Dirty Santa: A Holiday MC Romance

by Daphne Loveling

  “Yes, sweetie?” I suppress a smile, hoping this means her bad mood is slipping away and she’s ready to help me bake.

  But her next words push all thoughts of cookies, hot neighbors, and Christmas from my head.

  “Mom,” she asks, standing in the living room, “why is there a big puddle of water in the hallway?”

  3

  Bailey

  “Oh no! Oh no!” I moan, grabbing a bunch of towels from the linen closet. “It’s the washer! Oh, what a mess!” I throw the towels on the wood floor and move them around with a slippered foot, hoping to sop up as much of the water as possible. “Honey, will you go in my bedroom and grab my cell phone off the nightstand?”

  “Okay.”

  Addi races down the hallway to my room, and comes back a few seconds later holding my phone. I take it from her and scroll through my contacts until I find the number of my landlord, Richard Klinkner. He answers on the fourth ring, just as I’m starting to worry it’s about to go to voicemail.

  I tell him there’s a problem with the washer and that it’s leaking water. When I’ve finished talking, he’s silent for a second. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he says.

  “I know it’s Christmas Eve,” I respond, trying to keep my the irritation out of my voice. I don’t know if small towns have slumlords, but if they do, Richard Klinkner qualifies. “But apparently, this washing machine doesn’t respect holidays.”

  “I can’t come out,” he replies. “I’m busy. I’ll come take care of it after the weekend.”

  “But I can’t wait that long!” I cry. “There’s water everywhere! I don’t know what to do!”

  “Call a plumber if you’re really that worried about it.” His tone makes it clear that he thinks I’m being hysterical over nothing.

  “If I call a plumber, will you reimburse me for the cost?” I ask, trying not to panic. “You’re the landlord. It’s in the lease that you’re supposed to keep the appliances in functioning order!”

  “It’s also in the lease that you’re not supposed to misuse the appliances,” he shoots back. “If there’s water everywhere, you probably did something wrong.”

  “I didn’t…” I begin, fuming, but then realize that there is no arguing with him right now. Time is of the essence. I need to get someone in here now. I can give Klinkner the bill afterwards. I can even deduct the cost of the service from my rent if I need to play hardball.

  “This is not a result of my misusing the washer, Mr. Klinkner,” I say coldly. “I will call a plumber, but you’re going to be paying the bill, since you refuse to come out. Merry Christmas.”

  I hit ‘end call’ before he can reply. Addi is still in the hallway, looking at me, so I resist the urge to swear. “It’s okay, honey,” I tell her. You can go back in your room if you want.”

  “Okay.” She pads down the hall out of sight.

  I immediately pull up a browser to search for plumbers in Ironwood, Ohio. I call the three that show up, but two go straight to voicemail. The one that does pick up is an answering service that tells me they’re closed until the twenty-sixth.

  “Dammit!” I curse in a whisper, glancing toward Addi’s bedroom. I cast about in my mind for what to do next. The towels I’ve put down on the floor are all soaked. I grab a few more and toss them down, too, realizing that until I get the washer fixed, I’ll have no way to clean them.

  This is one of the rare occasions that I almost miss being married to Garrett. Not because he could fix whatever is wrong with this washer. He knows almost as little about things like this as I do. But Garrett has money, and status, and connections. He was the kind of man who could get a repairman out here on Christmas eve.

  Me, on the other hand? I have none of those things. And given that we’ve only been living here a few months, I don’t even have any friends close enough to call on Christmas Eve to help me out of a jam.

  The new towels I put down are now soaked through. There’s still water coming out from the back of the machine. Shit shit shit! I stare at my worthless phone, trying to think of what to do. Anything I attempt to try to fix the damn thing will probably just make things worse. And I clearly can’t just leave it like this until the twenty-sixth.

  And then, an idea comes into my head. An idea that I’d give anything to ignore.

  But right now, I’m desperate, and out of options.

  “Oh, God,” I groan. “This is really not, not, not good.”

  Stepping over the mound of sodden towels, I inwardly wince as I cross the living room and prepare to do the last thing I want to do. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for further mortification and fling open my front door.

  I cross the yard as quickly as I can, almost hoping Hot Neighbor has left in the interim so I won’t have to do this. No such luck: as I head toward his garage, I see that not only is he still outside, he’s back to leaning over the open hood of his car, so that from behind, all I see is his… behind. The soft, worn denim of his jeans molds to his muscular but as he works on something under the hood, and I can’t help but take just a second to stare, because I can’t remember ever seeing an ass that fine on a man. Not in person, anyway.

  Quickly, I shake myself out of my stupor, because the last thing I need right now is for him to turn around and see me staring at him again. “Um, excuse me!” I call. “Excuse me?”

  The possessor of the finest male derriere I’ve ever seen extracts himself from under the hood of the car and turns toward me. He’s put his shirt back on, thank God, but he’s still hot as blazes. The shirt’s dirty, smudged with grease and oil, but the stark white of the cotton fabric only serves to accentuate his tanned skin, the hardness of the muscles underneath. There’s no other way to say it: this man is breathtakingly gorgeous.

  His dark, penetrating eyes meet mine, before sliding down the length of my body — slowly, appraisingly. Belatedly, I realize I’ve left the house without giving any thought to my appearance — and I flush with embarrassment as I see him taking in my messy top knot, my lack of makeup, my stained apron, and the fluffy sock monkey slippers Addi got me for Christmas last year. His gaze lingers on my chest just a moment too long — like he wants me to see him looking — before continuing their journey southward.

  “Nice slippers,” he chuckles when he reaches my feet.

  His deep baritone voice sends a tingle through me, making me actually have to suppress a shiver. It’s like velvet. Like dark, crushed velvet. On a large circular bed, in the middle of a room lit only by a fireplace. Shirtless, his eyes lock onto mine as he takes a step toward me…

  Focus!

  “Thank you,” I choke out, even though I’m pretty sure the slipper line is meant to be an insult. “I, um… I’m sorry to bother you, but I seem to be having a problem with my washing machine.”

  “Is that right?” He cocks his head and gives me a lazy grin.

  Oh, God, he thinks I’m making this up! He thinks I’m trying to get him to come inside! My face flushes hot, my stomach churning with a mixture of indignation and shame.

  “Yes, my daughter just noticed it as I was in the kitchen making cookies!” I hurry on, hoping I can convince him it’s not just a ploy. “It’s leaking water into the hallway, and I don’t know what to do, and I called my landlord but he won’t come, and neither will any of the plumbers I tried…” I realize I’m rambling now, and that I’m twisting my hands as I try to look anywhere but directly at his mocking gaze. “It’s just that it’s Christmas Eve, so nobody will come… ”

  “I can take a look,” he says, cutting me off.

  “Oh… ” I falter. “I mean, that’s not what I meant! I was just wondering if maybe you might know someone I could call. It’s just that I haven’t lived in town that long, so I…”

  “Darlin’, I already said I’d take a look.” One corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk. He still thinks I’m making this up, I’m sure of it. Or maybe he thinks I deliberately broke the washer so I’d have an excuse to talk to him.

 
I open my mouth to tell him I’ve done no such thing — but then I realize that would probably just make it look even more like I did. There’s really no right answer here. My skin burns hot. “Right,” I murmur helplessly. “Thank you.”

  He reaches down and pulls the bottom of his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. I avert my eyes, but not before I get a closer glimpse of the tattoos ornamenting his tanned skin. One tat in particular stands out: it’s a large grinning skull on his left pec, with the words Lords of Carnage surrounding it. He pulls the shirt back down, and when I look back at his face he’s openly grinning. He’s caught me staring at him again. Good God, even if I was trying to make this awkward, I don’t know how I could do any better than I am right now.

  But then I actually do make it more awkward.

  Hot Neighbor takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. It’s only then that I realize I’m about to let a strange man into my house.

  We’ve never exchanged a single word before today, even though I’ve lived here for almost four months. I don’t know the first thing about him, except that he rides a motorcycle and that he’s got a bunch of dangerous-looking tattoos. I don’t even know his name. Am I crazy, putting my daughter in danger like this? Then again, a plumber would be a stranger, too, I guess… Maybe I should —

  “I ain’t a rapist. I don’t eat babies. I ain’t gonna hurt you or your daughter.”

  Guiltily, I meet his eyes.

  “That’s what you were thinkin’ about, weren’t you?” He asks. His face isn’t smirking anymore. Instead, it’s irritated. “You were worried about letting me in your house.”

  “No,” I protest, but even to myself I sound lame. “I mean, I just…”

  “You can lock yourself and the kid in the bathroom while I’m in there, if you want,” he retorts, disgusted. “Dial nine-one-one and keep your finger poised to hit call.” I’m not sure if words are meant to reassure me or to make me feel small. But either way, it’s clear he’s pissed. I suddenly feel like an ungrateful bitch.

  Well, at least he probably doesn’t think I’m lying about the washer anymore.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that…”

  “Nah. It’s okay. I get it.” He looks away and shrugs. “I don’t look like a choir boy. But I don’t hurt women.”

  Somehow, the simplicity of his words convince me he’s telling me the truth.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “And thank you for doing this. I really am in a bind.”

  “No problem.”

  I stare hard at his car, trying to pretend that I find his engine block fascinating.

  “You got a name?” he rumbles, wiping his hands on the fabric as well. I let out the breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

  “I’m Bailey,” I exhale. “Bailey Shaw.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bailey Bailey Shaw. I’m Gage Caron.” He lifts his chin toward the house. “Let’s go see what’s up with your washer.”

  4

  Gage

  The chick who lives next door looks like the last fuckin’ thing she wants to do is let me fix her washing machine for her. It ain’t what I was expecting. After I saw her staring out the window at me earlier, I thought she was gonna come over and play hard to get, all the while pretending she wasn’t trying to get me into bed.

  But one look at her flour-dusted apron and those fuckin’ monkey slippers and I realized it wasn’t about that. Women can be a mystery, but if it’s one thing I know, it’s that they don’t come on to a man dressed like that.

  She doesn’t seem entirely convinced I ain’t a serial killer or something. I’d be offended by that, except it’s so goddamn ridiculous it’s almost cute. I mean, how many serial killers have you ever seen who had this much ink? It’s the scrawny, mousy lookin’ guys who are the ones you gotta look out for.

  But even though she’s not quite convinced I ain’t dangerous, and even though she really does have a problem with her washer doesn’t change the fact that she’s hot for me. I know a look of lust when I see one. She knows I caught her looking out her kitchen window at me. And she’s embarrassed as hell about it. She hates that she wants me. And she hates that I know it.

  Not that I mind. She’s sexy as hell, in an uptight, repressed kind of way. She seems like the kind of chick who would come like a firehose, and be totally taken by surprise by it. Like none of the men she’s been with before have known a damn thing about how to make a woman’s body respond.

  I bet I could make her come in ten seconds flat.

  Not that I’d want to. I’d want to draw it out. Maybe make her beg a little.

  The thought makes my cock strain in my jeans.

  I follow her into her house, watching her ass the whole time. Her almost-black hair is tied up in this big mess on top of her head, and a few stray strands are brushing against her neck. The contrast of dark hair on her pale, flawless skin is hot as hell. Since I’m already thinking about fucking her, my mind instantly jumps to how creamy and soft the skin on her inner thighs must be. My dick throbs as I imagine scratching it with my beard, making her moan and shiver in anticipation of my tongue against her pussy.

  What she doesn’t know is, I’ve been watchin’ her, too.

  Thinking about peeling off those mom jeans and making her forget her own name.

  Right now, though, I need to stop thinking about takin’ her to bed. At least long enough to fix her damn washer.

  After that? All bets are off.

  “You need to cut the electricity to the washer,” I tell her when I’ve surveyed the situation. “Where’s your fuse box?”

  “Um, down in the basement, I think.” Bailey shudders. “I never go down there — it’s too creepy. Why do you need to cut the power?”

  “You need to turn off the washing machine to stop the water from running. And you don’t want the electricity to the machine on when there’s standing water around.”

  “Oh, sh—oot!” she exclaims, looking down guiltily at the puddle. “I should have thought of that.”

  I have Bailey point me to the basement door. I flip the light switch and head down the stairs. I guess I can see why she thinks it’s creepy down here. The floor is mostly dirt, and there are cobwebs everywhere. The single dim bulb barely throws enough light to see, and makes dark shadows in several spots.

  Locating the fuse box, I shut down the one that says hallway/laundry.

  Back upstairs, Bailey has removed those fuckin’ ridiculous monkey slippers and is standing in the hall in her bare feet. Standing next to her is the little girl I’ve seen with her sometimes.

  “Hi. I’m Gage,” I say to the kid. Up close like this, I can see she’s a mini carbon copy of her mom, with brown eyes, pale skin, and a cascade of dark hair.

  The girl looks up at her mom, like she’s not sure what to make of me. “I’m Addi,” she eventually murmurs back, dipping her head shyly. “Are you a repairman guy?”

  “Not exactly. But I am here to fix your washer. Stand back.”

  Addi takes a giant step back, like she’s playing a game of mother may I or something. It’s cute. I move toward the shallow hall closet where the washer and dryer are set into the wall. Addi and Bailey watch as I pull the washing machine away from the wall. I reach to flip on the light above it, momentarily forgetting the power’s off, but catch myself before I try to turn it on.

  “Can you grab me a flashlight?” I ask Bailey. She disappears for a second and returns with a miniature one that fits easily into the palm of my hand. It does the job, though. After a cursory inspection, I see that the problem looks like a loose connector in the hose.

  “Hey. Addi. Wanna help me fix this?” I ask the little girl.

  She looks up at her mom again, who nods. “Okay,” she says, stepping forward a little.

  I have her climb on top of the machine and show her where to shine the flashlight so I can see to tighten up the connector. Once she’s up there, Bailey disappear
s down the hall and lets us work.

  The whole job only takes me a few minutes to do. Addi holds that flashlight with an expression of serious concentration, like her life is depending on it. I check everything else I can think of to make sure the connecter was the only problem, but I can’t find anything else.

  When I’m satisfied, I help Addi get off the machine, push it back into place, and go downstairs to flip the fuse back on. I come back upstairs and go out into the kitchen, where the kid has joined her mom.

  “Did we fix it?” the kid asks, giving me a shy but proud look.

  “I think so.” I look at Bailey. “You should try running the machine again and see whether or not it leaks. But I’m pretty sure we got it.”

  “Thank you so much, Gage.” She pulls in a breath and sighs. She’s taken off the apron she was wearing, and I can’t help but notice how full and lush her tits look, even under the loose T-shirt she’s wearing. “I’m so relieved. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been willing to help.”

  Just then, the buzzer on the oven sounds. “Yay!” Addi yells. “Cookies are done!”

  I realize as she says it that I can smell them baking. “I was in the middle of making Christmas cookies when Addi saw the washer leak,” Bailey explains with a smile. “I put this batch in while you were fixing it.”

  She goes to the oven, pulls on two mitts, and takes out a batch of those cookies with the chocolate in the middle of them.

  “Want to stay and have cookies and milk?” Addi asks.

  “Well, I’ll tell ya, I’m not much of a fan of milk,” I say back. “But I’ll have a cookie, sure.”

  Next to her daughter, Bailey raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look like the cookie type,” she says, amused.

  If this woman’s kid wasn’t standin’ right here, I’d tell Bailey that the sweet thing I’d rather eat is between her legs. But because I’m not a goddamn animal, I just shrug.

  “Who doesn’t like cookies?” I grunt.