Page 4 of Sinful Mafia Santa

I take a few minutes in front of the mirror. My hair is as hopeless as ever; I run my fingers through it, braid it loosely, take out the braid, and toss my head like a wild mustang. I have better luck with eye-liner—quick, decisive strokes to emphasize my dark green eyes. I add a dash of lipstick, drawing attention from my freckles.

I could spend more time in front of the mirror, but there isn’t any point. I want to be out in the club.

Stepping through the metal detector, I take a moment to get my bearings. The room is long, its exposed brick walls curving into the distance. Black leather chairs and couches are arranged in convenient clusters, as if to encourage conversation.

There are more people than I expected, but itisa Friday night. Women are dressed in everything from full-body vinyl catsuits to bare skin. One man kneels nearby in a gimp suit, bowing his head in front of his leather-clad dominatrix. Other men wear trousers, or boxers, or nothing.

There’s a surprising number of Santa hats in the crowd, and more than a few headbands with reindeer antlers. After I see my first-ever Prince Albert with a jingle bell attached, I realize I won’t think of Father Christmas in quite the same way, ever again.

As I walk toward the main bar, some men eye me from comfortable seats. Two raise glasses in easy-to-ignore invitations. One woman mouths from her couch: “Great shoes!”

A couple orders drinks in front of me. He says he wants a Dewars on the rocks, but she contradicts before the bartendercan pour. “Not tonight, Johnny. You’ve been a very bad boy. And what does Mommy say bad boys drink?”

“Milk,” Johnny says, scowling.

“Johnny will have milk,” Mommy says to the bartender.

The bartender pours cold milk into a highball glass with an apologetic smile to Johnny. I suspect the couple must be regulars.

The bartender turns to me. “And what can I get for you?”

“Whiskey,” I say. “Neat.”

He beams like I’ve aced my culinary school final on distilled spirits. “Do you have a preference?”

“She’ll have the Jameson 18,” says a man behind me.

I recognize the voice before I turn around. I’ve known it for years. I heard it the night Logan told me about his plans to open a sports bar with his best friend. I heard it the night I lost my v-card. The night my brother died.

“Aeryn,” he says.

And I force myself to look into the eyes of Gage Rider.

2

GAGE

She’s stunning.

I haven’t seen Aeryn Reardon since Logan’s funeral, almost exactly ten years ago. Then, she was a twenty-one-year-old kid—angry at the world for the shit luck that took her brother in a freak accident. Angry with me for being on the ice when it happened, for being too concussed to try to stop the bleeding. Angry with me for a hell of a lot more, if I let myself remember the truth.

Now, she’s a magnificent woman, with that mane of auburn hair and eyes as green as bottle glass. She’s confident, with her shoulders back and her chin held high. She’s distracting as hell in her high-end lingerie, wearing those red-soled shoes.

Aeryn always had good taste. Present company excepted.

I look straight into her eyes. “Of all the sex clubs in all the towns in all the world, you walk into mine.”

“Gage,” she says. Her voice is as cool as an ice rink as sheaccepts her pour of Jameson. Too late, I remember that Bogart loses Bacall inCasablanca.

I start to ask what brought her to New York, but I suspect her answer will be the upcoming anniversary. I have no idea how I’d respond to that, so I opt for a coward’s escape instead. “Welcome to Kynk.”

“Not quite the place you and Logan planned.” So she isn’t afraid to say his name.

“Plans changed.” I gesture at the room around us. “I grew up.”

Logan didn’t. The old Aeryn—Aeryn at the funeral—would have said it.

“I’m happy for you.” The new Aeryn has a softer edge.