Lesbian Assassins Stocking Stuffer by Faye Audrey

Author:Faye, Audrey [Faye, Audrey]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Fireweed Publishing Ltd
Published: 2015-12-18T16:00:00+00:00

I stepped forward gingerly, hands out in front of my face. “You’re trying to give me a concussion for Christmas, right?”

Carly snickered at my left shoulder and guided me gently to the right. “The eggnog will take care of that part.”

Probably—Rosie had been responsible for the spiking, and I was a total lightweight. One who shouldn’t have had leftover eggnog for breakfast.

A blast of cold hit my face. “Through the door here and then three more steps down.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Rosie had taken over navigation. I was on my way to my first present of the morning, and I didn’t want to die before I got there.

Or possibly I did. The look in Lelo’s eyes as she blindfolded me had been something to behold.

I could feel the snow under my feet, the odd stillness of the downtown streets, the hushed expectancy as if even the two-hundred-year-old buildings of Lennotsville wanted to know what I was getting for Christmas.

The sexy gypsy pulled me to a quiet halt. “Don’t move or you’ll fall off the curb,” she whispered.

“You take the blindfold off, Rosie.” Lelo sounded almost breathless. “I want to watch her face.”

“We all do, sugar.”

Damn—that was Mrs. Beauchamp. And judging from the suddenly not-so-quiet murmurs, she wasn’t alone. I leaned over in the direction I hoped Rosie was still standing. “Just how many people are out here?”

She chuckled. “A good-sized bar full. At least.”

On Christmas morning? “Does this involve anybody dancing naked?”

Carly elbowed me from the other side. “If you don’t do this soon, Manny’s going to bust a gut.”

There were kids here. On Christmas morning. “What, did Santa get lost or something?”

“You’re a town celebrity,” said Rosie quietly, raising a hand to the back of my head. “Get used to it. Ready?”

Not even kind of. “Okay.”

She slid the blindfold off. My eyes slammed shut, partly in defense against the blinding, snow-bright light—and partly because I was a wimp.

“You gotta look!” shouted a helpful voice from the audience.

I wasn’t supposed to be a wimp anymore. I screwed my eyes back open. And stared.

At my face. And at the rest of me, in my red dress and heels, a microphone in my hand and a sexy, sultry look in my eyes that belonged to a bluesy siren—plastered in life-size, screaming color all over the side of the van. “I don’t look like that.”

Lelo snickered. “Yup. You do.”

I couldn’t look away. “We can’t drive around in that.” Our battered white van had been the epitome of road anonymity.

My crab shell had just been pulverized.

“It’s good advertising.” The kid was starting to sound a little worried. “I got it printed, but Rosie took the pictures and Carly helped with the layout so we didn’t split your head across the door or something dumb like that.”

I had no words. Not a single, damn one.

“Don’t be an idiot,” said a hissing voice at my shoulder.

Carly, riding to my rescue. Or possibly to Lelo’s.

I peeled my eyes away from Jane Philpott, forty-four-year-old sex symbol, and looked into the uncertain brown eyes of the teenager who had festooned me all over my own van.

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