Tagged: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Christmas Read online

  Tagged: A Blue Collar Bad Boys Christmas

  Blue Collar Bad Boys, Volume 6

  Brill Harper

  Published by Brill Harper, 2017.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  TAGGED: A BLUE COLLAR BAD BOYS CHRISTMAS

  First edition. October 20, 2017.

  Copyright © 2017 Brill Harper.

  Written by Brill Harper.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also By Brill Harper

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  MY NAME IS SERGEANT Charlie Warner.

  Or it was.

  I’m a retiring soldier, just got out, with no family of my own, and I reluctantly agreed to spend the holidays in picturesque Maple Grove to transition to life after the Army. I’m a drifter now and have no business getting involved with my buddy’s family—especially with his sweet little sister who pretends she’s frumpy and boring to ward off attention from men.

  Men like me.

  I have no plans for Emily other than being an extra brother for a week. That’s what I tell myself. I really should let her be, but the harder she tries to hide, the more determined I am to seek. Under those baggy clothes and plain, simple looks is a woman who deserves to know how desirable she is. She thinks I can have any woman I want.

  And I want her.

  Chapter One

  Emily

  AGAINST ALL ODDS, IT is possible to feel lonely in a room full of people you love.

  I’m keeping myself busy-looking by adjusting the pine garland across the mantle of my childhood home. “Busy-looking” is a trick. A trick I’ve honed from childhood. It is my way of hiding in plain sight. If you’re busy, or at least look busy, most people leave you alone. At least for a while.

  Bing Crosby croons in the background while I place sprigs of holly berries, pine cones, and baby’s breath evenly down the twelve-foot garland. It has to be perfect. Not because anyone cares—my large, boisterous family isn’t concerned with the concept of perfection—no, it needs to be perfect because I’ve spent so damn long arranging it now that I’d feel stupid if it didn’t look right. Around me, the family is busy with other decorations in the great room and ...beer. Beer is a definite activity, as per usual. My mother is in the kitchen baking more cookies than a Keebler Elf does in his entire lifetime. Judging by the yelling directed at the television, my siblings and cousins are upset with the scores of some game and what kind of intervention the refs needed due to some play or another.

  Honestly, I have no idea. Sportsing all sounds the same to me. But it won’t be long before all the joking and conversation rounds the room to me. Who are you dating? Why aren’t you dating? I’ll smile awkwardly and someone will call me shy, and then I’ll blush and that will start another set of discussion points about my appearance. They love me and the teasing is always good-natured. But it is still teasing. I feel silly for feeling like I don’t fit in, but even now, at twenty-five years old, I feel out of place in the bustle of my huge family.

  I am child number four of four—two sets of twins for my parents—and one of innumerable cousins. I love them, all of them, I just prefer them one at a time. I’m not shy, not really. I simply feel overwhelmed in groups. Especially during the last few years.

  Being the focus of attention has always been uncomfortable for me, but my siblings thrive on it—each of them good at sports and performing. I am good at...being Emily. I like my quiet apartment in town. My quiet job for my grandparents. My quiet life crafted with just the right balance of solitude and family.

  But today is a good day. It isn’t Christmas for another week, but today is even better than Christmas. Carter is coming home.

  I check the time. Not long now.

  Carter Jones, my twin, is the exception to the “family makes me feel weird” rule. He’s just finished his second tour in Afghanistan and this will be his first Christmas home in a few years. Consequently, the celebration of Christmas is slated to be more like a weeklong festival this year. Mom is determined to make up for his lost Christmases.

  While having a big family already means lots of traditions, it seems like this year is going to go off the rails into Christmas mania. My mother actually took notes on a legal pad while watching The Santa Clause. Notes. Probably things like “source a reindeer” or “pay the town’s children to dress up like elves.”

  Carter will love it. All of it. I suppose a reindeer wouldn’t be so bad. And I like kids. Just not a lot of them in a small space. But I’m not crazy about the figgy pudding. Mom sent an email last week putting me in charge of it. For fifty people. That is a lot of figgy. That is a lot of people.

  But I am so looking forward to having Carter home.

  It has been hard without him the last few years. Probably good for me in a lot of ways. But he is my twin. My other half. We can communicate without words, and nobody makes me laugh like he does. Skype is a poor substitute.

  The game switches to a commercial break, so I slip into the kitchen and take a deep breath. So far, so good for avoiding the awkward dating conversations.

  “Just in time,” my mom says. “The cookies are ready to decorate.”

  I look at the shapeless cookies lining the counter, holding one up to the light, wondering why it has a hole in the middle of what could have maybe been a snowman. “Mom, they let you cut people open for a living. Why can’t you cut a cookie? These don’t...what are they supposed to look like?”

  “I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong either. Every year, I roll the dough, I cut the dough, but by the time I get them into or out of the oven, they look more like Patrick Star than trees and Santas.”

  I pick another one up. “This one is more Spongebob than Patrick.”

  “Ha ha.”

  We’ve been working side-by-side for half an hour when my mom gets the text that the guys are almost home. “Did you put the guest towels out?”

  “Yes, Mom.” She’s already asked twice today.

  “Not the nice guest towels...the fancy ones.”

  I get insta-prickles on the back of my neck. “Why would we put the fancy guest towels out for Carter? I mean, I know we missed him, but he’s still Carter.” Not fancy guest towel material.

  “He’s bringing his sergeant home with him. Or ex-sergeant. I’m not sure how that works. He’s the one who saved your brother’s life, but he’s getting out of the army now. Sergeant Warner.”

  Fabulous. One more person. And a stranger to make it interesting. Breathe. Just breathe.

  I take the bowls to the sink so I can talk without having to look directly at my mother. It might be easier to approach her about the sleeping arrangements without eye contact. “Mom, I’ve been thinking. Maybe I should stay in town this week after all. It sounds like you’re going to have a full house here. There’s no reason why I can’t stay in my own apartment.” Where there are no strangers. “I’ll commute here every day.”

  I chance a glance behind me. My mom has that look—the one that says, “What are we going to do with you, Emily?”


  “What? I just think—”

  “Your father and I are really looking forward to having all of you home. Under one roof. For the week. Like old times.”

  I have taken a week’s vacation, and my siblings and I have all “moved” home for the holiday. I miss my quiet apartment already, and I’ve only been here for a few hours. “I’ll come back first thing every morn—”

  “Please, Emily. We all need this. As a family. There is plenty of room here, and I don’t want to worry about you driving home late at night.”

  “Late at night?” Why would I be up late at night?

  My mother takes the rinsed bowls and puts them into the dishwasher. “We have things scheduled every evening this week.”

  “Scheduled?”

  Mom nods toward the fridge while she adds soap to the dispenser. “It’s on the itinerary. I was going to pass copies of it out later, but there’s one on the fridge if you want a sneak peek.”

  “You have an itinerary?” I take the paper off the fridge. “You have a typed itinerary. Mom this is in outline format. With Roman numerals.”

  “It needed to be organized. We are having an old-fashioned family Christmas, and you are all going to look back on this time and be grateful we were together.”

  Alrighty then. My mother has become Clark Griswold.

  “Mom...”

  Mom’s phone buzzes, and she picks it up after shooting me a quelling glance. “They’re here.”

  Chapter Two

  Charlie

  I’VE BEEN SITTING IN the backseat of the Escalade watching the freeway turn into a highway turn into one single main street that runs through the entirety of Maple Grove, Washington. The gray December clouds make it impossible to tell the time of day, but I know it shouldn’t be dark enough for all the streetlights to be on yet. It isn’t raining, exactly, more like the sky is spitting at the car as we crawl down the street. Some hail, some rain, some mist, maybe even a little snow, but not the kind that sticks.

  Mr. Jones—Mark, he said to call him—is driving us home from the airport. Well, he is driving his son home. I don’t have a home or a clue as to whether or not I even want one or how to go about finding one if I decide I do. I haven’t stayed anywhere that wasn’t Army issued in a long-ass time. I’m just tagging along for the ride.

  Jonesy...no Carter—I am supposed to call him Carter now—has family connections to Stone Jones, a custom garage in Maple Grove that specializes in restoring muscle cars and has a reputation for quality that is unmatched anywhere else in the country. I put in an order for my dream car, a ‘67 Chevy Camaro. Jonesy got me a great deal with the understanding that I would come home with him and spend the holidays with his family. It was a pity-invite, but Jonesy is a good guy and I want that car.

  “On your right is my high school, Sarge. Maple Grove only has two schools—K-6 and 7-12.”

  I barely remember high school, but there were probably more kids in my Chicago graduating class than in both Maple Grove schools combined. “Not your sarge anymore.” I am officially out now. Retired. Unshackled. Unmoored.

  Adrift.

  “I don’t think I can call you Charlie,” Jonesy answered. “Too used to Sarge.”

  “Yeah, Carter is going to be a stretch for me, too.”

  We laugh, and Carter’s dad fills me in on town trivia as we turn onto Marble Mountain Road. I have heard a lot of the stories before. In the sandbox, home is a popular topic for many of the enlisted men.

  We pull into the circular driveway of a large log cabin. Huge windows and glass doors make up the front, and a wide porch wraps around the house like a protective embrace. I whistle out a breath. I knew Jones came from a very comfortable upbringing—his dad is a lawyer, his mom a doctor, and his grandparents own the town car lot as well as the custom garage. They aren’t millionaires or anything, I don’t think, but the house is significant and picture perfect. If L.L. Bean wanted to film a commercial, the Jones homestead would be the perfect place for it. I didn’t realize that there are people who live life like the magazines and catalogs show. Not really.

  The outdoor white Christmas lights twinkle against all the gray. Huge red ribbon bows festoon the porch rails, but you can’t miss the bigger yellow bow on the door. Carter Jones has been missed. He’s been thought of every day.

  The three of us get out of the car as the front door opens and people pour out. Jonesy’s family gathers around him, their voices rising to be heard above the ones just joining. People are still spilling out the front door.

  I hang back, allowing the crowd better access to their returning soldier. I inhale deeply. The air smells clean. Fresh. I don’t want to exhale and poison it with the breath from my lungs. I suddenly wish very much to go back to the place where everything is khaki and camouflage. Where a guy like me feels safe.

  It is then I notice I’m not the only one hanging back. One woman stands on the empty porch and is leaning against the rail. Waiting.

  She is dressed in brown and gray, practically a chameleon against the wood and the weather. I bet that is on purpose. A camouflage like I am used to. Her clothes, the shape of them, the way they hide her body, say she is middle-aged, but having spent too many years where danger comes from people trying to look safe, I don’t stop my inspection there. Assumptions about people based on what they want you to see first can get you killed.

  Her face is unlined and fresh, at odds with her clothing. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail or braid, but soft wisps of blonde curls escape and soften the look. She might even be pretty. But it is obvious she doesn’t want people to figure that out on their own. She waits patiently as the mob scene gets louder. When a smile blooms across her face, I follow her gaze to Jonesy.

  They share the same smile. She must be Jonesy’s twin. I’ve heard about her. Emily is her name, if I remember right. Jonesy always claimed she was the better half of the duo. He said she is the quiet one, and I can tell by her appearance that is not an exaggeration. What else had he said? That they have a special connection. That ever since they were kids, they always knew exactly what the other needed.

  Jones breaks away from the crowd and makes short work of the distance between the car and the porch. Emily’s smile transforms her face, and she takes the steps quickly and launches herself into her brother’s arms.

  That smile. God. It’s like looking into the sun.

  Jones twirls her around, and when he stops, she cups his face in her hands and weeps while she laughs.

  I feel like I should look away. The moment feels too personal. But I am trapped by the scene. Nobody has ever wept for me. Laughed for me. Does Jonesy know how lucky he is?

  The pack moves toward me, and Mark begins a flurry of introductions. I lose sight of the twins and put on my game face. Polite I can do. I’ll have to be careful with my language. I don’t expect that civilians would care for the way most soldiers speak their minds. Bluntly would be an understatement. But since I’m not a talkative man, I figure I’ll be all right. And I need to learn to fit in. This is life now.

  The family surrounding me is more than nice, and it is easy to play along, but what I really want to do is be alone.

  Except that isn’t true either. I have no idea how to be alone. I’ve been part of a team for so long, yet I’d always felt separate. It was easier to deal with the feeling when I had a job, responsibilities. I cared about my men, my team. I’m shocked to find I am unprepared for not having anyone to care about, even if the feelings aren’t returned.

  But I am used to feeling lonely even when surrounded by people.

  Chapter Three

  Emily

  I CAN’T SLEEP. I MISS my own bed. My adult bed. Sleeping in my childhood room is just weird. I’ve crashed at my parents’ home before, but this time is different. Like premeditated regression. My room isn’t exactly a shrine, but it certainly hasn’t been changed very much either.

  So, I do what any grownup would do, I head to the kitchen to eat cold pizza and raid my dad
’s whiskey at two in the morning.

  I leave the lights dim, enjoying the glow from the strings of multicolored lights my sister Amy and I wrapped around pine boughs and then draped on top of the cupboards. I eat my pizza and then turn my attention to my beverage, remembering the first time Carter and I stole booze from the liquor cabinet and how not great that turned out. We tried to replace the vodka in the bottle with water, but got busted when my parents decided to put the vodka in the freezer before a summer party and their “booze” froze.

  Not the first or last time Carter and I were in double trouble.

  Lost in my thoughts, I feel his presence before I see him—the infamous Sergeant Warner. I stiffen and turn toward the door. There he stands, arms braced across the doorway, his masculine shape redefining all my previously held impressions of my mother’s kitchen.

  Wow.

  He’s wearing a simple tank top, and his army-issued sweatpants hang loosely on his hips. The way he holds his arms leaves no need to imagine the curves and planes of his strong muscles and shoulders. As I totally did all through dinner. My imagination is no match for reality.

  He tilts his head, asking permission to enter, so I send him a small smile. My mouth feels too dry to form a verbal response.

  Just wow.

  When my mom said Carter was bringing home his retiring sergeant, I assumed someone much older. Someone grizzled and gray. But this guy is probably in his mid-thirties and the most prime-of-his-life specimen I’ve ever been privileged to see in person. Well over six feet with dark eyes that promise danger. His cheekbones are chiseled, able to cut into a girl’s heart for sure, and a dark scrape of early beard rasps across them. Carter never shaves on his leave either...but Sergeant Warner isn’t going back. Will he keep the beard? Or is it just a symbol for his exodus?

  “Can’t sleep, Charlie?” I ask, sliding the pizza box over a place setting on the counter for him.