Page 40 of The Christmas Keeper

He snorted so loudly a resting cardinal took to wing. “I love that. I’m going to go with Ricardo Cranium.”

I snickered. “We are so damn clever. So yeah, I’m just conversing with Richard. I truly am happy for you. I’m so stupidly happy you’re staying for three more months.”

He stepped closer. His breath was rich from the cinnamon tea we’d enjoyed with Mr. Blum. “I have no plans to leave Whiteham. I think I might have found my forever town and my forever guy.”

My heart nearly burst out of my ribcage. “That right there is the best gift anyone has ever given me.”

“Better than a saw?”

“Oh man, tough call. Can you cut a two-by-four with your dick?”

“No, but I can do other things with it that you enjoy.”

Okay yeah, he totally was on point there. His dickwaspretty magical. As were his fingers…

“Hearing that was a thousand times better than a saw.” We kissed right in the middle of the road in front of God, the pines, and all the snowflakes fluttering down from the sky.

***

Seven days of bliss rolled past in the blink of an eye.

Mr. Blum was getting ready for his big trip south, which meant that Kenan was also getting ready to leave my house. It wasn’t like it was going to require a moving van. He literally had two bags of clothes, his guitar, and his car. One trip. Done. Moved. So while he was nervous with excitement, I was still working on trying to get the insecure dickhead in my skull to shut the fuckup. It was tough, but I was slowly choking the life out of him. Good thing you couldn’t go to prison for throttling your toxic traits.

New Year’s was upon us and the alehouse was filled to capacity. Possibly even passed it by a few people. Kenan was putting on a show for the crowds and he was, as always, killing it. There were patrons in here who I had never seen before. I’d run out of fries early and had kicked about five kegs already. Tips were flowing into my cup and Kenan’s guitar case. The vibe was lively, happy, and just a tad silly, which was always the feel as we left one year behind and welcomed a new one. Our lone local driver, Teddy, who owned a yellow Chevy and was affectionately known as Teddy the Taxi Driver, even though it wasn’t really a taxi, was on call tonight. Teddy never charged people for taking them home. He’d lost a son to a drunk driver twenty years ago and had been shuttling inebriated folks around the county ever since. You needed a ride after one too many beers? Call Teddy Smith out on Keeley Fork Road. Teddy was good people.

I was leaning on the bar, enjoying a cover of “Friends in Low Places” which had the crowd singing along in hilarious, slightly tipsy voices, when a youngish guy wiggled up to me.

He was a clean-cut sort, short brown hair, bright blue eyes, and dressed in a blue sweater. Cute fellow. Not as cute as the guy sitting on a stool strumming a guitar but cute enough for a baby-faced dude.

“Hey, can I get a mug of Goose Island?” he shouted. I nodded and held out my hand. He rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet, and extracted his driver’s license. New York State. Name was Mark Mills, and he was twenty-five.

“Sorry, but you look about sixteen,” I said as I handed back his ID.

“I get that a lot.”

“Let me get your beer.” I walked down the bar, pulled him a nice mug of the trendy IPA, and headed back to him. The crowd was cheering Kenan on as he moved from that Garth Brooks classic to a slower song. “Eight bucks.”

“Not bad. I paid twelve at a bar in Boston.”

“This ain’t Boston.”

He laughed and then slid a ten across the bar. “Keep the change.” I nodded in thanks and went to tend to some other customers. When I returned to ring up the sales, Mark was sipping his beer as he watched Kenan with the same intensity a cat watches a mouse. “Man, he is good,” he said between songs.

“Yep, he is,” I replied as I stuffed some crinkled twenties into the till.

“Care to tell me how you managed to lure Lance Galloway out of whatever cave he’s been hiding in to play in this alehouse that is not Boston?” He spun around to face me, his phone resting on the bar next to his beer. I felt my gut tighten instantly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snapped, slammed the drawer to the register, and stalked to the other end of the bar. It took several minutes, but I finally caught Kenan’s attention. Mark was now seated on a stool, his sight locked on Kenan. I gave my head a jerk in the direction of the now-closed kitchen. Kenan’s brows tangled, but he told the crowd he needed to wet his whistle and would return in ten minutes.

I met him in the kitchen, purposely avoiding eye contact with Mark.

“What’s wrong?” Kenan asked as soon as the doors swung closed. The kitchen was subtly lit, with just enough light to allow us to see our way to the basement. Washed cooking utensils sat drying by the sink. The hum of conversation just outside the door was dulled slightly.

“That guy in the sweater by the register asked me how I got Lance Galloway to sing in this shithole.”

His eyes flared. “He called your bar a shithole?”

I loved how defensive he was over my little pub. “Not exactly. I said this town wasn’t Boston.”

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