Page 15 of Sinful Mafia Santa

I wonder if Gage is at the club right now. Or maybe he’s watching his hockey team. The Aces are on the road, playing in Toronto. He could have taken a private plane up to Canada.

I hate that I know the Aces’ schedule. I hate that I still check their standings every morning, exactly the way I did when Logan was still alive. I hate that they’re having their best year in a decade, that they’re finally in contention for the Stanley Cup.

The press will have a field day if the Aces go all the way this year. Gage will have back-to-back interviews for weeks. Everyone will want to know how it feels to win in this anniversary year of Logan’s death.

Do not fucking think about Gage Fucking Rider.

I don’t realize I’ve made a decision until I’m pulling on my sexiest knickers—high-cut black lace, with a trio of tiny red roses centered over each hip. I add the matching bra. I cover up with a Prada knit dress in pine green.

My feet scream when I slip on my Louboutin stilettos. It hurts to be beautiful—that’s what Mam always said. I can manage. It’s not like I’ll be walking the length of Manhattan again.

The doorman hands me into my taxi without a second glance. The cabbie shakes his head in confusion when I give him the address, but he passes me his phone and lets me type in the destination.

As we make our way toward the Brooklyn Bridge, I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. Kynk is a private club. I’m not a member. There is no way in hell I’m getting past the dangerously efficient door dragon, much less the security guards in the lobby.

But I don’t tell the driver to turn around.

The shadows framing the door seem darker tonight than they did when I arrived with Will. The walk from the curb seems longer. My fingers hover over the latch for a full minute before I find the courage to step inside.

A stranger sits behind the desk. She’s tall and curvy and blonde, and according to the flag pins on her lapel, she speaks different languages than Lydia. But her smile is the identical cool professional greeting as she says, “Good evening.”

“I’m Aeryn Reardon,” I say.

I’m about to ask her to summon Gage so I can plead my case. But the woman’s fingers move before I can beg for help. She taps her tablet, and she nods precisely at what she sees.

“Excellent, Ms. Reardon. I see you’re on our guest list. Welcome to the Mistletoe Masquerade.”

6

GAGE

“Ho, ho, ho,” I bellow from the center of the dais in the Heart, pushing my red Santa cap off my forehead for what feels like the hundredth time. I’ve skipped the fat suit and the beard for my role in Secret Santa, opting for a tuxedo instead. I’m the only person in the room not wearing a mask.

“I have one last gift in my bag,” I announce. “What good little girl or boy is still waiting for a present?”

It isn’t Aeryn.

I put her on the list like I was some sort of lovelorn teenager, some pimple-faced loser afraid to ask a girl to Prom. By giving her name to Felicia, I could pretend that I was taking charge of my own fucked-up life.

Too little.

Too late.

Last night, I should have told Curtis to take both of us back to the Waldorf. I should have sent my driver home for the rest ofthe night, saved myself the long, lonely cab ride back to Brooklyn.

Aerynwantedme to join her. She practically invited me to her room. Keeping some promise to Logan now won’t bring him back from the dead.

But I let her go—again. And I didn’t pound on her door at three in the morning. I didn’t even call her today.

I fucked up.

“Excuse me. Santa? Do you have a gift for me?”

I look down from the dais into the masked eyes of a woman dressed as a black cat. She has streaks of gray in her short, severe bob. Her melon-size tits aren’t original equipment; they look absurd with her wasp waist. Her jet-black catsuit accentuates the mismatch.

Aeryn would stop men’s hearts in that catsuit.

Mistletoe Masquerade is open to all club members. But Secret Santa requires a little extra holiday spirit—a thousand-dollar donation to my pet charity, Wounded Heroes United. In exchange, submissives get a gift-wrapped box and Doms get their names slipped into one of the Christmas ornaments hung on the tree. Every year, it takes a little backroom recruitment to guarantee an equal number of subs and Doms, but the effort pays off in the end.