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Heather & Tate P.S. The dog does not die.
Sending the Christmas hating Grinch to Vogue Magazine’s Prettiest Place for Christmas was one thing. But this was a hundred times worse for me, because there was only one orphanage in Northland… and it was the one I’d grown up in. Fuck that. No way in hell I’ll be going home for Christmas. Not this year, not any year.
“You got run over by a Rayne Dear?”
I came to Northland to write a story about missing kids, not missing assholes from my past.
fucking, no. I jerked my arm out of his grasp. “You have a touchy feeling problem there, Alfie. Stop. Touching. Me.”
A choked sob stuck in my throat and my eyes misted over. The cookies were shaped like trees, but they weren’t decorated for Christmas. There was icing done in the shape of flowers. There was a little note next to it that read: For the not-Christmas tourist. I sniffled. They were the prettiest cookies ever. I ate all four of them.
Not even the strongest of grudges could withstand the power of Saint Nick on a mission, and right now… he had a point to make. Fuck, I was done for.
It was like he knew exactly how to dart in and around the barbed wire wrapped around my soul.
he’d earned the nickname of Saint because of the decidedly unsaintly things he’d done as a teen, so if I thought about it sarcastically then… maybe…
“I said Buddy the Elf, not Alfred Buddie.
“That was Frost flirting? Fucking weird but alright, who am I to judge?”
“We were never just friends, Rayne. You were—are—the sun of our solar system.”
“How do you want me, Saint Nick? Are you going to use me like a good little ho, ho, ho?”
“Now, Rayne, be a good girl and suck Alfie’s dick while I fuck your cunt.”
“This is about more than missing kids. It’s human trafficking, child slave labor, and murder all against the romantic, Christmassy backdrop of Northland.”
Christmas memories are meant to be cherished, passed down in families, and pulled out each new season to decorate our present with relics of the past in hope for the future. But for some, Christmas brings up haunting memories that are tattooed onto our very identities…
when you look at me like that, I want to strip you naked and bury my face in that cunt until you give me a bath.” The raw description sent heat pulsing through
“Aw it’s cute you think we would spend our Christmas day plowing the road instead of plowing you. Come on, hot stuff, we have places to be.”
“What was that you said earlier about taking three dicks at once? It just so happens… we have three available.”
“Fuck me, Saint Nick. Fuck my ass and come down my chimney.”
Who the fuck needed three wise men when you could have three well-hung ones instead? Merry Christmas to me, indeed.