Page 22 of Tinsel & Chrome

Boone snorts. “I think that every year.”

“Then why the hell do we keep doin’ it?” Titan asks, still scrolling, still cursing.

I look out the back window. The backyard’s a wreck—beer cans in the grass, lawn chairs knocked over, a trail of tinsel leading to the firepit. And right in the middle of it all, half-buried in the dirt, is a pink gator sticker.

My mouth quirks.

“’Cause it’s worth it.”

Grizzly grunts his agreement, and I know he saw Wynn earlier. He doesn’t say much, but I can see it in the way he’s watching her now—calm, protective, proud.

Jingle Blaze may have started as a desperation move years ago, but it’s a damn tradition now. For the kids. For us. For the club.

I lean back against the counter, sip my coffee, and smile at the mess we’ve made.

We’re outlaws. We fight. We bleed. We bury more than we ever should.

But this? This is why we keep goin’.

Because in the middle of the chaos, there’s laughter. And syrup. And gator stickers.

And that’s enough to keep any man moving forward.

––––––––

Grizzly

––––––––

The house is finally quiet. No screaming. No sugar-crazed maniacs riding mini bikes through the yard. No wet socks in the sink or gator stickers on the toilet seat. Just the low hum of the box fan in the corner and the occasional creak of the old floorboards under my boots.

I should be passed out like the others, but sleep doesn’t come easy anymore. Not when the fire starts burning in my chest, that familiar mix of gratitude and guilt. Jingle Blaze always does that to me.

I step out onto the porch, coffee in one hand, and lean against the railing. The sun’s barely peeking over the treetops, casting the whole neighborhood in a golden haze. The air smells like charcoal and pine and the faint scent of last night’s fireworks, still hanging on.

My kids are inside, sleeping hard—tangled in blankets, probably with sticky hands and dirty feet. Wynn had a smear of dirt on her cheek when she came in this morning, eyes lit up like the goddamn sun.

I didn’t ask what she was doing. I already knew. The Secret Santa Box. I buried that damn thing myself the year after Sarah left. Wade was still in diapers. Wynn had just started walking. And Walker... hell, he didn’t understand why Mama wasn’t coming back, just knew she wasn’t.

So I made them a treasure. Something to look forward to. Something that would feel like theirs when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Over the years, other kids found it. Added their own junk, their own stories. And now my little girl’s out there digging it up with the next generation, making memories wrapped in dirt and mystery and outlaw magic.

I take a long sip of my coffee, eyes stinging more than I want to admit.

Wynn’s got that fire in her. She’s stubborn like me, wild like her mama used to be. She doesn’t let the world tell her who she is. None of my kids do. Walker’s coming into his own; quiet, thoughtful, always watching. Wade’s got a temper, but he’s got a good heart under all that bark. And Wynn... she’s all heart and claws, that one.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing enough. If I’ve given them what they need. But then I see them laughing with the other kids. Riding like hell through the neighborhood. Guarding secrets like treasure. Standing shoulder to shoulder with their cousins and club brothers like they were born to it. And I think maybe, just maybe, I didn’t screw it all up.

I built them a world. One that’s messy and loud and full of danger. But it’s also full of love. Of loyalty. Of people who’ll bleed for them. That’s more than I ever had growing up. I finish my coffee and glance toward the spot where the box is buried.

They don’t know I watched them. That I saw Wynn take the note and tuck it close like it meant something. Like she understood what it really said.

Don’t ever forget who you are.

I won’t. And I’ll make sure they never do either.

––––––––

---