Page 2 of Santa Daddy
Wet impact. Fist meeting flesh.
Choking. Gurgling.
Run. Right fucking now.
My legs turned to stone.
Three gunshots cracked the air.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
I dropped.
Hit frozen ground hard enough to see stars. Snow burned through tights, biting my palms. My bells screamed.
Shut up shut up shut up.
I scrambled toward the dumpster on hands and knees, pine needles stabbing my skin. Garbage smell hit me—rotting food and something dead.
Then copper.
Sweet and thick.
Blood.
I wedged myself between dumpster and chain-link, gasping. My whole body shook.
Don't look. Don't you fucking dare?—
I looked.
The body sprawled across snow. Expensive suit. Blood spreading like spilled wine, impossibly red against white.
His face turned toward me. Eyes empty. Mouth slack.
Steam rising from the holes in his chest.
My stomach heaved. Bile flooded my mouth. I swallowed hard, tasting peppermint and copper and fear.
A man stepped into view.
Alone.
Tall. Broad. Black coat that moved like water when he walked.
He crouched beside the body. Checked for pulse with two fingers.
Nothing.
Pulled out his phone. The screen lit his face for three seconds.
And I saw him.
Really saw him.
Fuck.
He was built like violence wrapped in a saint's face. Sharp jaw that could cut glass, dusted with stubble too perfect to be accidental. Mouth carved for sin and cruelty in equal measure. Dark hair swept back from a face made of brutal angles.
