Page 42 of The Santas Who Stole Me

“Stop,” I scream, but the only sound I hear is deep booming laughter. “I’m coming,” he barks out. Hands are gripping me. They start at my ankle, then snake up to my legs, stomach. There are hundreds pulling me down.

“Stop!” I scream again. I can’t run or move, but I’m trying. I’m always trying, it’s never enough. I hit a wall, the hands pull me. Down. Down. Down as if I ever had a choice to go another way.

My eyes shoot open, and my vision is fuzzy.

Keeper hovers above me with a scowl. “Georgie, are you awake?” His hands grip my arms and he gives my body a shake.

I can’t speak. Focusing on the floor, I see the lamp has been knocked off the table next to the bed. The table lies on its side.

“What happened?”

“You were sleepwalking and knocked it over.”

Zeke put me in bed last night. Actually Keeper’s bed, which somehow became officially mine. I love his room, and his bed is custom to fit his size, so the guys can all pile in together.

“I’m sorry, I’ll clean the mess.”

Keeper’s room is perfectly kept with his sleek modern decor. Items from the nightstand have fallen out of the drawer, and the lamp is broken. It’s not too many things, since even his drawers have his minimalist lifestyle. Scanning the papers, pencil, and earbuds, I see a tiny drop of red on the carpet. I squint to see another few and realize the cut on my foot is bleeding.

“I don’t care about the mess. How do you feel, Georgie?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. I guess⁠—”

“The other day at the store escalated your dreams? Or is it because you know you will see Chad soon?”

I let out a long breath, not agreeing or disagreeing with either statement. I don’t know. That nightmare felt real and ugly.

Keeper looks at my foot again as the red bleeds on his carpet. “Stay put. I’ll go grab something to clean this.” He tilts his head to survey me, then quietly turns and walks away.

With his absence, embarrassment washes over me. Will I always be like this? I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around my bent legs. Visions of my nightmares and times with Chad flash behind my eyes every time they are closed. I’m so tired, so tired of this. Sleep takes more out of me than being awake.

Keeper makes no noise walking back into the room. He crouches in front of me and remains silent. I don’t want to meet his stare, so I focus on the contents of the spilled nightstand. The silence is deafening, causing his voice to get louder in my head.

Worthless.

Ugly.

Dead.

My eyes squeeze shut as if that can remove Chad’s words. Keeper wipes my cut, making me wince and pulling my head out from the internal nightmare on repeat. I’m grateful for the pain and distraction as he puts a bandage over the scratch.

“Georgie, you can tell me anything, you know that?”

Glossy pamphlets with large baby-blue eyes peeking out under a striped hat are scattered on the floor. I hold one up to him. “You can tell me anything too.” My statement is more of a question than his was. Am I deflecting? For sure, but after Tuesday, I’ll tell them everything, no more secrets. He holds out his hand, and I place the thick paper in it.

“This fucking pamphlet again.” He almost chuckles when he says it.

“Why do you have it?”

“I got it from a job.”

My brows scrunch. What kind of job would he have taken with this pamphlet?

“We took out a fertility doctor, don’t get mad about it. He was a dick who was using his own sperm to impregnate surrogates.”

That is sickening. The part about the doctor, not about the job he did. The doctor deserved to die. Keeper didn’t say, but he was thinking it, and I can’t help but agree. “Do you only take jobs for people who deserve it? I’m not trying to be judgmental, simply wondering.”

“No, it’s a job. I’m sure the person who hired us felt he was as justified as the doctor who wanted to play God.”