Page 34 of Sinful Mafia Santa

I sink onto the one bench still standing in its proper place.

Da’s pilot is supposed to fetch me from Teterboro before dawn tomorrow. I might as well call him now. Tell him to file new flight plans. Fly me from Atlantic City to home. He can do it tonight, and we’ll both have all of Christmas Day with our families.

My phone feels too heavy in my hand, like someone swapped my usual mobile for a lead brick. I stare at the screen for longer than I should. It takes forever for me to remember that I correspond with the pilot by text; that’s how we schedule our travel.

I pull up the last message I sent, confirming my plans for tomorrow. I tap the number, then the bright blue icon that launches a call.

One ring.

Two.

It’s Christmas Eve; we must be getting close to midnight. Of course the pilot isn’t answering.

Three rings.

A fourth.

Voicemail picks up, and I swallow before I start my message. “My plans have changed, and I’m heading back to Chicago as soon as possible. But I’m no longer leaving from New York. I’m heading back from?—”

“Aeryn.”

It’s Gage’s voice, behind me. I choke off my message to the pilot.

“Hang up,” Gage says.

My phone feels frozen in my hand.

“You can call him back in a minute,” Gage says. “Just let me say something first. Please…”

He circles the bench like he’s crossing a minefield to stand in front of me. As my fingers start to tremble, Gage Rider sinks to his knees.

14

GAGE

Itake her phone out of her hand, tapping the screen to end her call. I place it on the bench beside her, close enough that she can grab it if she wants to. She needs to know she has options. She’s the one in control.

Her hands are shaking like she’s soaking in an ice bath after a particularly brutal game. I take them between mine, wishing I could fill her with comfort as easily as I transfer warmth.

“Aeryn,” I say, to make her look at me.

She doesn’t want to. She stares at the mirror I broke when I threw the bench across the room. She frowns when she spies a bit of wood that broke off one of Logan’s picture frames. She closes her eyes as I wait.

“Aeryn,” I say again. “I fucked up everything. It’s all my fault.”

Because that’s the truth. After my tantrum, after tearing apart the locker room, the equipment room, my fragile hold on my temper, I’ve plummeted to the bottom line.

Ifucked up.

Ten years ago.

Tonight.

All of this is on me. And looking at the wreckage of my life, I can only pray it isn’t too late to convince Aeryn to forgive me.

Her sigh is so exhausted I want to gather her close to my chest, to swaddle her in flannel, to wrap her in down comforters. I want to keep her whole and safe and comfortable forever.

“I was there, too,” she finally says. “Not at the feckin’ game—that was just an accident. But I was on Beach Avenue for the entire month. I was the eejit who chose to hide.”