Cold Killjoy (Mistletoe Montana Book 17) Read online

  The night slips away and I wake up on the couch covered in sketches of special reindeer hoof dildo underwear, along with a Rudolph dildo version with a big bulb as a nose. Good thing no one walked in to see me and the sketches. A giggle slips over my lips before I lift my hands into the air to stretch and yawn simultaneously.

  Sliding off the couch, I grab all the sketches and walk to the desk to grab a file to put them inside. I glance at the clock and see it’s seven o’clock and it’s time to wash up and get breakfast started.

  My neighbor might be cranky–his son a total asshole–but I promised my friend I would make sure he was okay. And I’ve been bringing Clark breakfast every now and then for months. It was a hard road to kindness but the man loves my food and I like his grumpy company over breakfast so that’s the best compensation we ultimately agreed upon.

  Rushing upstairs, I take a quick shower and change into blue jeans, a reindeer sweater, along with my red fluffy boots. One last glance in the mirror to check my hair and face, and then I grab my keys and purse, making sure to lock up behind me.

  The snow has really started to fall and my feet sink into the crisp white blanket covering the front yard. I know Clark is grumpy and moody but the man lost the woman he loved. He’s been dragging his feet through the dark of his life for years while carrying his grief each and every day.

  Everyone is allowed to be himself so I gave him a smile and a dash of my good mood the day I bought the house and moved in. Eventually I started to get a grunt in return, the grunt turned into a nod, a wave, and eventually I got the words, “Good morning, Joy.” And that right there made me smile since my dad always uses the nickname too.

  A few months ago, Clark gave me a key to his house in case of an emergency. Good thing too since he’s forgotten where he’s put his keys three times and yesterday it came in handy as well. And right now, so I can easily slip inside and make breakfast without waking him. My plan is a success when I’ve managed to make a stack of pancakes and finished microwaving the syrup when I hear footsteps. I turn just in time to watch Cold stroll into the kitchen.

  His eyes go wide till they narrow and a menacing look slides over his face when he rumbles, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Happy thoughts, I remind myself, and start to wonder if the special underwear I designed for him should be candy cane red or green. A smile spreads my face at the thought. Red. Red for sure.

  “Can you help your father? Breakfast is ready and I’m sure he needs to use the bathroom first. He’s not very happy about me carrying half his weight when he needed the bathroom yesterday. He has the wheelchair, but still, he needs help. I’m sure he would rather allow you to assist him than me.”

  He holds my gaze and I count the beats of my raging heart until he grumbles something underneath his breath, spins on his heel, and heads toward the living room.

  “Thank you,” I tell him in a cheery sing-song voice.

  Kill them with cheerful friendliness, my mind offers. I cracked his father and a man ain’t nothing but a man, so where one falls from grumpy to somewhat friendly, another one will follow. Though I get the feeling Cold will take more effort and I’m not sure I’ll have enough friendliness and patience inside me to melt some of the frost this man is radiating.

  I have the table set and I’m pouring milk in a glass for Clark alongside his coffee when Cold pushes the wheelchair into the kitchen. Taking away one of the chairs, I point at the spot for Cold to wheel the wheelchair into.

  “Good morning, Clark,” I tell him in an overly cheerful voice, the way I always give him those words each morning.

  His face is set on grumpy while the corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of a smile as he gives me the words, “Good morning, Joy.”

  “I thought you needed some good vibes this morning so I made you pancakes.” I place a plate in front of him with a huge pile and make sure to place the syrup within his reach.

  “Having you around without opening your mouth is all the good vibes I can handle. But I’m no fool, any type of food you make is worth eating,” Clark replies in a grumpy tone.

  I can’t help but chuckle and place a hand over my heart. “Why thank you Mister Snowflake on a sunny day. And don’t forget to drink your milk, you need it to heal those broken bones.”

  He shoots me a glare and shoves a piece of pancake into his mouth, lifting his cup of coffee to show me he won’t take any orders from me. I poke out my tongue and spin on my heel to grab another plate filled with pancakes, placing it in front of Cold.

  I think he mumbles a “Thanks,” but I can’t be sure. Though, my name is easy to catch since he throws it out in a sneer.

  “It’s Joycelyn,” I snap, and close my eyes for a brief moment to grab hold of my good vibes and shake off all of the grumpiness this house is drenched in.

  I take a deep breath and paste a bright smile on my face. “Okay, enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen. I’m off to get some work done. Clark, call if you need anything.”

  “Roast pork,” Clark states with a mouthful of pancakes and without looking up.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I reply in a sing-song voice as I grab my coat, keys, and purse.

  “Please, and thank you,” Clark grunts and I give him a genuine smile he doesn’t see since his eyes are set on his plate, shoving the next forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

  I can feel Cold’s eyes on me and I turn his way to let our gaze collide. His head tilts as if he’s trying to find out if I can grow a second head or something.

  “Cold,” I nod dismissively, and tear my gaze from his.

  “Joycelyn,” he rumbles in a husky after tone.

  It completely catches me off guard as it triggers a flash of heat flowing through me, giving me no other choice but to speed walk out of the house.

  CHAPTER THREE

  – KILLJOY –

  The door falls shut at the same time my father snaps, “Get it out of your head, son.”

  “What?” I ask, trying to seem innocent while the both of us know I want to wrap some Joy around my cock.

  He points the fork in the direction of my face. “Hands off.”

  A surge of an unknown feeling hits me and my own fork clatters down on the table. “Are you hands on?” I all but spit out.

  His eyes go wide. “Christ, son. She could be my daughter, it’s not like that. Joycelyn is a cheerful storm to reckon with and no matter how I ignored her or tried to chew her head off, she kept throwing cheerfulness at me until I gave in. First with acknowledging her, saying good-fucking-morning every damn day since she moved in next door, and then she started bringing over this shit.” He points at the pancakes in front of him. “First it was in a container for me to take home or to work and before I knew it, I was sitting at her kitchen table listening to her yap about shit while I waited on her food before I headed to work. She’s sneaky but one hell of a cook. And starting a workday on a full stomach is better than drinking coffee for breakfast and forgetting to eat until I’ve dragged my old ass home late at night. Like I said, don’t fuck this up for your old man.”

  I shove a few forkfuls of pancakes into my mouth and have to brace my forearms on the table to savor the explosion of flavors in my mouth.

  “Damn,” I mutter and spear some more on my fork.

  “Now you know. Don’t fuck with my pancakes. They’re almost as good as your mother used to make ’em.”

  “Yeah,” I croak and enjoy the food in front of me, balancing between scarfing them down and going slow to enjoy every single bit.

  “I think she misses her father and keeps bugging me for company. Either way, the pancakes are worth it.” He shrugs and shoves his empty plate away.

  My head whips up. “Did he die?”

  “Nah, her mother died a few years ago. The man found his second love, her words, not mine. They left to travel the world. Joycelyn might think I don’t listen to her yapping because I don’t engage but she’s hard to ignore.”

  I give a s
nort and the vision of finding her on her knees in the kitchen assaults me again. Yeah, that ass for sure is hard to ignore. I caught a second flash when she fell on her knees in the snow outside when she was gathering wood.

  “She’s missing her father, told me how I reminded her of him being grumpy for years after her mother died. Girl might be a masochist but I do appreciate her pancakes and efforts. Hence me warning you not to fuck it up for me. You staying long?”

  Jab taken, along with the switch of topic. I also shove my empty plate away and lean back in my chair.

  “Like I mentioned last night, I’m staying for good,” I tell him.

  He nods but I’m not liking his glassy look.

  “Do you remember our talk?” I question.

  His grimace is all telling, but he still gives me the words, “It’s a bit fuzzy. Painkillers and a concussion aren’t really helping me. I still can’t remember falling down those fucking steps. All I remember was talking to Miller in the office and waking up in the hospital.”

  “I’m heading over to the garage in an hour. I have a few brothers coming to help out in a day or two. I’ve talked shit through with Stone, gonna start a new chapter right here in Mistletoe Montana.”

  For the first time in years I see some life sliding back into my father’s eyes. He was a prospect of the first generation of Trigger Pull MC–rode alongside Stone’s grandfather–but stepped away when he met my mother to start a life here. It was one of the reasons I went to Stone after I left the army and followed in my father’s footsteps to pull through where he left off.

  “The large space next to the garage is empty, could make a nice small clubhouse if you put some work into it,” he says thoughtfully. “New paint. Furniture. Clear out the parts I stashed in those back rooms and you’ll have a few sleeping quarters.”

  “Sounds good.” I shoot him a grin and I receive one in return. “Why were you up in the office with Miller?”

  His forehead scrunches up and his eyes go thoughtful. “I’m not sure.”

  “Any indifferences? Arguments?” I ask, trying to trigger his memory.

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Miller handles the books. I know he’s offered a few times to buy the garage from me. Turned him down every time. Maybe he offered again, hell if I know. But I’m fifty-five years old, I’m not dead, and I ain’t selling a good running business I enjoy working at myself.”

  “Any chance the fucker had anything to do with you ending up in the hospital?” I throw out the question between clenched teeth.

  Silence greets me while I can read the tension written all over his face. It’s fucking frustrating for the both of us he can’t remember anything about the accident or the moment leading up to it.

  “I’m going to head over to the garage. Are you good by yourself for a couple of hours till I get back?”

  He gives me a tight nod. “Like I said, I ain’t dead yet. But a little help getting on the couch would be good.”

  “You got it, Pa.” For the first time since I got the call two nights ago, I feel some of the stress drain from my body.

  It’s fucking good to be back home. I take my time getting my father settled on the couch and rinse our plates before I grab the keys to his truck and head out. I don’t like riding in a cage but the snow is regaining power, like always around this time of the year. Less than four weeks until Christmas.

  It’s not that hard to miss with all the Christmas shit decorating the town. But then again, Mistletoe Montana is Christmas twenty-fucking-four seven all year round. And the weeks creeping closer to the date? They not only live and breathe Christmas, they puke and shit it too.

  I guide the truck into the large parking space right next to the garage and hit the brakes. Killing the engine, I brace myself on the steering wheel while I stare at the massive Santa Claus statue sitting right next to the garage door and I swallow back the emotions rising inside me.

  My father bought it for my mother. Like everyone else in this town she loved the jolly shit. But to see it again after all these years, along with the reason why my father gave up becoming a biker in California–to spend the rest of his life with her here–somehow hits me harder. Even more when I now find myself sitting right here too, about to step foot in my father’s company to commit the rest of my life to this town.

  Knocking on the window jolts me back to the here and now and I swing my head to the left to shoot an angry glare at the person who gave me a shot of adrenaline. Great, it’s none other than Miss Jolly with a brilliant as fuck smile plastered on her face.

  I shove the door open, forcing her to step back. “Do you make it your job to be everywhere I look?”

  “I could say the same about you.” The harsh snap in her voice makes me tilt my head and a slow smile spreads my face.

  Her eyes widen slightly, as if she just caught herself slipping off her jolly-sled, momentarily stopping the glitter spray she’s been sprinkling around her.

  “Shouldn’t you keep an eye on your father?” she asks in a sweet tone.

  “He’s resting on the couch. Pretty sure he can’t move for the next few hours because he’s digesting the pile of pancakes you made him. Do you make it a habit to feed old folks? Get off on it maybe?” Why in the hell am I spewing this shit at her in agitation?

  A fake smile slides over her face. “I hope you get an itch where you can’t scratch and fall down on a reindeer statue so its hoof slides up your ass.”

  She spins around so fast, the end of her two braids slap my face as she stomps off. All I can do is let my head fall back as a full belly laugh overtakes me. Fucking hell what a damn spitfire. I’m still shaking my head when I step foot inside the garage.

  A guy with short, red hair–looking like he’s in his late twenties–wipes his hands on an old rag as he stalks toward me. “Hey, I’m Alvin, how can I help you?”

  “Cold Killjoy. Miller around?”

  “The boss’ son ’eh? Heard a lot about you.” He throws the rag on the desk near the door and holds out his hand.

  I give him a firm shake before letting go. My gaze slides over the open space around us.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ll get to spend more time working alongside each other soon since I’m here to stay,” I inform him.

  He smacks my upper arm as if I’ve known him for years. “Good to hear. Work has been crazy these days, we could use the extra pair of hands.”

  “I have a couple of buddies of mine coming to town in the next few days, not all mechanics but they can make themselves useful with other shit that needs to be handled.”

  Alvin bobs his head, eyes growing concerned. “How’s your father doing?”

  “He told me less than an hour ago he wasn’t dead yet, so I take it as a win.”

  Alvin snorts. “The man is tough. Damn, seeing him lying at the bottom of the stairs?” A deep sigh rips from his body. “I’m just glad to hear it’s only a broken leg, arm, and a concussion. It could have been much worse.”

  My brain is triggered by his words. “You were there when he fell down the stairs?”

  “No.” He puts his hands on his hips and glances behind him at the stairs leading up to the office. “I was working in the back and when it was time to go home, I saw him lying at the bottom of the stairs. I called the EMTs, like I said…it looked way worse when I found him.” Alvin swallows hard. “He looked dead to me.”

  “Where was Miller at the time and where is he now?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  Alvin looks over his shoulder again. “In the office.”

  “Was he working that day?”

  “He was, but I didn’t see him leave.” He lowers his voice. “He probably would have left already since the guy hardly works overtime. And whenever the boss isn’t around, he’s in the office.” Alvin holds out his hands. “See this shit? This is how hands look when you work around here. Check Miller’s when you go up.” Another frustrated sigh flows from his body. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Miller is a goo
d employee when he wants to be one. Your father keeps him around for a reason. Main thing is the accounting side, Miller does the books so your dad can leave that to him while he enjoys what he does best: fixing bikes. And the rest of the time Miller also does repairs. He might be a good mechanic, but it’s a dragging process. I’m sure your father explained it seeing you mentioned working here too. Miller has his own assignments and working schedule.”

  “Thanks for your honesty. I’m heading into the office and check things out before I’ll see what I can do around here, okay?”

  “Catch you later,” Alvin states and heads back to the car he was working on.

  Taking the iron steps leading into the office, I open the door and step inside. While the Santa statue was still outside–unchanged as if frozen in time–the office however is completely restyled. It’s modern and absolutely nothing my father would have picked out. Though my father never was one to sit behind a desk, he always had the same rough, greasy hands Alvin just showed me.

  Glancing at the man sitting behind the desk and typing away on a laptop, I’d say I found the fucker who looks very fucking suspicious sitting behind my father’s desk as if he owns the damn place. I clear my throat and it catches the fucker’s attention.

  “Good morning,” the man says and stands. He stalks around the desk and offers me his hand. “Miller Beckander, how may I help you?”

  “Nice setup you have in here,” I compliment.

  He gives me a sly smile. “The building and the company itself needs some work here and there, but I have been working hard to turn things around.”

  “Does the whole turn things around include getting rid of the owner? You know, since he ended up in the hospital two days ago,” I state with steel in my voice.

  I have to give it to the guy, he doesn’t so much as twitch. Eventually he gives a shake with his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. The owner, Clark Killjoy, suffered a bad fall. I’m taking over until he’s ready to come back to work.”