Page 32 of Chasing the Fall

Bran ignores me. “What would you like Santa to bring you this year? A pony? Some pretty jewelry?”

Jewelry.Mentally, I slap my palm to my forehead.

“Santa, little Jamie here is four, not forty.”

The little girl frowns harder, shaking her head. “You’re weird. I like Mall Santa better. And I want a Barbie.”

Somehow, Bran makes it through an agonizing performance, and Barbie girl is exchanged for another child, a little boy who looks to be around seven or eight. He’s a bit warmer to Bran, talking excitedly about all of his favorite things, like Transformers and Spiderman and Minecraft.

By the time Bran finishes with him, he’s several degrees more relaxed and looking he might even make it through the day.

Fifteen kids pass, and I have to pee like the proverbial Russian racehorse. I hitch my chin at Floyd behind Bran. “I’m taking a bathroom break.”

“Sure—” Floyd says.

“No,” Bran says. He has a kid on his lap and doesn’t look away from him to give the dictate.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, walking away. “The bathroom is just back here. I barely have to take ten steps.”

In the rear of the store, a door half-hidden behind a vintage comic book display marks the entrance to the employees-only section. I open it and head through, familiar enough with Floyd’s business to know there’s a bathroom back here.

Boxes and half-opened stock line the narrow hallway, and for once, I’m thankful I’m reasonably small as I navigate the tight space.

In the bathroom, I do my business and wash my hands, and then I simply stand in front of the mirror for a few minutes, glad to be away from all the people. No matter how fun, and regardless that it’s for a good cause, the constant presence and push of so many people has my introvert nerves tensing and rebelling.

I need a breather.

Turning the tap back on, I run the cold water and splash a bit on my face. My reflection stares back at me, an odd combination of stress and happiness delineating my features. My freckles stand out, stark against the pallor of my skin, but my mouth curls at the corners with what can only be contentment. My blue eyes are rimmed with the dark circles of fatigue, but the expression in them is happy all the same. At peace.

That’s Bran’s influence, I know.

He’s infuriating and dictatorial, but he’s also…I search for the right word as I search my reflection, discovering truths there I’m not altogether ready to acknowledge.

…a big ole cinnamon roll.Sweet. Thoughtful. The kind of goodness you want to fall into.

Shiloh makes them every Christmas, a holdover from when her mother did the same, and delivers them to friends and neighbors. I love those cinnamon rolls almost as much as I love Karla’s donuts.

And that line of thinking is dangerous. I don’t want my forever guy right now. I’m too young. The world is too big. Giving a little shake of my head, I unlock the bathroom door and step into the hallway.

I haven’t taken a full step toward the front of the store before a hard arm bands itself around my shoulders and neck, dragging me backward. Another hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off my reflexive scream.

“Look what Santa delivered, a spicy little gift right into my waiting arms…”

I fight. I kick my legs, sending boxes and stock flying, and I sink my teeth into the arm that’s pressed tight against my larynx and threatening every breath.

It’s like a butterfly battling a hurricane, though. I’m no match for his strength and bulk, my efforts inspiring nothing but laughter as he drags me back. He pauses, squeezing me into stillness, and a second later, I feel a prick against my neck.

“Go to sleep,” I hear him murmur, but the words are slurred… or maybe that’s my brain… everything is hazy, suddenly, blurring and shifting before my eyes.

I hear a dim crash of sound and a bellow of rage, and then everything goes black.

Fifteen

Bran

I try to payattention to the kid on my lap, but when five minutes goes by, and Tally hasn’t returned, I can’t hide my alarm.

Standing, I hand the kid off to Floyd. “Take over.” Without leaving him space for argument, I stride toward the back, one hand moving to the gun I keep at the small of my back.

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