The Christmas He Loved Her (Bad Boys of Crystal Lake 2)

One that had brought him full circle. Back to Crystal Lake.

Back to this porch.

He glanced up at a pristine blue sky and a plane caught his attention—its drone a melancholy sound that echoed into the stillness. A warm breeze caressed his cheek, bringing with it the smell of summer—of freshly mowed lawn, flowering bushes, and warm lake water. He closed his eyes and the scent took him back. Memories rushed through him: Fourth of July celebrations that lasted the week. The annual boating regatta that filled the lake with hundreds of revelers. Christmas out at Murphy’s sugar shack. Tailgate parties and football. Beach nights with the boys, a guitar, a couple of girls, and a case of beer.

He saw the kid he’d been—the teen who’d dreamed large and let nothing stand in his way. Hell, none of them had. The twins, Jake and Jesse, had realized their dream to serve their country, while Mackenzie had fought his way out from beneath his father’s fists to make a life in the Big Apple.

Ten years gone and it seemed like yesterday. Like nothing had changed.

The Edwards family abode was a large, redbrick Georgian with a long rambling driveway lined with petunias in varying shades of violet. At the moment, every available space of blacktop was occupied. There were at least thirty cars parked in the driveway, and several had pulled onto the grass near the road.

He’d left his rental on the street, because if memory served, Mr. Edwards was pretty anal when it came to his lush green lawn.

Cain reached for the door, but something held him still. His fingers grazed the cool burnished-steel handle and he faltered. He hated hypocrisy, and at the moment it felt like his throat was clogged with its bitter taste. He was so far off the grid, he felt like he didn’t belong anymore.

He took a step back instead. Christ, could he do this?

Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d been on stage in Glasgow. BlackRock—the band he fronted—had snagged the opening slot on the Grind’s latest tour and had performed in venues all over Canada, the United States, and Europe. It had been the chance of a lifetime—one he’d been waiting years for—and the exposure had been more than a gift, it had been a godsend.

The tour had been a grueling, eye-opening experience with more than its fair share of drama, yet every drop of blood had been worth it. The record label was happy, and the buzz was incredible. BlackRock was a band on the rise, and after years of sacrifice, his dream was within reach.

It was a dream that had taken him from this town ten years ago, and sadly, it had taken a funeral to bring him back.

The door opened suddenly, and a small boy ran out, yanking it closed behind him. He skidded to a halt, barely missing Cain, his shiny shoes sliding across the well-worn wooden planks. He looked to be about six or seven and had a mess of russet curls, and large blue eyes that dominated his face. The child was dressed for church—black dress pants, white button-down shirt—and he clutched a bright piece of fabric in his hand that was a shade darker than emerald green. The boy’s eyes widened as his gaze traveled the tall length of Cain.

“Who are you?” His young voice wasn’t so much surly as defiant.

Cain cracked a smile. The kid had spunk. “I’m Cain.”

“Oh.” The boy’s brow furled. “I don’t know you.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

The kid angled his head, peered around him, and frowned. “Why are you standing out here by yourself?”

Good question. “I just got in a few minutes ago.” He nodded to the boy’s hand. “What’s that?”

The little guy’s mouth tightened as he unclenched his fist. His face screwed up in disgust. “It’s a tie. My mom made me wear it, but I hate ’em.” He glanced at the long settee off to the side. “Thought I’d hide it so I didn’t have to wear it the rest of the day.”

Cain laughed out loud. “Good call. I’m not really a tie man myself.”

“You won’t tell her?” The kid grinned and ran to the settee, where he promptly stuffed the offending piece under the seat. He carefully placed the cushion in the exact way he’d found it and stepped back. “Do you think she’ll know?”

“I’m pretty sure she won’t.”

Cain walked over to the boy and paused. They stood in front of a large bay window, and he heard voices—muffled of course, but he knew there was a good-sized crowd in the house.

“Did you know him?”

The child’s question hit a nerve, and Cain clenched his jaw tight, fighting the emotion that beat at him. Know him? He was like a brother.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked the boy instead.

His reflection in the window didn’t look promising. He’d been on a plane for hours, and then there’d been the long drive from Detroit. He hadn’t showered since before the show in Glasgow. His jaw was shadowed, his clothes rumpled—the black shirt, faded jeans, and heavy boots were not exactly appropriate either.

He looked like shit and knew he’d hear it from his mother, but until now none of that had mattered. His only thought had been to get home in time for the funeral, which he’d failed to do. As it turned out, he’d been damn lucky to make the reception.

“My name’s Michael.” The boy’s eyes were huge as he looked up at Cain. He shoved his small hands into the pockets of his pants and scuffed his shoes along the worn wooden floorboards. “Mom says he was a hero. I never met a hero before.” He squared his shoulders. “Did you know him?”