Elf Against the Wall: A Holiday Romantic Comedy (The Wynter Brothers Book 2)
Elf Against the Wall: Chapter 31

“I thought we were going for a fun girl power night out,” I said in confusion as Granny Doyle led us up the concrete stairs with rusty handrails to a 1950s space-age building that had probably been cool seventy years ago but now looked like the site of a horror movie.

The fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered as we stepped inside. Sawyer and I huddled together.

“She died as she lived, covered in crumbs.”

Christmas decorations that looked like they had been recycled from a 1970s hoarder house estate sale were tacked up everywhere. A rough-looking Rudolph swung slowly from the ceiling.

“At least if we get kidnapped, I wouldn’t have to pay rent,” Sawyer whispered.

“Gran, let’s go somewhere else,” I begged.

“We’ll go to the bar after this, girls,” Granny Doyle assured us. “Business before pleasure.”

“What business? You’re retired.”

“Dammit, girls, I need y’all to woman the fuck up. Now…” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Don’t tell your dad, but I’ve been gambling my social security check. I lost twenty Gs, but I’m getting it all back tonight.”

“Getting it back how?”

“Are we here to commit robbery?”

“Reindeer gambling!” Granny Doyle power walked through the dank building.

“Too bad Ian had to go to the theater. We really could have used some protection,” Sawyer mumbled as we headed deeper into the dimly lit room packed with metal tables and chairs.

We were the only women in the space. The rest were men—dangerous, rough-looking men—not like Anderson. These guys looked like they’d just crawled out of an eighties mob movie.

At least Gran and Sawyer were appropriately dressed. Yours truly was wearing a skimpy Mrs. Claus costume that I’d fit in way back when I was eighteen, but after a very stressful year, not so much. Gran had claimed she couldn’t get up the attic stairs on account of her knees, and this was what she found in the storage closet. It was better than the torn nightgown, and at least she’d brought clean underwear.

I could feel dozens of eyes on me. It would have been less scary if they’d all started catcalling us or making gross sexual comments.

Instead, they watched us, silently, their eyes tracking us.

We were prey.

Snowball growled softly.

Gran didn’t seem to care. She led us confidently through the tables of predators.

We made our way to a table next to a dirty glass window overlooking the empty track.

I pulled out my chair, wincing as it screeched against the terrazzo floor.

Sawyer sank into the chair next to me and slouched defensively over the table.

“They have Christmas specials,” I whispered. It seemed like a bad idea to talk at a normal volume. “It can’t be all bad if they have custom holiday cocktails.”

Sawyer frowned at the laminated menu in front of her.

“Where’s the staff?” Granny Doyle asked loudly, looking around. “Does anyone work here?”

“Gran, you can’t yell at the waitstaff.” I glanced up, hoping she hadn’t offended some poor minimum-wage worker. As someone who’d been in food service, I knew the last thing you needed at the end of your shift was being yelled at by an entitled elderly patron.

One of the more grizzled men gave a pointed look to another. That man stood up slowly and headed over to our table, chewing a toothpick. He fished in his pocket for a notepad and paper.

“Merry Christmas!” I chirped.

He clicked the ballpoint pen. “What do you want to order?”

“I’ll take…” Sawyer’s finger trailed down the menu. “What gin do you use in your mistletoe martini?”

The guy shrugged and chewed his toothpick.

“I guess I’ll have that.”

“What do you recommend?” I asked him, like we were at a fancy vineyard and not a sketchy racetrack.

Gran snatched the menus. “Who cares what you’re ordering? I’m here to gamble. How do we place a bet, sonny?”

The man looked over his shoulder at the grizzled hulk sitting at one of the rickety tables then back at us and sighed heavily. “Place a bet at the kiosk up front.” He jerked his thumb.

“Can I also have the mistletoe martini?” I called after him as he turned to head to the kitchen.

“I’m going to go place a bet. You girls want to put anything down?” My grandmother stood up.

“Gran!” I raced after her, rounding the corner to where the guy behind the bulletproof glass was scrolling on his phone.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? Usually, I’m like YOLO, but the house always wins.”

“I’ve been researching.” Gran tapped her head. “Ten thousand on Dasher.” Gran put a wad of cash under the window.

I grimaced as the clerk slowly leaned forward, scooped her cash into a drawer, and handed her a handwritten ticket.

Granny Doyle kissed it as we walked back to the table, where Snowball and Sawyer were waiting.

“I can feel it. Tonight’s my lucky night.”

“It was your lucky night with Anderson.” Sawyer nudged me.

“No, you were right.” I lowered my voice. “He is just another man in a long line of terrible men.”

“Bet the sex was out of this world, though.”

I scrunched down in my seat, hands over my face. “It was so good. But he’s such an asshole.”

“This is an improvement. Usually, you fall for shitty men who are terrible at sex.”

“How big is his ding dong? This big?” Gran mimed with her hands.

A bottle was slammed onto the table along with three shot glasses.

“Um…” I said to the retreating waiter. “I don’t think this is our order. We had the mistletoe martini. Okay, well, I guess we’ll just drink this.”

Gran popped the rubber cork off the bottle and sloshed out a round of shots. “To Dasher!” She lifted her glass.

I could use a drink after the night I’d had. I knocked it back, and flames shot down my throat. “I’m dying,” I gasped out.

Sawyer was coughing, grabbing her chest. “I’ve been poisoned.”

Gran smacked her lips and poured herself another shot. “I think it could be a little stronger. They water stuff down at these casinos.”

A horn blared, tinny over the speakers.

“The race is starting, girls!” Gran stood up, excited, and moved to the dirty window.

At the end of the track, the gates sprang open.

I heard sleigh bells, then eight reindeer ridden by small men in red Santa jumpsuits tore down the racetrack.

“On Dasher!” Gran screamed as the reindeer galloped down the dirt track. “Go! Go! Go!”

Number Five was in the lead.

“I’m gonna win!” Gran grabbed Sawyer, jumping up and down. “I’m saved! It’s a Christmas miracle.”

But Number Five was losing gas. The reindeer took the final turn, and Dasher was fading, fading, his hoofed feet losing momentum.

“No!” Gran yelled, banging on the glass as Dasher came in third. “This is some bullshit.”

I grabbed her arm. “I told you the house always wins.”

“I want my money back.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“This is a scam!” Gran said loudly.

I looked around nervously.

The dangerous men were giving each other glances, all on the edge of their seats.

“I think you need to leave,” a guy almost twice my diminutive grandmother’s height informed us.

But Gran wasn’t backing down. “You all are running an illegal operation here.”

“Gran, please.”

“There’s some money-laundering shit going on here or something. I just know it.” She held up a finger. “I’m writing my congressman, and I’m posting on NextDoor about this. You can’t be scamming people out of their money. Dasher was winning, and you all had him throw the race at the last dang minute.”

“That’s a dangerous accusation to make.” The man reached over to my grandmother.

“Oh yeah? Well, accuse this!” She grabbed her enormous purse off the chair and swung it at the huge man.

It caught him in the hand with a sickening thud.

“Fuck!” He doubled over, clutching his hand and gritting his teeth against screams of pain. “What the fuck do you have in there, you stupid cunt?” He shoved Gran into the table, sending the bottle of alcohol sloshing. “Give me that.”

“Keep your hands off my purse!”

“Help!” the gangster yelled as Gran pummeled him with her bag.

One of his meathead friends raced over, sleeves rolled up.

Snowball sprinted to the closest one, leaped up, and sank her sharp teeth into his crotch.

“Get it off!” He batted at the dog.

Sawyer jumped into the fray, empty liquor bottle swinging.

“Squash the little vermin!” Meathead yelled.

“Snowball! Leave my dog alone!”

Meathead’s bigger, meaner brother braved the purse swings to lock Gran in a chokehold.

“Get off!” I jumped on his back, sinking my nails into the soft parts of his face.

He howled a curse, releasing Granny Doyle, but slammed me back against a table, knocking the wind out of me. Then he whirled on me, blood streaming down his face. Bringing my legs up, I kicked at him ineffectively. He grabbed my foot, twisting my ankle in my boot.

“Snowball,” I tried to wheeze, my stomach still clenched.

Behind my attacker, Sawyer was whaling away at three huge goons rounding on her.

Meathead’s brother yanked, dragging me off the table. I grabbed at it to keep from slamming my head on the floor, sending the table toppling into the chairs as I landed in a jumble on the floor.

“Shit!” I squeaked as his massive boot rose above me. I curled up into a ball, but the kick never came.

I opened my eyes in time to see the goon land with a scream in front of me, his knee bent in a direction it wasn’t supposed to.

“You fucking—”

He didn’t get to finish because a huge man picked him up by the shirt collar and belt and slammed him into a nearby table.

“Anderson?”

He spared me a brief gray-eyed glance then turned back to the pack of men rounding on us.

Snowball darted through the crush of angry men to snarl at Anderson’s feet.

The men in front of us snickered.

“That your dog, Anderson?” they jeered.

They knew each other?

“Fucking puffball.”

The odds were not in our favor. Gran was surrounded, and two guys had Sawyer by the arms.

But Evie Murphy goes down with the fucking sleigh, goddammit.

I scrambled to my feet, picking up a metal chair.

“We got this. Right, Anderson?”

“What the fuck? There is no we. Just get the fuck out of here. You and your family.”

“I’m not leaving until you all give me my money back!” Gran reached into her purse.

“She’s got a gun!” several men yelled.

“I don’t have a gun!” Granny Doyle yelled, pulling out the dildo. “But I have a dick, and I will use it.”

“What does she mean ‘use it’?” the thickheaded goons all muttered.

I took the opening. Yelling a war cry, I hefted my chair and raced straight at the men who held Sawyer. I lived in New York City and constantly had to argue with people trying to scam me in the subway. I had no problem scrapping in the middle of the street.

“Dammit, Evie!” Anderson bellowed behind me.

“Get away from my cousin!” I hollered, smashing the chair into the nearest goon.

Snowball bit a chunk out of one hand that held Sawyer while I slammed the chair into the stomach of the second goon. He stumbled into a table, sending more alcohol spilling and causing more men to jump into the fight.

“I’m fucking done with you little bitches.” One goon grabbed me in a bear hug.

I kicked my feet. He threw me into Sawyer, and we both went down, narrowly missing Snowball.

I tried to scramble up. One goon swung a punch at me. Then Anderson was there, taking the hit and giving the goon an uppercut that sent him crumpling to the ground.

It was a mob against one, and the goons all jumped on him. Snowball tried to bite where she could squeeze in. Her fur was speckled with little dots of blood.

“They’re going to kill him!” I screamed as the goons whaled on Anderson.

Suddenly, a green-eyed man was flying in like a ninja, kicking one goon in the face, letting Anderson scramble up. Though he was Anderson’s size, his hair was brown, not black.

The two men slid in the alcohol pooling on the floor as they fought the ever-growing mob.

Gran was still in the fight, at least, whaling away with the dildo, which was tied to the end of her purse strap.

Something red, white, and green sailed through the air right into the face of the goon twisting my arm. Blood spurted out of his nose.

“Thank you, Aunt Trish!” I picked up the dildo and hurled it. Of course, I was not an anime princess or good at sports.

“What the hell?” the green-eyed man yelled as the dildo sailed past him… and clipped Anderson in the cheek.

“Fuck!”

“Sorry!” I raced over, ducking under the legs of one of the goons.

Anderson’s green-eyed friend easily dodged a punch then did some fancy judo move, and the goon was groaning on the ground.

I was shoved to the floor by the green-eyed man before a massive foot could break my ribs.

I grabbed the dildo and brought it down hard on the nearest goon’s foot.

He howled, hopping up and down and clutching his leg.

“That’s right. I don’t need a man to protect me!” I hollered, waving the dildo around. “Come at me, bro!”

Anderson grabbed me, shoving me behind him, as the goons, making the universal sign for I’m about to kick your ass, rounded on us.

Anderson readied himself. “I’m going to hold them off. When I say run, you need to run, Gingersnap. You got that? Don’t worry about your dog—just run.”

“I can’t abandon you. Yeah, you’re an asshole, but I’m not going to just leave you here. We’re in this together.”

Anderson cracked his neck.

His friend didn’t seem worried at all.

The goons advanced, one of them swinging a crowbar.

Anderson’s friend calmly neatened his suit, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small, shiny, and pewter. He held it up, whistling sharply.

It took a second for me and the goons to get wise, but then it registered—it was a cigarette lighter.

I was suddenly very aware of just how much the room smelled like alcohol.

“Try me,” Anderson’s friend said softly.

The man directly in front of him was lying in the pool of spilled liquor. “Oh shit. Mr. Richmond,” he whimpered. “Please, don’t. Please. Please.”

Anderson’s friend slowly looked around the room at the apprehensive goons.

The ones holding Sawyer slowly let her go. She jerked away from them.

“Are you the owner?” Granny Doyle hustled up to Anderson’s friend.

“I…” The brown-haired man seemed slightly confused.

Gran waved her ticket at him. “That race was rigged.”

“That sounds serious.” Mr. Richmond was solemn.

“Damn right. I lost ten grand.”

Anderson blew out an annoyed breath.

“I took this out of your dad’s safe, Evie. I was going to try to pay it back after I won my money, but these criminals stole it,” Granny Doyle said out of the side of her mouth.

“And you said you were going to file a complaint to the government?” Mr. Richmond added.

“Damn right, I am!”

“Ma’am.” The grizzled older man, who had not participated in the fight, stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. “I am very sorry you had a terrible experience at my racetrack.” He gave Anderson’s friend a pointed look.

Several men were dragging away the injured ones.

“You all need better customer service.” Gran put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to get any patrons here if you keep rigging races.”

“Of course. Now, since it is Christmas, after all, maybe we could just let bygones be bygones,” the grizzled man offered.

“My silence can be bought,” Gran declared.

The older man made an imperceptible hand movement. His henchman came over with a suitcase. He opened it, revealing stacks of cash.

“Gran, you can’t come home with a suitcase full of money. Dad’s going to have a fit.”

“Perhaps just the ten thousand?” Anderson’s friend murmured.

“I need thirty. Otherwise, there’s gonna be lots of uncomfortable questions, like ‘Where’d all your savings go?’ and ‘Do you have dementia?’ They’re already about to toss Evie onto the street, and I don’t have a hot guy who’d be willing to trade casual sex for a place to sleep.” She looked out over the still-standing goons. “I don’t think any of you would be interested?”

They shifted apprehensively.

The man holding the briefcase counted out thirty grand.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Granny Doyle shoved the cash into her purse.

“My compliments.” The grizzled racetrack owner handed her a full bottle of the toxic-smelling alcohol. “I’ve been dabbling in the art of distillery.”

“You’re on the right track, son. I can tell you have a nose for it.” Granny Doyle patted him on the cheek like he was a little boy. “You gotta let it mature. Oak barrels—that’s the ticket.”

“Evie, let’s get the fuck out of here.” Anderson grabbed my arm, hauling be toward the front door, Snowball trotting after us, puffy white tail waving.

Mr. Richmond offered Granny Doyle his arm and Sawyer the other.

Anderson shoved me out the door, into the cold.

“Shots!” Granny Doyle whooped, passing the bottle around.

I took a swig and corked it.

“You should have gotten some cash too,” Granny Doyle told me. “Then you wouldn’t be homeless.”

“Crap!” I turned back to the door. “Do you think they’re still handing out free money?”

Anderson blocked me. “You are not going back in there.”

“You could have just told me you were going to meet your hot, rich friend and already had plans!” I yelled, kicking snow at him. “I would have just left. It wasn’t like I had a U-Haul parked outside your place. I can do a casual hookup like a normal person. You don’t have to be such a dick.” I poked him hard with the dildo.

His green-eyed friend raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t your grandmother say you were homeless? You can’t blame the poor man for being concerned.”

“Aaron, shut up!” Anderson barked.

“Ooh, Aaron!” I jumped up, wrapping my arms around Mr. Richmond’s neck, kissing his cheek noisily. “Thank you for fighting on the dream team!”

It wasn’t lost on me that Anderson was looking pissy.

Aaron still had his arms around my waist, holding me up.

“Put her down,” Anderson growled.

“He’s nervous because he knows you’re just my type,” I stage-whispered to Aaron.

His perfect mouth parted slightly. “I’m your type?”

“Good-looking and rich? Sonny, you’re every woman’s type.” Granny Doyle cackled.

“Don’t try to deny it. I can tell a knockoff from a real Patek Phillip watch.” I trailed my fingers along his wrist. “You’re like St. Fucking Nick. You could make all my holiday dreams come true. Wave that credit card around, and bam! Nice house.” I performed arm motions with my sound effects. “Babam! Presents under the tree. Kerpaw! New bra.”

“Aaron doesn’t want some broke gold digger.” Anderson grabbed my arm to drag me away from his friend.

“I’m not after him for his money. He’s got green eyes and red hair.” I rubbed my hands together. “I have a fetish,” I whispered to Anderson’s friend and winked dramatically.

“I don’t have red hair.” Aaron scowled and touched his head then drew his hand back abruptly when he realized what he was doing.

Anderson pinched his fingers together. “You do a little bit, in the sun.”

The door to the racetrack opened a crack, and a wary-looking man stuck his head out. “Mr. Richmond? The boss is on the phone for you.”

“Back for round two?” I shouted after him. “Want another ass whoopin’ from the dream team? We still have the dildo.”

The goon scowled as I waved it around.

Anderson batted my hand down. “Gingersnap, shut the hell up. You run your mouth like you’re six-fucking-five. You are going to get me killed.”