Torch

by Roxie Noir

  Mandy holds up the toilet paper, and Hunter holds up the sponges that turn into dinosaurs. Carl considers them for a moment.

  “I’ll take my chances with the pile,” he says.

  An hour later, we all leave the Rusty Beaver. It’s not snowing now, but there’s a light dusting on the ground, and we’re all bundled up as we leave.

  “You’re driving, right?” I call to the sober-seeming Carl as Jennifer looks at the bear sign again and laughs.

  “Definitely,” Carl says, looking at her. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not drunk, I’m tipsy and excitable,” Jennifer says.

  Carl puts a hand on her back and they walk toward the only car on the street.

  “Merry Christmas!” Jennifer calls over her shoulder.

  “Us or him?” Lucy asks.

  “You make it sound so dire,” I say.

  “Choose wisely,” Lucy says.

  “That’s from Lord of Rings, right?” Hunter says.

  I put one hand on his arm.

  “That’s from Indiana Jones,” I say, petting his arm. “You tried.”

  He sticks his tongue out at me.

  “Lucy, she’s not gonna pick us,” Mandy says.

  “It’s okay, we’ve got Trout to give us kisses,” Lucy says.

  “Sorry, guys,” I say, laughing. “Merry Christmas?”

  We all hug, then I put my hand in Hunter’s and we head off in the opposite direction from Lucy and Mandy.

  “I like them,” he says.

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them,” he says. “Even Mandy, once she stopped being afraid to talk to me.”

  I laugh.

  “I should go with them and pack for visiting your parents,” I say.

  “It’s one night. Pack in the morning,” Hunter says.

  Lodgepole is quiet, and even though it’s not that late, even the streetlights are off and everything is lit by the moon. The whole town has an old western feel already, made older-feeling by the night.

  “There’s no one around,” I say.

  “It’s Christmas Eve,” Hunter says.

  “It’s still weird,” I say.

  He pulls me into the middle of the street and we walk down the dotted yellow line, looking into dark store windows. It’s only a couple of blocks to his apartment, where we hang layers and layers of cold weather gear in his entryway before we walk inside.

  I walk into the kitchen, grab a glass of water, and lean against the counter. Hunter does the same, standing next to me, and I lean against him.

  “I haven’t packed at all,” I say, and sigh. “Every time I go on a trip I promise myself I’m gonna pack ahead of time, and then I never do.”

  “Make sure you take your Minion of Satan t-shirt,” he says.

  “Not funny,” I say. “They’re either gonna eat me alive or not speak to me at all.”

  “I think they’re getting better,” Hunter says, slowly. “And if it’s really awful, we don’t have to spend the night.”

  “I know,” I say. “I just hate feeling like I’m coming between you and your parents.”

  We saw my parents for Thanksgiving: my dad and his brother the day of, and then we went to my mom’s house a week later. I’ve still never told my mom that I know what really happened, but she’s finally started talking about something besides my dad.

  The thing she’s really into now is birdwatching, but my God, I’ll take anything.

  “As long as you’re coming,” he teases, his voice low and slow.

  “Ew,” I say.

  He puts his arm around my waist, and I lean my head into his shoulder.

  “There’s something I should tell you,” he says.

  “They’ve converted to Wicca,” I guess.

  “I told them we were engaged to kind of smooth things over,” he says.

  I drink some water and consider this for a moment.

  “Did they buy it?” I ask.

  To my surprise, I’m not even a little nervous that his parents think we’re gonna get married. The two of us have talked about it and agreed that we like the idea of marriage sometime in the future, but this is the first time we’ve mentioned it to anyone else.

  I guess that’s a thing now, I think.

  “I couldn’t tell,” he says. “They seemed skeptical.”

  “Should I talk incessantly about what wedding flowers I want?” I ask, my head still against his shoulder.

  “Nah, then they’ll know it’s fake,” he says. “But hold on, I had an idea about that.”

  He leaves the kitchen and walks into his bedroom, the only other room in the apartment.

  “About wedding flowers?” I call.

  That’s kind of putting the cart before the horse, I think. I hear a drawer open and close, and I yawn.

  “About them believing us,” he says, walking back into the kitchen and putting his arm around me again. “Wear this, it’ll be more convincing.”

  He holds up a small black box with a diamond ring in it.

  I freeze, my water glass halfway to my mouth, and stare at it. For a second I think he even got fake jewelry to lie to his parents with, but then I look at his face.

  “Marry me?” he says.

  “Wait, what?” I ask, because I’m just astonished.

  He starts laughing.

  “Is this for real?” I ask.

  I’m trying not to laugh, but I can’t help it.

  “Yeah, and I fucked it up,” Hunter says, grinning. “Stay there, I’m gonna try again.”

  He walks out of the kitchen. I put my water glass on the counter, head still spinning.

  I definitely wasn’t expecting this, and that’s a fucking understatement. I figured we’d move in together in a couple months, and maybe get engaged six months after that.

  But I like this, too. I want to marry Hunter and spend the rest of my life with him. Hell, I was planning on doing that anyway, whether we got engaged now or never.

  In the next room, I can hear him clear his throat, and I sort of want to shout hurry up and get back in here already but I manage to stay quiet.

  The floor creaks a little. Hunter appears in the doorway, his face very serious. He walks up to me and gets down on one knee, holding up the ring.

  I start giggling, not because it’s funny, but from sheer giddiness.

  “Clementine,” he says, cracking a smile.

  I start laughing harder, and now Hunter’s trying not to laugh.

  “Quit it, I’m trying to propose,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say, and bite my lip so I stop.

  “I love you and I think I’m always going to love you, so will you marry me?” he says.

  He looks up at me, his eyes deep pools in his dark kitchen, and something about it takes my breath away.

  I nod.

  “Yes,” I finally manage to whisper. “Yes, fucking of course.”

  Then I’m on my knees too, his face in my hands as I kiss him and laugh at the same time and so does he. We get tangled up and nearly fall over, still on the floor, until he’s sitting with his back against the cabinets, both arms around me.

  “Give me your hand,” he says.

  I hold up my right hand.

  “Seriously?” he teases.

  Duh, Clementine.

  I laugh and give him my left hand.

  “Shut up,” I say and lean against his chest.

  He slides the ring onto my finger, and for a moment, we both just look at it, sparkling dimly in the light coming from his kitchen window.

  “I love you too,” I finally say, and he pulls me closer. “And I’m glad I found you again.”

  “Sorry for botching the proposal,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine, still looking at the ring on my finger. “I picked it up from the jeweler yesterday, and I meant to wait and take you on a picnic or something, but I got too excited.”

  I nuzzle my nose against his cheek, grinning.

  “You got impatient?” I tease.


  “This was an impulse,” he says. There’s a gentle tug on my scalp as he plays with my hair. “As you can tell by our romantic surroundings.”

  “I am surprised,” I say.

  “Well, you said the words every man’s hoping to hear when he proposes,” he says. “‘Wait, what?’”

  “That was your own fault,” I say.

  He kisses me again.

  “I got it the second try,” he says.

  “Thanks for not waiting eight years to give it another shot,” I say.

  “Clem, I couldn’t wait twenty-four hours to propose the first time,” he says. “I almost drove to your office so I could propose in your cubicle.”

  “Thanks for not doing that either,” I say, and kiss him again, longer and harder. Our tongues twine together and he moves his hand down my back, then under my shirt. “And I think I’ll always love you too.”

  We kiss again, and now I’m sliding one hand up his thigh and he’s grabbing my ass, pulling me toward him until I’m straddling him, one hand gripping the waistband of his jeans and the other on his chest.

  “Engagement sex right here, or...?” he says, grinning.

  “This floor is freezing,” I say, and nuzzle his ear. “Carry me to your bed?”

  “Just toss you over my shoulder?” he teases.

  “Carry me romantically,” I say, and he squeezes my ass.

  Hunter stands, pulls me up, and then grabs me. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, trying not to kick anything in his kitchen.

  Then he walks me into his bedroom, tosses me onto his bed, and crawls on top of me.

  “I’d love you even if you weren’t amazing at sex,” he murmurs into my ear, and I laugh.

  “I’d love you anyway, too,” I say, and pull him harder against me, wrapping my legs around his hips.

  We kiss slowly, and I pull his shirt off, his skin warm against me.

  “Let’s do this for another fifty years,” I say.

  “Only fifty?”

  “Fifty’s a good start,” I say.

  Hunter kisses me again and I hold him as close as I can, just the two of us together in the dark of his tiny apartment.

  “It’s a start,” he says.

  The End

  Want more from Hunter and Clementine?

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  (Or keep turning pages to read Ride.)

  Some fairy tales start after midnight.

  The crown prince and I have nothing in common.

  He's a rugged, battle-hardened soldier who spent four years in an elite military unit. I met the King and Queen for the first time wearing leggings and a sweatshirt.

  But there's the way he looks at me, eyes blazing with hunger. Like he knows every dirty thought I've had about him - and he likes them.

  I don't know how long I can resist.

  Get it now on Amazon, or FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

  I never wanted to be a good man. Not until I met her.

  Five years in prison was supposed to reform me, but it didn't teach me shit.

  I tried to start fresh. No more raising hell, no more women whose names I don't bother learning, no more running from the law. I fucked that up in no time at all.

  She's smart as a whip, headstrong, fucking gorgeous... and a cop.

  I know I can't have her. She'll see through my lies in seconds. She deserves a happy ending I know I can't give her.

  Hell, with the demons from my past chasing me down, I can't even keep her safe.

  All I can give Luna is trouble, and I know it. But I can't stay away.

  Get it now on Amazon, or FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

  They call me The Scorpion because I’m fast, lethal, and I pack plenty of heat.

  The only thing more dangerous than doing my job is not doing my job. But for her?

  Sign me the fuck up.

  Get it now on Amazon, or free with Kindle Unlimited!

  Also by Roxie Noir

  North Star Shifters

  Shifter Country Bears

  Shifter Country Wolves

  Copper Mesa Eagles

  About Roxie

  I love writing sexy, alpha men and the headstrong women they fall for.

  My weaknesses include: beards, whiskey, nice abs with treasure trails, sarcasm, cats, prowess in the kitchen, prowess in the bedroom, forearm tattoos, and gummi bears.

  I live in California with my very own sexy, bearded, whiskey-loving husband and two hell-raising cats.

  roxienoir

  www.roxienoir.com

  roxie.noir@gmail.com

  Ride

  A Bad Boy Romance

  1

  Mae

  The toddler stares at me, his tiny face surly. I stare back, praying for the right moment.

  “Smile!” calls his mother, standing off to the side.

  She’s probably wearing a thousand dollars worth of clothing right now, her hair, makeup, and nails all done to perfection.

  He does not smile.

  To my right, my co-worker Edwin shakes a teddy bear that jingles, grinning like an idiot.

  “Hey, buddy!” he says in the high-pitched voice that he uses when he pretends he’s the stuffed animals. “Can you smile for me?”

  I’m watching through the viewfinder. No smile.

  Throughout this ordeal, Santa has remained perfectly neutral, his cheery, red-cheeked smile precisely in place, his hat and beard and uniform just so.

  “Xander, come on,” Xander’s mother says. “Can’t you smile for Santa?”

  I’d be cranky too, I think. If I were two years old and had to get dressed up, then got dragged to a fancy department store on the Upper East Side and was forced to sit on some stranger’s lap.

  Edwin shakes the bear again.

  “Come on, Xander,” he says, in his bear-voice.

  Xander stares at Edwin like Edwin just casually suggested genocide.

  Then, almost in slow motion, Xander’s face crumples. His forehead scrunches. His mouth opens wide.

  I know what’s coming, and I brace myself for about the twentieth time that day.

  There’s a moment of silence before he screams, but it’s a doozy. It takes everything I’ve got not to roll my eyes and cover my ears, but working in Santa’s Fun Factory for two weeks has pretty much given me nerves of steel, and I don’t even flinch.

  Xander takes a deep breath between screams, and in that split second, Santa takes action. He bends down, puts his kindly face next to Xander’s, and says something I can’t hear.

  He looks at Xander. Xander looks at him, like he’s suddenly uncertain, his enormous eyes taking in this red-hatted, white-bearded stranger.

  Santa says something else, and Xander closes his mouth. Now he’s staring at Santa in awe, like he can’t believe the amazing thing he just heard.

  Still talking just to Xander, Santa points at the camera, and Xander looks at me. He’s still not sure about this whole thing, but he seems at least willing to entertain the notion. His mom hands Santa a tissue, and Santa quickly wipes the tears from Xander’s face, then nods at Edwin.

  Santa smiles again, exactly the same way he did before.

  “Hey, Xander!” Edwin says in bear-voice.

  Xander grins. I hit the shutter several times in a row, just in case, and then Xander is bounding off of Santa’s lap, Melissa hands him a candy cane, and he and his mom are off.

  “Thank God for Gary,” Edwin whispers to me, as Gary — Santa — opens his arms and welcomes the next child in his perfectly jolly voice.

  “He’s magic,” I whisper back.

  “Of course he’s magic. He’s Santa,” says Edwin as a small dark-haired child climbs onto Santa’s lap.

  “I’m a believer again,” I say. “Maybe I should go ask for a real job for Christmas.”

  Edwin snorts, and then it’s time for t
he kid to get her picture taken.

  This happens roughly a hundred times a day, and it’s only November third.

  It’s about to be a very long holiday season.

  Hours later, I open a locker and throw my hat in. The jingle bell on it sounds a single tinny, echoing ring as it hits the metal. I feel like everything hurts: my feet, from standing all day; my neck, from bending over a camera; even my eyes, from looking at that tiny screen for eight hours.

  Edwin walks in again as I’m grabbing my street clothes out of the locker, a black t-shirt and jeans.

  “If I hear ‘Jingle Bells’ one more time, I might commit homicide,” he says.

  “Have you heard the version with all barking dogs?” I ask. “It’s even worse.”

  “That’s not real,” he says. “Is that real?”

  “It’s really real,” I say.

  He shakes his head, making his own jingle bell hat tinkle softly.

  “Me and Melissa are gonna get a drink somewhere in a few,” he says. “You want to join? You look like you could use one.”

  I sigh and lean against the lockers. Even though I don’t really drink, I could go and hang out with them for a bit.

  On the other hand, I’ve got a lot of work I need to do retouching the stills I took last week out on Coney Island, especially if I’m putting them in my portfolio. If I stay out too late, I won’t get any of that done tonight.

  If I never get that done, I’ll be photographing kids on Santa’s lap for the rest of my natural life.

  “No thanks,” I say. “I gotta do some work.”

  “You do too much work,” he says, seriously. “Have some fun once in a while, Mae.”

  “I’ll have fun when I’m dead,” I say, laughing as I walk past him toward the bathroom.

  “The phrase is I’ll sleep when I’m dead, weirdo,” he calls after me, teasing.

  “That too,” I say, and the bathroom door shuts behind me.

  I get out of my red-and-green ensemble quickly, heaving a sigh of relief when I pull on my jeans, t-shirt, and comfy shoes. My hair goes back in a ponytail, and I finally feel normal again.