Lesbian Assassins Stocking Stuffer Read online

Probably—Rosie had been responsible for the spiking, and I was a total lightweight. One who shouldn’t have had leftover eggnog for breakfast.

  A blast of cold hit my face. “Through the door here and then three more steps down.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Rosie had taken over navigation. I was on my way to my first present of the morning, and I didn’t want to die before I got there.

  Or possibly I did. The look in Lelo’s eyes as she blindfolded me had been something to behold.

  I could feel the snow under my feet, the odd stillness of the downtown streets, the hushed expectancy as if even the two-hundred-year-old buildings of Lennotsville wanted to know what I was getting for Christmas.

  The sexy gypsy pulled me to a quiet halt. “Don’t move or you’ll fall off the curb,” she whispered.

  “You take the blindfold off, Rosie.” Lelo sounded almost breathless. “I want to watch her face.”

  “We all do, sugar.”

  Damn—that was Mrs. Beauchamp. And judging from the suddenly not-so-quiet murmurs, she wasn’t alone. I leaned over in the direction I hoped Rosie was still standing. “Just how many people are out here?”

  She chuckled. “A good-sized bar full. At least.”

  On Christmas morning? “Does this involve anybody dancing naked?”

  Carly elbowed me from the other side. “If you don’t do this soon, Manny’s going to bust a gut.”

  There were kids here. On Christmas morning. “What, did Santa get lost or something?”

  “You’re a town celebrity,” said Rosie quietly, raising a hand to the back of my head. “Get used to it. Ready?”

  Not even kind of. “Okay.”

  She slid the blindfold off. My eyes slammed shut, partly in defense against the blinding, snow-bright light—and partly because I was a wimp.

  “You gotta look!” shouted a helpful voice from the audience.

  I wasn’t supposed to be a wimp anymore. I screwed my eyes back open. And stared.

  At my face. And at the rest of me, in my red dress and heels, a microphone in my hand and a sexy, sultry look in my eyes that belonged to a bluesy siren—plastered in life-size, screaming color all over the side of the van. “I don’t look like that.”

  Lelo snickered. “Yup. You do.”

  I couldn’t look away. “We can’t drive around in that.” Our battered white van had been the epitome of road anonymity.

  My crab shell had just been pulverized.

  “It’s good advertising.” The kid was starting to sound a little worried. “I got it printed, but Rosie took the pictures and Carly helped with the layout so we didn’t split your head across the door or something dumb like that.”

  I had no words. Not a single, damn one.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said a hissing voice at my shoulder.

  Carly, riding to my rescue. Or possibly to Lelo’s.

  I peeled my eyes away from Jane Philpott, forty-four-year-old sex symbol, and looked into the uncertain brown eyes of the teenager who had festooned me all over my own van.

  She looked down somewhere in the direction of my knees. “Sorry. I think I screwed up.”

  Someone had—and it wasn’t the kid in the Santa hat and elf earmuffs.

  I walked over and touched my face, riding high on the side of the sheet metal that had encapsulated my life for three years. And then carefully avoided the tormented gaze of the person who had just stripped me naked and raised a come-hither eyebrow at my ex-partner. “I think I just became the hottest chick in town.”

  Carly snorted and looked over at the adoring crowd. “Sorry, Mrs. B—you just lost your title.”

  I let the banter and the chatter of a whole bunch of people who had left their warm houses to come see me pasted on the side of a van on Christmas morning wash over me. And warmed my heart in Lelo’s incandescent glow.

  The music of my new life.

  -o0o-

  I was losing my battle and I was losing it fast.

  The sun still hadn’t hit high noon and I was well on my way to becoming Christmas goo.

  My presents had given the meltdown plenty of momentum. Rosie had put on her beaded, spangly vintage vest right over top of her pajamas—and kept touching it with delighted, happy fingers. Carly had laughed like hell at the cement garden statue I’d found in a little junk shop on the side of the road. And promptly planted the fierce pixie wielding two knives longer than her arms in Rosie’s garden, right next to the monkshood.

  Then we came back inside and Lelo brought me a present from under the tree. It was a neatly wrapped box that turned out to have a book in it—one of those big coffee table ones that you can’t possibly hide from curious gypsies and ex-assassins. One with me on the cover, sitting on a bar stool in jeans and flannel, laughing my fool head off.

  A moment of fountaining happiness—and I had no idea when it had been taken. These last weeks, there had been so damn many of them.

  “Open it,” said Lelo, crowding closer. “It’s from the band and the crew.”

  I looked at her upheld phone. “If this video ends up on YouTube, you’re a dead woman.”

  She just grinned.

  I made it three pages in—and then I carefully closed the book and held it to my heart. It was photos. Candid shots from the last three months, full of all the faces I’d come to love. And handwritten letters from every last one of them. Words of hope, words of thanks, words of occasionally ribald humor.

  I was going to need to read them very slowly. And off video. I looked into Lelo’s phone and offered up the least goopy smile I could manage. The book was thoughtful and beautiful and it would melt my heart a hundred times over—and it was a lasting reminder of something I still needed to hear, over and over and over again.

  There are so many ways to make a difference.

  And there were still more things under the tree for me. From Rosie, a scrap quilt for my bed that looked like it had been made from half her closet. Wild, riotous color—the kind that would welcome me home with a smile every damn time. And flannel sheets. Red ones.

  “Those are from me.” Carly grinned. “I got Rosie some too.”

  The sexy gypsy was cuddling a swath of blue silk. “These aren’t flannel.”

  Of course they weren’t. When Carly loved, she did it with wild abandon—and more insight than most people gave her credit for. I reached for a lumpy package behind my chair. It was time for people besides me to get all gooey. It took both hands to lift it. “Here, this is for both of you. From the kid.”

  Lelo sat quietly on the edge of the couch, holding her breath. Rosie glanced over and then held out her hands. Slowly. Reverently. Accepting whatever items of deep importance lived in the lumps.

  Reverence fled as they made their way through fifteen layers of newspaper and duct tape and garbage bags. And then landed again with two feet as Rosie reached in her hands and pulled out a helmet—one with fierce, gorgeous hand-drawn art covering every inch. She smiled and held it out to Carly. “This one’s yours.”

  My ex-partner stared at the helmet, and then looked at Lelo, a little dazed. “You did that?”

  “I had help.” The kid shrugged diffidently. “Lots of it. The design’s mine, though.”

  Rosie wasn’t saying anything. She was just cuddling the second helmet in her lap—and letting her tears drip on it.

  “I thought they’d be good for your new bikes.” Lelo sounded a little desperate—and reminded me that at the bottom of it all, she was still a sixteen-year-old kid. One who hadn’t had enough experiences of totally unconditional love in her life, even though she handed it out like candy.

  And these were two of the people she loved most.

  Rosie caught on first. But in a move that was so subtle I barely saw it, she nudged Carly’s foot and passed the torch to the woman who had always been able to make a certain sixteen-year-old shine brightest.

  My ex-partner traced her finger over some of her helmet’s artwork. “You’re really talented.”


  Truth. The kid had ended up in charge of tour artwork about ten minutes after she’d picked up a pencil to sketch out an idea one day. But the helmet in Carly’s hands was about a lot more than art. I waited—no way a gasoline heart was going to get this wrong.

  Carly finally looked up, eyes full of pure, stunned love. “You totally get me. This is totally, completely me.”

  The kid somehow managed not to blubber. Rosie and I didn’t do nearly as well.

  Carly traced another line on the helmet—and then she held it up to the ceiling, eyes flashing wild glee. “I’m going to be the baddest thing on the road.”

  I watched as she jammed the helmet on her head and danced around the living room with a ninety-pound kid in black, and wasn’t sure my heart could take anything more. Two souls who hadn’t had nearly enough happy holidays, wringing every drop out of this one.

  I gave up—and let goo happen.

  Merry Christmas, one and all.

  Thank You

  I appreciate you reading!

  As you likely know if you’ve read this far, I’m an author who ranges widely in what I write—but I always try to deliver great characters and stories that speak to what matters.

  I assume you’ve read my assassins, but if you haven’t given my new series a chance, try Destiny’s Song. It’s science fiction, but done my way—it might just surprise you :). The next release in that series will be out in February.

  To know when my next book is out, head to audreyfayewrites.com and sign up for my New Releases email list. You can also find me on Facebook.

  Happy holidays, all.

  Audrey