. Mine. ”