Christmas from Hell
Page 13

 
At sixteen her father had been given a choice by social services, take the baby and raise it, or put it up for adoption. Her grandfather on the other hand had felt that the choice had already been made. He’d taken Necie out of the arms of the social worker, kissed her forehead, named her after her grandmother and headed straight to the grocery store where with the help of her father and three stock boys, they’d loaded up on formula, diapers and every single baby necessity they could find.
 
Her father had been a good father to her, had planned on raising her by himself and had been well on his way to doing that when he was killed by a drunk driver on the night that he’d received his first orders. He’d joined the Marines as soon as he’d found out about her and had planned to be there for her, providing her with the best life the Core could give them.
 
She couldn’t remember much about him other than he always had a smile on his face. He’d certainly looked happy in all the photos of them. Her father had made a mistake when he was young, but he’d never treated her like one. Instead, he’d treated her like a blessing that he never wanted to let go, but thanks to a woman who hadn’t known her limit, he’d been taken away from her too soon.
 
The loss of her father had devastated her grandparents, but they hadn’t allowed their world to crash down around them. Instead, her grandfather had retired from the Marines, started working at the bakery he’d inherited from his parents and that his wife had run in his absence and took Necie under his wing. Before she was four years old she could make a buttercream frosting to die for and do a perfect pushup.
 
Her grandparents had loved her and had raised her like she was theirs even as they made sure that she never forgot how much her father had loved her. They’d given her the world and for that she would always be grateful to them, but that didn’t mean that she was going to overlook the trauma inducing conversations like this one.
 
“Necie,” he said firmly, gesturing towards the banana and the condom.
 
She looked up and met his glare with one of her own, opened her mouth to argue with him when she spotted it. It was small and probably something that anyone else would have overlooked, but she wasn’t anyone else.
 
“Double chocolate donut,” she said, cocking an eyebrow in challenge, daring him to lie to her when she could clearly see the proof of his indiscretion just below his chin in the form of a smudge.
 
Terror shot through his expression as he took an involuntary step back from her, momentarily forgetting about the condom and banana as he nervously licked his lips and shot an anxious glance towards the closed office door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said even as he reached up and discretely wiped at his mouth and chin in a very sad attempt to get rid of the evidence, but he’d missed his mark and she wasn’t falling for it and they both knew it.
 
“Really? Should we go see Dr. Ketchman and have your blood sugar checked?” she offered in a syrupy sweet tone that earned one of the nastiest glares that she’d ever seen grace his handsome face.
 
“No,” he said firmly as though his refusal meant anything to her.
 
It didn’t and they both knew it.
 
So, it wasn’t exactly surprising when they both narrowed their eyes on one another.
 
“Should we talk about the man that slept in your room all night?” he asked, going for the kill subject that would automatically win him any conversation.
 
Duncan Bradford.
 
He was the one thing that she absolutely refused to talk about and he knew it and had absolutely no problem using it against her when it suited his needs. He’d been caught red handed and they both knew it, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight and she…
 
Crap!
 
She didn’t want to discuss Duncan Bradford, the fact that he’d spent the night in her room last night, palming her breast or growling every time she moved so much as an centimeter away from him, or the fact that the breast that hadn’t received his attention was sore and ached and was a constant reminder of what happened last night.
 
When she wanted to close her eyes in defeat and feel sorry for herself, she somehow found the willpower to sit there, holding her grandfather’s glare as the fact that she’d once again humiliated herself in front of Duncan raced through her mind, turning her stomach and making her wish that she could go home, curl up into a ball and devour a box of cupcakes, but she couldn’t do that without showing weakness to her grandfather, which she’d learned long ago was never a good idea.
 
“How many did you have?” she demanded in that tone she’d learned from him, the one that usually scared the hell out of everyone else, but simply made the old man’s lips twitch with amusement as he cocked his head to the side, studying her.
 
“What did Duncan say to you this morning?” he asked with an evil glint in his eye, letting her know that he wasn’t going down without a fight.
 
“Nothing,” she said casually, shrugging off his question like it didn’t matter to her that Duncan had practically jumped from her bed and ran for the door. The only time he’d acknowledged her was when he carefully raised her shirt and checked her wound, which was probably more out of habit than really caring if she was going to live or die.
 
“I see,” he said, pursing his lips up in thought as he continued watching her in that curious way of his that was going to earn him a bland salad and a glass of water for dinner.
 
“Good. Then can I get back to work?” she asked, looking pointedly at his chin where the evidence still lingered, reminding him that she had him dead to rights and they both knew it, but then again…
 
So did he…
 
“Sure thing, baby girl,” he said with that warm smile that was starting to actually freak her out a bit, because this time she knew that he was up to something and it wasn’t going to end well for her.
 
 
Chapter 7
 
Saturday, November 28th.
 
“I’m sleeping!” Duncan snapped at the asshole, who’d just unceremoniously flipped the mattress he’d been tossing and turning on and dropped his ass on the carpeted floor of his makeshift attic bedroom.