Wish lists expand and checking accounts shrink.
Temperatures drop and tempers flare.
Let’s combat the holiday chaos with the Tipsy Santa Flash Fiction event! Below is my contribution to the Tipsy Santa event, with just a dash of suspense to whet your palate for more. The full story should be out in 2019 under the title, ANGEL INK, book 3 in the Concrete Angels MC series. Right now, you're with Haley Michaels and the holiday party is not going the way she'd like. If you want to read the beginning of the scene, you can find it HERE. Want to write your own entry? Click HERE.
Happy holidays and happy reading!
I reached for the door to pull it open but stopped. Think forensics. The last thing I wanted to leave were footprints or fingerprints. I used the heel of my shoe to tug the door open wide enough to slip through, careful not to step in any of the blood. I wanted to bolt toward the elevators, but I forced myself to go slow enough to miss smudging the evidence. Forensics, forensics, forensics.
I made it to the elevators and used the heel of my shoes to press the down button. Take only mental pictures and leave nothing else. Yeah, didn’t have the same ring to it as the usual line, but I didn’t want to broadcast my involvement. I put my shoes back on, the heels tight and cold, and stepped into the car. Shit, how am I gonna press the floor number?
I stood there a few moments, trying to decide when I remembered the party on the next floor down. Hundreds of people had pressed that floor number to get to it. Mine would be with everyone else’s print on the button. Despite that reassurance, I used the hem of my dress to cover my finger as I made my selection.
I could hear the holiday music long before the doors opened and the volume blasted at me as soon as they did. I grimaced and stepped into the room, the party going full swing. More so if the bra hanging from the overhead light fixture is any indication. People were “dirty dancing” in the middle of the room where they’d pushed the furniture aside. Some were pretty good at it--er, correction, those people might actually be having sex—while others swayed drunkenly along the edges. One woman bent over, her shoulders heaving as she puked. On her knees. In some guy’s lap? Definitely not puking.
Holy shit, I’d gone away for about an hour, and the party turns into a drunken holiday orgy while the ADA gets murdered upstairs. Might as well be the Nakatomi Plaza. Yippy-kai-yay, mudfucker. I spotted my “date” sharing a ménage with the man and women he’d been hanging around earlier and headed for the coat room. Was sex at a holiday party considered prostitution? I didn’t really want to know. I had to find a phone.
I threw my coat over my shoulders and shoved my arms through the sleeves just as someone stumbled into me. Two someones. I lost my balance and fell into the mass of coats on the hangers, dropping to the floor. A high-pitched giggle was followed by the sound of a belt buckle coming undone and a drunken male grunt.
“Oh, yeah, baby. Whip out that man-meat.”
They’re not gonna—Never mind.
Another male grunt combined with a matching female grunt and the sound of bodies hitting the wall, rhythmically, filled the coatroom space. The scent of arousal mixed with alcohol perfumed the air and I rubbed my face with my hands. I so don’t need this.
Gritting my teeth, I stood up and pushed my way through the coats. “Excuse me.”
The woman squawked, which was pretty impressive since the guy had her damn near folded in half against the wall as he jack-hammered into her. He didn’t even pause as I shoved past and I left them to their conjugal relations. I needed to get out of here and find a phone.
And a ride. How the hell was I gonna get home? What I really need is a guardian angel. I stepped onto the elevator and let it carry me away from the folks getting carried away upstairs.
When the elevator doors opened, I headed for the security desk, but the phones had been shut down for the holidays. Great. Outside it is. But the moment I stepped outside, my gaze landed on the man waiting for me on his bike in the snow. Holy shit, it’s the guy from the Museum.
742 #CockyBikerWIP words