Secret Santa Page 7

  “A promise.”

  Kitt had one long edge of the box pried open, tape torn away when he suddenly stopped and looked at the black case beside him. Dropping his package, letting it land in a noisy jangle in his lap, he leaned over and picked up what Truck now realized was an electronic tablet in a thick case. The boy’s fingers worked the buttons on the side as Kitt woke it up. Oh man, it took a bath in the creek, Truck thought, hoping that case was waterproof.

  Kitt’s motions were deft as he called up an app, then stopped and stared at the tablet for a moment before extending it to Truck. “Present.” Kitt’s fingers didn’t let go, though, his eyes flicking up and down, catching and releasing Truck’s gaze a half-dozen times before Kitt finally relaxed his grip. This was important to him, his present to Truck. Kitt’s voice was soft when he spoke, his face expressing how much he saw and knew, even if he found it hard to express. “Vanna Mom’s Santa.”

  Turning the device so he and Vanna could look at it, Truck’s breath caught in his throat as Vanna’s fingers clutched tight on his thigh. On the screen was an image of him and Vanna. Standing close, he held her in his arms as they danced in the living room last night. The picture captured them in mid-laugh, his head angled down and hers up, intently looking into each other’s face, identical expressions of happy discovery in place. He remembered thinking that he would gladly do the same thing every Christmas Eve if given the chance. So much possibility captured in this image, it was a promise of its own. The potential of a full, rich life filled with laughter and love.

  Truck turned his head to study Vanna seated beside him, her fingers wound around his leg and she raised one hand, fingertips tracing his face on the screen. Lifting her gaze to meet his, she offered him a tremulous smile and he reached out, cupping her cheek in his palm, loving how even in this small way she fit him. “Beautiful,” he said softly, brushing his thumb across those lips he so wanted to kiss. “Santa’s Vanna.”

  “DOG!” Kitt’s excited shout cut through the moment, jerking Vanna’s attention to the side and Truck took advantage of her distraction to lean forward, his hand bringing her face back to his so he could press his mouth to hers. “DOG!” Kitt had finished opening the last present and was excitedly clambering over Vanna’s lap to get to Truck, dangling a brilliant blue collar and leash in his face. “DOG!”

  “Getting’ a dog, Kitt?” He asked, grinning to see Kitt’s head bob up and down in a vigorous nod. “What kind of dog?” Kitt’s eyes widened, and he twisted to look at Vanna, the question echoed in his gaze.

  “Brutus got a girlfriend,” she told Kitt and the boy hooted. Turning to Truck she said, “Brutus is Blackie’s Great Dane.” He nodded, because he had met Brutus more than once. Stories for another day. There’ll be another day, he heard, I see good things. “We’ll go pick her up in a week, honey. Seven wakeups.”

  “Nope,” Gunny drawled, shoving up from where he sat on the floor, torn pieces of paper fluttering from his tree trunk legs. “Just so happens we swung through Texas on our way.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kitt

  Chin down, Kitt looked again at the picture on his tablet. Truck knew without being told the tablet wasn’t the present, the picture was. Vanna Mom and Truck. Without raising his head, he let his eyes wander across the floor, seeing Gunny stretched out flat of his back, Kitten lifted high as he swooped her side-to-side, child and man laughing. Airplane, he thought, his insides shivering, scary. Gunny’s head was in Sharon’s lap, and Cade was leaning against her Sharon Mom’s side, fingers playing with her long hair.

  Cutting his gaze the other direction, he saw two pairs of socked feet resting close together on the ottoman, legs extending to the couch where Vanna Mom sat right beside Truck. His arm was around her shoulder and Kitt liked how that looked. Liked how it made him feel inside. Hot and cold, because if Vanna Mom was happy it meant he could stop worrying she would be alone. He didn’t know what to think when he woke up last night, but after seeing them dancing he knew. I see good things, he thought, twisting to look at the gangly puppy curled up beside his leg.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kitt

  Four Christmases later

  Kitt glanced at his watch. Vanna Mom was late. Not frighteningly so. Not yet. But late was late and she didn’t do late. He glanced across the table to where Truck Pops sat, hand to his mug of coffee, the other holding a book flat on the table. Turning a page, he settled his hand back onto the book, then lifted the coffee, sipping without looking up. Kitt looked down at the tablet on the table in front of him, his book waiting patiently for his attention to return, no need to hold his place. Clock at the top glaring out the time.

  Since anime had captured his attention two years ago, he and Truck Pops had many discussions about their favorite ways to consume information. The tablet was far superior, he thought. Better, greater, excellent, first-rate.

  Stop it, he scolded himself.

  Glancing around the kitchen, Kitt took in the changes in their décor, something that he would have never noticed even a year ago, unless it disturbed him. Vanna Mom had known this, had known that misaligned edges or clashing colors set up a resonance inside him, that resulting vibration making it so he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe some days, so she had kept their house a safe place. A resting place.

  The walls were no longer empty. Different, he thought, but okay. He’d come home from Blackie’s last summer with a painted plate to hang. He and Randi, Blackie’s girl who was also his friend, but not his girlfriend, had painted it. Elias, who wasn’t Blackie’s son, but was Randi’s boyfriend in the way Kitt wasn’t even though Blackie said she would never be old enough to have a boyfriend, was there too, and while Kitt’s plate held a rooster, Elias’ plate was a lizard.

  “I like roosters better,” he said, gaze swinging to the wall of roosters decorating the kitchen. One wall out of four, the others left bare and he was often grateful for that space to rest his eyes. But, he liked the roosters, too. “Lots of roosters.” All different kinds. Plates and plaques, iron and wood, big and small, old and new. One a clock, a feather from the rooster’s tail the sweeping minute hand, pointing out the same thing his watch and tablet had told him. “Vanna Mom’s late.”

  A reassuring rumble rolled across the room, warmth settling into his chest from the care and concern carried on that wave. “She called, son. Unavoidably detained, but she’ll be here within thirty minutes of when she called. You talked to her. Twenty minutes ago. She’ll be here soon.” Truck Pops reminded him of something he should have remembered and Kitt frowned. It happened less often now, but sometimes he misplaced things like that. Chin to his chest, he looked down at the tablet, seeing it had gone to sleep. Like my brain.

  A rough tap woke it, an impatient swipe unlocked it. A touch to his leg made him take a breath, only realizing then that he was holding onto the air in his lungs. Trachea, bronchus, diaphragm. Aveoli, pleura, bronchioles, lobes.

  Stop it, he shouted in his head. He didn’t get as lost inside himself now, not as much as before, but it frustrated him when he couldn’t stop the thoughts from tumbling down the pathways in his mind. That touch came again, followed by a pressure on top of his thigh and he looked down, seeing mismatched eyes staring up at him. Blue and brown. Black and white. Charity.

  Now his mind carried a sing-song tune with the words he spun next, but he didn’t mind these, because his friend was every one of these to him. Goodness, mercy, beauty. Kindness, compassion, love. “Love.” Easy and natural, his muscles relaxed as he lifted a hand to Charity’s head, cupping her skull in his palm, feeling the heat radiating from her brain. Her brainbox worked so hard. Eyebrows moving up and down, she kept her worried gaze on him, loose lips drooling on his jeans. I got this, he thought. I see good things, she told him without words.

  Brain untangled, he found his words to tell Truck what he was thinking. “Mom’s never late. Is it the apartment?” Next Monday was M-Day. Moving day, Monday. Atlanta was big and
scary. Trains and busses everywhere, cars everywhere, people everywhere. Loud people. Smelly people. So many people. Pressure on his leg, a warm swipe of a tongue along the inside of his wrist let his lungs start working again.

  His thumb moved across the skin of Charity’s head, silken and smooth, the texture always pleasing under his fingers. Black and white, a patternless-pattern he had traced thousands of times. A thing that should have been certain to make him anxious allowing him to camouflage that anxiety within the pattern, hiding it from sight every time she pressed up against him. Harlequin. Clown. Jester. Charity.

  He pressed play on the memory in his head, like he’d tap an app on the tablet, hearing Vanna Mom—Mom, he corrected himself—telling him about the apartment. Patiently going over things for the kajillionth time with him because he wanted to make sure he had it right.

  “It’s a nice house, Kitt. A really nice house. Remember what it looked like from our visit? Half of the second floor is yours and your neighbor is a young man about your age. Pete has Down’s Syndrome, so you’ll have to take care with his feelings. His name is Pete.”

  “Pete,” he said, then looked up, realizing Truck Pops—Pops, he corrected himself—had said something. “Sorry?”

  “Nothing’s happened with the apartment, Kitt. We’re still right on track with everything. No holding back there, you’re moving in next week.” Truck lifted a hand in a silent question and Kitt nodded, breathing easier when it settled on his shoulder. Heat flowed through him from that connection, meeting the heat from his hand on Charity somewhere in the middle, working together to unravel his words again.

  “I worry. Not about Mom.” Eyes to the table, he still knew Pops’ face changed, softened when he admitted that wasn’t a concern anymore. Pops understood a lot without Kitt’s words, had known from the beginning that his worst fear was Mom would be alone. He needed to figure out how to live in the world as it swirled around him, and he was excited about that chance, but worried because he was all she had once. “She’s got you now.” Fingers squeezing tight on his shoulder, anchoring him like the constant pressure on his thigh from Charity’s head. “She needed you, Pops.”

  “I think we needed each other, son.” Kitt nodded, glancing up to see Pops’ eyes pointing his way. Glancing down and back up, he nodded again. Pops dipped his face, making a point to lock his gaze on Kitt’s face when he said, “I needed you, too, Kitt.” Charity’s eyes, one mottled brown and one crystal blue, stared up at him. She licked the inside of his wrist again, the rasping swipe of warmth reassuring.

  “Charity will miss the house.” I’m going to miss the house. Flicking his gaze around the room, he settled on the wall of color. “The roosters.”

  “Mark which ones you want to take with you,” Pops said immediately, understanding without judging. “We’ll get a special box to put them in, make sure they travel well. Set them up first thing so you can see them.”

  Kitt nodded, glad beyond anything he could ever hope to communicate that this man came to their house four Christmas Eves ago. Glancing up, he gave Pops a grin, not even one he had to practice in the mirror, trying hard not to look into his own eyes because that was the worst. Seeing himself the way other people saw him, all sticking-up hair and anxious eyes, lips that didn’t know what to do with themselves, hands that were worse with the not-knowing. Not the him he knew he was inside. But a grin that came easily was good and right, and that’s what he had right now. Good and right. “Presents tomorrow.”

  “Yeap, presents tomorrow. Know which one you want to open first?” Kitt twisted in his chair, dislodging Charity’s head to look at the tree. She groaned her disapproval and immediately reclaimed her place, moving from under the table to his side to do so.

  “Smallest.” There was a tiny package hanging from one branch of the tree and he thought he knew what it was. Not that he’d ever tell Mom he’d figured it out, but he was sure it held a key and keyring. My apartment, he thought. A promise, he heard in his head, that woman’s voice coming less frequently in past months, still reassuring. Yeah, he told her. A promise from Mom to me. “You?”

  Pops’ response was lost in the sound of a car coming down the road and Charity’s ears perked up, her tilted head aimed at the door. Not barking, which meant, “MOM.”

  “Sounds like it. She’s going to have groceries, but give her a minute to hide anything she doesn’t want us to see.” Christmas meant secrets, but not bad ones. Good ones. Ones you had to let the other person have, even if it made your brain crazy with thinking and wondering. Secrets he could keep better next year.

  “Christmas year next could be mine.” A tree in his apartment. Twisting to look at the one in the dining room, he tilted his head like Charity did sometimes. “Not big.” Swinging back to Pops, he grinned, right and good again. “Mine.”

  “You got it, if Mom’s good with the idea. Christmas at your place next year. Small tree doesn’t mean small celebration.” Pops grinned back at him, lips lifting the beard framing his mouth, round glasses perched on his nose because he’d been reading. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Later that night Kitt sat on the stairs in what had become his favorite perch, staring through the railing at his mom and a fulfilled promise. A promise Pops fulfilled every year when he did this. The scratching sounds came from the record player, then music filled the air, soft and sweet, soothing. Christmastime wouldn’t be scary, not even in the city, not according to these words. There’d be people, but Mom and Pops wouldn’t let him be alone to be afraid. Heat radiating from beside him, he reached out to lay a hand on Charity’s back, feeling the rumble of her groaning approval.

  In the living room, the parents he loved more than he could ever say swayed together, moving to the music as they had so often since Pops knocked on their door. These were the good things he had seen that long ago night, the promise of love and a family. Charity leaned into him and he gave her a hug. Big and solid, she made things better. Another promise fulfilled.

  From the kitchen he heard the brief crow of a rooster, signaling midnight. With a grin, he watched as Pops’ head dipped down, kissing Mom. He had to wait a long time before they were done. Before he saw them looking at each other like they always did, as if the joy and love they found there were a pleasant surprise. He waited another minute, letting the song wind down to quiet before he did what he always did.

  “PRESENTS!”

  ~Fini~

  Merry Christmas to all of you!

  ~ML

  THANK YOU FOR READING SECRET SANTA!

  Thank you for reading Secret Santa, the free short story for 2016, lining up as #9.75 in the Rebel Wayfarers MC series. A story that is personal and close to my heart, I hope this is a conversation starter for many people.

  You can find out more about Erin Hanson, the Australian poet mentioned in the acknowledgements, on her website: thepoeticunderground.com

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Raised in the south, MariaLisa deMora learned about the magic of books at an early age. Every summer, she would spend hours in the Upshur County library, devouring stacks of books in every genre. She still reads voraciously, and always has a few books going in paperback, hardback, on devices! On music, she says, “I love music of nearly any kind—jazz, country, rock, alt rock, metal, classical, bluegrass, rap, gangstergrass, hip hop—you name the type, I probably listen to it.

  “I can often be seen dancing through the house in the early mornings. But what I really, REALLY love is live music. My favorite way to experience live music is seeing bands in small, dive bars [read: small, intimate venues]. If said bar [venue] has a good selection of premium tequila, then that’s a definite plus! Oh, and since I’m a hand gal, drummers are my thing—yeah, Paul and Alex—you know who you are!”

  ADDITIONAL SERIES AND BOOKS

  Please note each book is part of a series, for the most part featuring characters from additional books in the series. If the books in a series are read out of order, you’ll twig to spoilers for the
other books, so going back to read the skipped titles won’t have the same angsty reveals.

  It is strongly recommended they be read in order.

  Rebel Wayfarers MC series:

  Mica, book #1

  A Sweet & Merry Christmas, short story #1.5

  Slate, book #2

  Bear, book #3

  Jase, book #4

  Gunny, book #5

  Mason, book #6

  Hoss, book #7

  Harddrive Holidays, short story #7.5

  Duck, book #8

  Biker Chick Campout, short story #8.5

  Watcher, book #9

  A Kiss to Keep You, novella #9.25

  Gun Totin’ Annie, short story #9.5 (2017)

  Secret Santa, novella #9.75

  Bones, book #10 (2017)

  Never Settle, short story #10.5 (2017)