Beyond Christmas (Corrupt Chaos MC #1.5) Read online

  Beyond Christmas

  Bink Cummings

  Copyright © 2015 by Bink Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Editor #1- Kristina Canady

  Editor #2- Genevieve Scholl

  My Beta Team – Jay Samia, Mary Bevinger, Teena Torres, Dyana Newton, Zetta Via, Jezebel, Pixie, and Tamra Simons.

  Extra Betas- Sue Banner, Nicole Knuiman & Rach Harrison

  Cover Artist - Bink Cummings

  Photos provided by- BigStock & Period Images

  Model: Scott King

  EBook Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the Author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This novel is a work of fiction and is not associated with any motorcycle clubs or persons.

  Scottish Word Index

  This book contains Scottish words and phrases. The ones included in this index are the ones chosen to be incorporated in this book to authenticate the character(s) without overwhelming the readers.

  Scottish - American

  Aboot - About

  Arse - Ass/Butt

  Aye - Yes

  Bonnie – Beautiful

  Cannae- Can’t

  Didnae – Didn’t

  Dinnae – Don’t

  Dunno – Don’t know

  Na – No

  Tae – To

  Wee – Small

  Ye – You

  Yer – Your

  Ye’re – You’re

  For,

  My Sacred Sisters who constantly push me to do better.

  You all mean the world to me.

  Table of Contents

  Scottish Word Index

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  To My Readers

  Bink Cummings Social Media

  Other Works: By Bink Cummings

  Merry Christmas. Season’s Greetings. Feliz Navidad. Ho-ho-ho. Happy Holiday.

  Am I annoying you, yet?

  No?

  Well, then, you haven’t been tormented like Bridget has.

  Listen … she’s about to blow as she squishes her cute face at me, standing in front of our fresh Christmas tree—I’ll get to the story about that later. You don’t wanna miss this.

  “Dad,” she whines, crossing her tiny arms over her chest.

  “Dad!” she yells this time, her eyes swinging from me to the new flat screen that’s in our entertainment center.

  “What?” he grumbles from the bathroom where he’s supposed to be showering. I’m waiting for him to finish so we can cuddle on the couch like we try to do every night.

  “She’s watching it again!” Her eyes roll, trying not to smile, but the corner of her lips give her away. She’s not really angry, just annoyed. Too bad. She can go downstairs if she can’t handle being here.

  From the bathroom, Lachlan curses under his breath. I can’t make it out, but I’m sure the words are colorfully stellar. “Pip, it’s Mags’s night tae pick the movie. Ye picked two nights ago,” he reminds.

  Shaking her head in his direction, she then swings her eyes back to the flat screen where the menu to the movie is waiting for us to hit play. “But, Dad, it’s always one of three movies. Make her like something else. This is getting old. When you were gone yesterday, she watched this one three times.”

  “Hey,” I mock scold. “You have your own TV. You didn’t have to watch it with me, twice.”

  “True. But how many times do you have to watch Tim Allen turn into Santa Claus?”

  “Until New Year’s,” I quip.

  “That’s two whole weeks away,” she groans, dropping her head in defeat.

  “Yes. And just think: you won’t be tormented by Tim or ‘It’s a dull life’ for another eleven months after New Year’s is over.” I air quote, stressing It’s a Wonderful Life, and calling it dull, because Bridget loathes that ‘old people’ movie.

  However, I adore it and so does Lachlan. Hey, it’s not my fault that Bridget’s been trying to make me hip with the times by forcing me to watch some godawful movies. Who in their right mind could find Juno appealing in the least? Bridget, apparently. Me and Lachlan, not so much. I find it only fair that I get to indulge in my own newfound treasures if I’m forced to endure her teenage bleck.

  “Pip, I’m not makin’ my leannan stop watchin’ the movies because ye’re tired of ‘em. If ye dinnae wanna watch, then dinnae watch. She made ye that meatloaf for supper tonight, so the least ye could do is stop bein’ a pain in the arse and let us watch it without complain’.” Lachlan finishes, then the water is flipped on and the bathroom door shuts. “Be out in a minute!” he hollers from the other side.

  “Fine,” Bridget mumbles, shuffling over to sit in one of our new recliners. She falls into it with an exaggerated huff, refusing to spare me a glance.

  “You don’t have to be such a spoilsport. This is my first Christmas I’ve spent with family in over a decade, and I’ve never watched a Christmas movie that I’ve liked.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad day,” she gripes, curling her pajama-clad legs under her and pulling the blanket off the back of the chair to snuggle under.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I could tell something wasn’t quite right when she came home from working at Whisky’s.

  “Cas is being a jerk.”

  “How so?”

  I listen to make sure Lachlan’s still in the shower. This is girl time and he doesn’t need to hear our conversation. We always try to set out time weekly to do this. Usually, it’s over some goodies that she brings home from Whisky’s. Tonight, it’s different. Something is eating at her. Even at dinner she was oddly quiet.

  Bridget fidgets in her chair, still staring at the TV screen, face sad. “I … um … His daughter Fawn, is home from school for the holidays. When I went to the shop today to see her, he gave me the cold shoulder when I asked where she was. Apparently, her boyfriend Greg, Craig, Corey … somethin’ or other,” she waves dismissively, “came with her and they weren’t there. I just wanted to catch up since we used to be good friends. Now she’s into partying, drinking, and stupid men.”

  “So you’re mad you didn’t get to see her, or because of Cas?” Sometimes, Bridget is hard to read, she spends a lot of time smiling and hiding stuff under that cheery façade.

  She shrugs. “Mostly because of him. I hardly go over there unless you’re working. But today I did and all he did was grumble something about Fawn and her boyfriend and that he wanted me to leave.”

  For months, I’ve been under the impression that Bridget has a tiny crush on Cas, which I don’t think is reciprocated. It’s innocent and never been acted upon. Nevertheless, her emotions tonight are case and point on my theory.

  “Don’t you think that maybe he was grumpy because she brought her boyfriend home and he’s having a hard time coping with it? From what I hear, most dads don’t handle their daughters having boyfriends very well.” Which is true. I d
on’t see Lachlan handling Bridget having a boyfriend very well, whenever that time does come. I’m kind of surprised it hasn’t already.

  A grumbly, “Maybe,” is all I get out of her before her dad finishes his shower, returns to the living room, and drops next to me on our new couch, wearing a pair of pajama pants and no shirt. It’s been months that we’ve been living together and seeing him with his shirt off still makes me gooey inside.

  Lachlan’s arm hooks over my shoulder, tugging me to his side and into my very own little cocoon of warm, manly scented skin. I turn into him and nuzzle my nose on the edge of his pec, inhaling deeply. Mmmmm.

  “Do ye like how I smell?” Lachlan muses.

  My nose gravitates closer to his nipple. “Ummm hmmm,” I purr.

  Bridget clears her throat. “Are we gonna watch this stupid movie or what? Or are you two gonna start making out like last week?”

  My skin heats at the memory. It was Santa Clause 2 night, and when Tim Allen kissed his woman, I might have been a tiny bit sentimental and kissed Lachlan at that same point. But, we didn’t stop kissing. Bridget ended up stomping to the basement just before Lachlan carried me into our bedroom and made slow, agonizing love to me. It was beautiful like it always is.

  “Aye, Pip; we’re gonna watch the movie. But we might make out, too.”

  I know he’s joking, but that doesn’t stop Bridget from shifting uncomfortably in her chair and releasing a frustrated huff. This Cas business must really be getting under her skin. She’s normally more playful than this.

  Lachlan hits the play button on the remote, tosses it onto the coffee table, and then pulls my legs over his lap so I’m basically sitting on him crossways. Taking advantage of my position, I curl my legs to my chest as his arms embrace me, and settle in for another movie night with the love of my life, and our girl.

  While we watch this movie for the hundredth time, why don’t I give ya the rundown of how the past few months have gone? You game?

  Yes?

  Good.

  On a less exciting note, I’m still working at Cas’s shop. Right now it’s the slow season for him because of the holidays, so he’s cut me back to twenty hours until after Christmas. Which is fine by me, because that means I can spend more time with Lachlan, or at Whisky’s helping her with her bakery. This is one of her busiest times of the year, so she’s been calling in extra helpers to pitch in. Apparently, people don’t want to cook their own baked goods anymore and expect her to cater to their every whim. It’s taxing, I can tell. She’s already run ragged and it’s not even Christmas yet.

  On a warm-my-heart note, our house is now beautiful. Not just Christmas décor beauty, but the redecorated and spruced up kind. Our bathroom was remodeled last month. It’s modern, sleek, and has an amazing counter for us to be naughty on. And we now have a shower/tub combo which has a sunken tub that both of us can fit in together. It’s one of our favorite spots. Some candles, soft music, bubble bath, and me nestled between Lachlan’s legs as we wash one another—pure bliss. Sheesh, just thinking about it makes me tingly. I guess I better stop that.

  With little regret, Lachlan’s makeshift couch-bed was hauled to the dump, and in its place there’s a new brown leather sofa and two matching recliners. Our house is really starting to look like a warm, inviting home. Especially with the overload of Christmas decorations that I’ve attained. This is the first year I’ve had a Christmas tree since Grams died. Every year before this felt like a waste of time, money, and space. Now, it’s become a holiday necessity and I absolutely love it.

  Now, about our tree that I was talking about. Last week, when we were gifted with a forty-something degree day, Lachlan, Bridget, and I scouted the five acres of forest that are part of Lachlan’s property in search of the perfect Christmas tree.

  “Dad, I think this is a waste of time. All of the trees out here are too large,” Bridget complained, trudging behind us on a makeshift path through the sticks and freshly fallen leaves. It was daylight, but with the tall trees and cloudy sky, it was dreary out, which didn’t help our mood.

  Fingers folded with mine, Lachlan halted and peered over his shoulder. “If ye dinnae wanna be here, then go home. We’ve only been lookin’ less than an hour. Where’s yer sense of adventure?”

  “I have one. I just don’t want to get Mags’s hopes up, only to be let down if we don’t find one.”

  “Aye, but searchin’ is part of the fun. And if we dinnae find one, we’ll buy somethin’ in town.”

  I was already tired of their banter. There was no need to worry about me.

  “Come on, you two.” I tugged on Lachlan’s hand with a sigh, propelling us forward over the uneven ground and through the barren trees.

  For three hours, we sought a tree, and just when we turned back to head home, three deer darted out of a large thicket to our right, and beyond it, the top of our Christmas tree emerged. With wide eyes, we stared in frozen awe.

  “That’s it,” Bridget breathed.

  “Yes, it is,” I fawned.

  “Aye,” Lachlan whispered and released my hand to tear apart branches and stomp a path through the dense thicket. As he did, Bridget and I huddled together hand-in-hand and followed him through, both of us gaping at the majestic tree living all on its lonesome in a small clearing. It was as if God had erected the beauty right before we’d arrived. It was perfect in all ways. The needles were hardy and thick. The height slightly taller than Lachlan. Even the smell was lovely.

  Not wasting any time, Lachlan pulled the pack off his back and set it on the ground. Rustling around in it, he removed a handsaw and went to work as Bridget and I stood back and watched. It took him about twenty minutes to clear the trunk and cut through it. Then, when it toppled over like you see on TV, both Bridget and I gasped, our hands flying to our mouths.

  Gathering it to transport home, Lachlan used a rope to tie it before slinging it over his shoulder and carrying it back to the house as if it was weightless. We remained quiet the rest of the journey. There wasn’t much to say. All I could do was watch in awe of Lachlan’s strength, and that tree flopping its green branches on his shoulder. The way he moved was graceful, even though the ground was full of tree roots, holes, and hidden obstacles. Not once did he stop, or let on he was strained.

  At our front door, he maneuvered himself with our tree inside and set the trunk in the stand in the corner. For two days, I left it raw and undecorated, until one night Bridget had come home from Whisky’s and the moment felt like the right time to decorate. So we did. Lachlan hung the colorful lights before Bridget and I draped ornaments over the branches. It’s not an expertly adorned tree, but it’s homey and fits our little family quite nicely.

  Speaking of our little family, here comes Pirate to curl in a ball under Lachlan’s legs, which are propped on the coffee table.

  I snuggle deeper into my man, and lips find my hairline. He presses a kiss there and whispers, “I love ye.”

  “I love you more.” I return, nuzzling my cheek to his pec and twirling my fingers in his chest hair. An iron thickness prods my hip and I wiggle on it.

  “Ye’re naughty,” he groans under his breath.

  I nod my agreement, my cheek brushing over warm flesh. He’s right; I am naughty. It’s impossible not to be with him. My hands can never keep to themselves, and frankly, I don’t want to. Heck, last time I rode on the back of his Harley with him, I spent half of the ride fondling Little Lachlan over his jeans. That got me into a bit of trouble when we arrived at Whisky’s and he was hard. I ended up scolded over that one. And couldn’t blame him for it. I know I deserved it.

  Bridget’s phone rings, stealing me from my thoughts as she slips it out from under her blanket. Pausing at the screen, she glares before accepting the call.

  “Yes, Mother?” Bridget drones and I spring upright. Lachlan doesn’t hesitate to tighten those steel arms around me, forcing me to stay put.

  “Now she’s calling her?” I whisper harshly, out of courtesy. W
hen all I want to do is yell so the bitch can hear. Yes, I said bitch. No, I’m not fond of that word. However, it’s rather fitting in this case.

  “Give our lassie some credit, and have some patience. Aye?” Lachlan urges, his lips kissing my cheek, trying to calm me. It doesn’t help. Although, those lips can touch me anytime they want.

  Turning my head, I kiss him briefly on the mouth to communicate my faith in our girl. He’s right. Bridget’s capable of taking care of it. She can handle Meredith better than most. I just don’t want her to have to do that. It seems unfair.

  “Yes; I’m spending Christmas at Whisky’s … No; of course you’re not invited.” Bridget snorts, unamused. “Why? Are you seriously asking me that? … Yes; Dad is going to be there with Mags. … Yes. Like I’ve told you a hundred times before, they’re in love. … No. I won’t do that. You did this to yourself. … Listen: if you want to plan something for Christmas with me, fine. But I’m not going to listen to you carry on like this. … Yep, I get it. But you need to move on and forget Dad. Let him and Mags live in peace. … No; that’s not an order. It’s a wise suggestion. But if you don’t stop this nonsense, I won’t be speaking to you anymore.”

  Jesus, just listening to Bridget talk to her mother has my hackles rising. I should be supportive, but it’s impossible. Not when all I want to do is gut punch the bitch and tell her to leave our happy little family alone. Far as I see it, I’m the only reason she’s not behind bars. When her court date came around and I hadn’t pressed charges, they put her in a drug rehab program, made her serve five days in jail, and attend counseling. Apparently, she’s thirty days sober. Whether I believe that or not is another story. But she’s not allowed to come here, and Bridget’s only seen her twice since she drove through the basement door. Both of those times she’s come home sullen, and the only thing that could fix her was sleeping it off—chocolate didn’t even help.