Grumble Monkey and the Department Store Elf (2 page)

“Your car?” Nick asked, and damned himself for it. Now the kid had reason to continue their conversation.

Elf nodded. “Broke down. I don’t know how I managed to limp it along this far. I don’t know what to do. I could call a tow truck, but then what? Home’s a few hours aways. Besides, I think Bette’s done for.” He sighed dramatically. “It’s been a long time a-comin’.”

“Bette?” Who the hell was Bette?

Stop! You’re doing it again! Stop talking! Let him get to the point.

Although Nick pretty much saw what was coming….

“Bette’s my car. Well, she’s a Jeep. Was a Jeep?” Elf gave a huge shrug. “She’s about a thousand years old. Anyways, I’ve tried to call home on the pay phone inside, but no one’s answering. I’m getting….” He hesitated¸ his cheerful tone gone. “I’m getting worried….” He stopped again. Looked away.

It was right then that Nick realized this was who had been in the bathroom. And he hadn’t been having sex. He’d been crying. Hell.

Nick felt more cold wetness running down his neck and found he was growing impatient. He wanted to get out of here.

“Look, mister,” said the stranger in the Christmas hat. “Are you going as far as Terra’s Gate?”

“I don’t know what that is,” said Nick honestly.

“It’s home,” Elf explained. “Where I grew up.” For some reason, he was smiling. “I’m on break. From school.”

Break? From school?

“I was hoping you’d be willing to drop me off. I can give you gas money. Keep you company. Help you watch the road….”

Elf’s face had taken on an expression of hope, and Nick felt a certain dread. He was on a mission and already behind schedule. It was San Francisco by Christmas, even if it was five minutes till midnight.

“I don’t know,” Nick said. “I don’t have time for any detours.”

“It’s not a detour. As long as you’re taking this road for a while. I’m about two hours from here.”

And of course Nick was taking the same road for many hours yet, and into tomorrow. Almost all the way to SFO.

Elf’s eyes were growing more and more obscured. Droplets of sleet were covering his big (cheap-looking) glasses, and Nick realized the kid—twenty-one, maybe—was getting just as soaked as he was. The whole front of his jeans was dark with wet, and oh God! Were those rhinestones along the front pockets? Could the elf be any gayer? Hell!

“Get in,” Nick said before he could change his mind.

The grin that spread across Elf’s face made the kid surprisingly cute. Nick crushed the thought like a cigarette under a shoe—not that he had smoked in years. He just didn’t want to find
any
thing attractive about someone
so
gay. Rhinestones! What man with any self-pride wore jeans with rhinestones on them?

Why someone with
gay
pride!

“Thank you,” Elf squealed. He actually jumped for joy. “Just let me get my stuff out of my car.”

He started to walk away, and Nick saw the back of the kid’s coat was soaked.

“Where’s your car?” Nick asked.

“Over there.” Elf pointed, and Nick saw the very Jeep he had barely missed hitting when he first pulled off the highway. “That’s as far as I got. At least no one should hit it.”

Except I almost did!

Nick sighed. “Get in.”

“But—”

“Get in! I’ll drive you.” He quickly moved the few things in the front seat to the back so that Elf could get in. The red-and-brown vehicle was at least 150 feet away. No sense in the little elf (well, he wasn’t really “little”) getting any wetter than he already was.

“Gee! Thanks!” And before Nick could even open the driver’s side door, Elf had dashed around to the other side of the car (Nick cringed, sure the kid would slip and fall on the icy pavement) and climbed in.

Nick joined him and only then realized how wet and nasty he was himself.
Crap! I should change. I could catch my death.
But damn! That would mean another delay. And just what the hell did the possibility of a cold mean to him now anyway?

“Thank you so much, Mister. I’m Kit, by the way.”

“Kit?” Nick asked.
What the hell kind of name is Kit?

“It’s a nickname,” the kid replied as if reading Nick’s mind. “My family called me ‘Kitten’ when I was growing up.”

“Kitten?” Nick asked, incredulous.
I don’t believe it! Kitten? Is there a more faggy name on Earth? Well, at least “Kit” is better than “Kitten.”

“My sister Valentine couldn’t say my real name, which is Keaton. So she called me Kitten and, well, it stuck. What’s your name?” asked “Kit.”

“Nick St. George,” he answered automatically and held out his hand without even thinking about it. It was mechanical. He was forever the businessman. And he was a successful one as well. Very successful.

Yippee.

“You’re kidding, right?” Kit grinned comically.

“What do you mean?” Nick yanked off his Gucci glasses and, pulling a tissue from the dispenser between the front seats, began to wipe the wet lenses. “Why would I kid about my name?”

“Nick?
St.
George? Like
Saint
Nicholas?”

Nick thrust his glasses back on his face and saw Kit’s look of utter joy. He gritted his teeth.

“And it’s Christmas Eve!” Kit giggled. He actually giggled. Was there anything more annoying than a full-grown man who giggled? This was getting worse by the minute. And Nick was going to have “Kit” in his car for two hours?

For one brief minute, he considered taking back his offer. This was going to be hell. It wasn’t the first time someone had made the hated Saint Nicholas joke, especially at this time of year. At least it would probably be the last. For about a tenth of a second, he’d almost bitten the kid’s head off. Snapped at him as surely as he did some of his more lazy, good-for-nothing employees. But how did you yell at someone who was looking at you like that? It would be like slapping a… well, a kitten.

“And people don’t believe in Christmas miracles!”

Nick drove Kit over to his Jeep—it was a Tracker, and this one was a piece of crap, if Nick had ever seen one. He was horrified. How could anyone drive in such a piece of shit? What had looked like red and brown from a distance and through icy rain turned out to be red and rust. Lots of rust.
Tons
of rust. In fact, Nick didn’t know how the thing hadn’t fallen apart.

And sure enough! Right there on the back bumper. It wasn’t shaped like Mickey Mouse but it was a gay pride flag. Nick wasn’t surprised in the least.

Kit scrambled out of Nick’s car, leaned into his own, and ran back with a duffle bag. He threw it in the backseat and returned to his Jeep. This time he came back with a huge green trash bag filled to the bursting point.

“You’re taking garbage home?” Nick asked as Kit climbed back in the car.

Kit blushed through cheeks already red from the cold. “Laundry.” He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a college kid. Don’t we always take our laundry home to mom?”

I wouldn’t have
, thought Nick. His mother would have given him quiet hell for something like that, despite the fact that Charlotte—their maid—would happily have done it for him. Charlotte would have done anything for him. She’d certainly been more of a mother than his own had ever been.

“You have a
great
heater in this thing,” Kit said enthusiastically and rubbed his hands together in front of the vent. “What kinda car is this?”

“Bentley Flying Spur,” Nick said. “What did you think it was?”

Kit shrugged. “I didn’t know. That’s why I asked.”

“You couldn’t tell it was a Bentley by looking at it?” Certainly, the kid knew what a Bentley looked like. Half the reason Nick drove one was because people
always
knew what a Bentley looked like! Look like money, and you make money. The Law of Attraction and all that shit.

Kit rolled his eyes. “I know cars have five wheels. Four are rubber and the last one is the thing you steer with. I don’t know a Bentley from… ah….”

“A Tracker?” Nick offered.

Kit giggled again. “Well, heck. I know
that
much!” He rubbed his arms hard. Shivered.

Hell. He needs to change his clothes. We can’t leave yet. I’m never going to get to San Francisco
.

Nick sighed inwardly and drove his car back to the brick building.

“What are we doing?”

“You need to change. You’re going to catch pneumonia.”

“But you’re in a hurry. Your heater will dry me off.”

“
Change
. It’s not like we’re going to get anywhere in a hurry in this stuff!”

“My mom says you can’t catch a cold that way anyways—”

“Bull!” Nick parked the car. “Get something to wear out of that trash bag of yours.” It was a command, using his most “boss” tone of voice. The one that said “Do not argue with me!” Nick pointed at the building and snapped, “Get your ass in there and get changed. Now.”

“Yes, sir!” Kit saluted, jumped from the car, and, taking his duffle bag with him, disappeared into the building. Apparently, he had something clean. He was fast too. Kit was in and out before Nick had time to get impatient. And
that
was saying something.

Nick elected not to comment. He simply started the car back up—having already thrown his wet coat in the back and grabbed the Irish wool sweater he had ready for just such a possibility—and slowly and carefully headed back to the on-ramp. What color jeans was Kit wearing? Maroon? Hell.

Just as he reached the highway, a semi roared past as if it were a summer day, throwing slush all over the car. He cursed the man.
Serve you right if you jackknife that thing.

“Holy cow!” cried Kit. “Did you see that?”

Holy cow? Really? Holy cow?

It was with that thought that Nick steeled himself for two hours of chitchat with Kit the elf-kitten. He pulled onto the highway, safely, while Michael Bublé sang “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow….” Nick spared a finger from the wheel to stab at a button on the radio and change the station. This time it was Lady Gaga singing about how she lived for the applause. Hell! Why not?

And it was only then it occurred to Nick to wonder what kind of “two hours” Kit meant. Did he mean two-hours-in-this-weather two hours? Or a regular two-hours-on-a-nice-day two hours? Which meant it could be a hell of a lot more than that. Four, at least.

What the “heck” had he let himself in for?

T
HE
GUY
was kind of cute, thought Kit. Dark-brown hair with just the tiniest hint of gray, big brown eyes with thick brows, a nice masculine square jaw, a shadow of a beard, probably about forty—
woof!
And if Kit’s gaydar was working as well as it usually did, he was pretty sure they both played for the same team. It was too bad he was such a grumble monkey.

Kit looked around at the interior of the car. It was gorgeous. There were about a billion buttons and panels, and the seats looked like they were made of leather. Why, he wouldn’t be surprised if this thing had a button that could make it fly. It had seat warmers, so why not? His bottom was feeling better already. He’d been thinking he would never feel warm again after an hour in the snow and ice. What a day, what a day.

He really shouldn’t have taken off in this weather. He knew that. But his job had held him up until closing time last night. Sure, it was a job Kit could have quit, like what were they going to do? Fire him? Except they needed him. It was bad enough he wasn’t working today. But they had known from the beginning Kit couldn’t work Christmas Eve, so they couldn’t blame him. However a deal was a deal, and he had fulfilled what he’d agreed to do, and it had been fun. With all those kids and all? Kit smiled.

Kit turned to Nick. “So where you heading?” he asked, trying to start a conversation with the man who’d taken him in from the cold.

“San Francisco,” Nick replied. No other answer.

Oh well
.

He tried again. “Really? I’ve always wanted to go to San Francisco. Maybe one day. Is it nice?”

“It’s okay,” the man replied. Again, nothing more.

“I hear it’s a beautiful city,” Kit tried again.

“I suppose.”

Pause. Nothing else. Was Nick a lousy conversationalist, or did he not want to talk? Kit couldn’t imagine not talking for the hours it would take them to get to Terra’s Gate.
Well, the weather is pretty poopie. He probably wants to keep his eyes on the road.

“I’ve always thought it would be a nice place to visit,” he said. “You know…. Because…. Well….”

“Because it’s what?” Nick didn’t even give him a glance.

Kit took a deep breath, and a chance. “Gay.” He held his breath.

Nick shrugged. “I suppose.”

Okay. He didn’t react badly. Keep going. “I’ve seen pictures. Guys walking around holding hands in broad daylight and everything.”

“Probably the Castro,” Nick supplied. “But it’s not as gay as it used to be. Thankfully.”

Thankfully? Sheesh. Was this guy gay or not? The signs were there. The way he held Kit’s eyes without looking away, like straight men did. And Kit had seen Nick glance down at his crotch. Surely Nick knew Kit was gay. Kit had given up trying to hide that fact long ago. His parents had known before he went to kindergarten. Thankfully, they didn’t care. He had friends who’d gone through horrible things because their families couldn’t deal with their sexuality. Axel, his dorm mate, had been kicked out of his own house, and it was only his scholarships that had allowed him to keep going to school and finish his degree. Okay. Frakkin’ fine. One more try!

“Why thankfully?” Kit asked.

“Because there is no need for people to broadcast the fact that they’re gay,” Nick snapped in a tone that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said such a thing. “I don’t understand it, and I never will. It’s none of anyone’s business what I do in bed and who I take there.”

Kit swallowed. Nodded. “Well, walking around holding a boyfriend’s hand is hardly broadcasting what you like to do with him in bed.”