Page 70 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Warmth and safety.

Tonight was for Aaron.

For Kenny to love him in the way only he could.

So his focus narrowed tothatthought. Giving Aaron his undivided attention, stripped of everything clinical. Tonight wasn’t about catching monsters.

It was about reminding the man he loved he was nothing like them.

chapter twelve

Christmas Is Going to the Dogs

Aaron fucking hated that new car smell.

It was artificial. Performative. Someone trying to convince you they had their shit together with leather seats and overpriced air freshener. A lie disguised as polish. No different from spraying cologne over three days of sweat and pretending that made you clean. But here he was, strapped into the passenger seat of whatever self-congratulatory penis-extension this was, with Hugo Blackwell behind the wheel. Designer suit, smug smile, aftershave strong enough to make his nose sting.

He resisted the urge to roll the window down and vomit.

He reminded himself, once again, that this was for the dogs. For the cameras. The stupid festive photos to get hearts melting and fingers clicking to donate. This was a PR move to pull on the public’s last working nerve. Local boy and rescue dogs visit the homeless shelter with the mayor in tow. Cue the soft-focus lens and swelling music.

People didn’t buy Christmas cards anymore. They donated. Guilt was the new glitter. And yeah, fine, it was agood cause. The shelter needed funds. The dogs needed homes. The island could do with a bit more compassion.

He just wished he wasn’t stuck doing it next tothisbloke.

“Thank you for stepping in to do this, Aaron.” Blackwell had one hand on the wheel, one arm draped on the centre console, as they turned into the heart of town. “I think you might be the right draw.”

Aaron said nothing.

He ducked deeper into his scarf, chewing on his bottom lip as the streets blurred past the passenger window. He could feel Blackwell’s glance. Measuring. Lingering. But he refused to give him the satisfaction of looking back.

Everything about Blackwell put Aaron on edge, and it didn’t matter that there were two dogs in the boot and Jonathon on the backseat with his headphones in. He still felt as if he were alone with the man. Was it because he reminded him of that foster carer? The one who held doors open only to shut them behind him? Or was there something more nefarious?

Or, as Kenny would say,intuitive?

If he stopped to analyse it, and he probably should considering who he was sleeping with, Blackwell grated on him because he was polished to the point of parody. All smooth charm and curated smiles, as if he practiced them in the mirror until they passed inspection. He didn’t talk, heperformed. Every compliment came laced with terms and conditions, approval dressed up as generosity.

Aaron knew the type. He’d grown up under it.

People who used warmth like a crowbar.

Pry. Wedge.Crack.

Fuck, his mother was the blueprint. All saccharine smiles and manicured cruelty, served with a side of religiousdelusion and full-blown batshit. Or, in clinical terms, narcissistic sociopath with psychotic tendencies.

He knew what manipulation looked like when it wore a kind face.

And Blackwell’s face wastookind.

“It’s nice to get this time with you.” Blackwell adjusted the heater, the vent hissing and blowing warm air directly at Aaron’s face, making his hair lift as if he was in some staged ad for shampoo and trauma. “To get to know you a bit.”

Aaron turned the vent away. The silence was his answer.

But Blackwell wasn’t done. “Tessa mentioned you’re new to the island, too?”

Aaron nodded. Lips zipped.

“How long?”