Santa, Sir

Bad Santa

Ronan’s POV

The smell of high-octane fuel and hot metal was a balm to my soul. It was the smell of control.

I stood over the workbench at Rourke Customs, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the highly polished chrome fender I was detailing. The shop was quiet now, the last of the guys having clocked out hours ago. Only the low thrum of the ventilation system and the rhythmic shhh-shhh of the microfiber cloth broke the silence.

This was my world. Precise. Predictable. If a wrench was misaligned, it was my fault. If an engine misfired, I knew exactly which component was failing. I could fix things here. I could impose order.

The motorcycle shop was the monument to the life I had built, brick by hard-won brick. It was loud, demanding, and utterly real. It was the antidote to the suffocating routine of my previous occupation. Being a ProDom had been exhilarating at first—the power, the control, the psychological chess game. But eventually, the thrill curdled into routine. People are fundamentally predictable when they crave release. Once I knew the patterns, the dynamic became tedious. The velvet cage of dominance grew boring.

Now, I had a new, much more ridiculous velvet cage.

I paused, wiping a bead of sweat from my temple with the back of a greasy hand. The thought of the North Pole headquarters—the garish tinsel, the sickly sweet smell of cheap cocoa, the sheer, mind-numbing idiocy of the 'elf' staff—made my jaw clench.

Santa.

It was the perfect disguise. Who would look at Ronan Rourke, the six-foot-four wall of muscle who builds million-dollar custom bikes, and expect him to be the face of seasonal cheer? It was theatrical absurdity. It was low-stakes chaos, a mental vacation from the high-stakes chaos of my actual life—the kind of chaos that involved Marcus, a very large debt, and a capo who still hadn't fully conceded defeat.

The Santa job was supposed to be simple. A ridiculous uniform serving as the perfect disguise, a booming voice, and a few weeks of pretending to care about toy logistics. An escape hatch.

But the incompetence was maddening.

Eggnog. I had spent ten minutes this morning laying into that poor, terrified elf coordinator because she ordered the wrong brand of almond eggnog. Not because I care about the creamy consistency of a holiday beverage, but because if they can’t handle the nog, how are they going to handle the multi-million dollar inventory and the complex scheduling? I am not just a mall Santa. I am Santa for this community’s children, and I won't disappoint them.

Control. I needed control. And the North Pole was a swamp of uncontrolled variables.

I ran my thumb along the smooth curve of the fender, checking for imperfections. None. Perfect.

The phone on the wall rang, shattering the quiet. I grabbed it, my tone already clipped.

"Rourke Customs."

"It’s Marcus," the voice on the other end said, hushed and hurried. "Listen, I just got a call. The delivery for the 'Snowflake' bike—the one going upstate tomorrow? They want it rerouted through the old docks."

My eyes narrowed. The old docks. That was a route I specifically avoided. Too isolated. Too many shadows. Too reminiscent of the kind of trouble I’d dragged Marcus out of last year.

"Tell them no," I ordered, my voice dropping to the low, steady rumble I used when I needed absolute compliance. "If they want the bike, they pick it up here tomorrow, ten sharp. No reroutes. No exceptions."

"Ronan, they sound serious. They mentioned—"

"I don't care what they mentioned," I cut him off, my patience thin. "We follow the plan. Any deviation, and we risk exposure. Stick to the protocol, Marcus. You know the rules."

I hung up before he could argue.

The control felt brittle suddenly. The world I’d built to protect us—the shop, the rules, even the ridiculous Santa job meant to distract me—it was all under constant threat.

I looked down at my hands. They were covered in grease and metal dust. In an hour, they would be covered in cheap white gloves and the synthetic velvet of the Head Santa uniform.

One world demanded precision and vigilance against actual violence. The other demanded I pretend to be jolly while dealing with logistic nightmares and incompetent elves.

I sighed, pulling off my work gloves. It was time to trade the custom-built motorcycle for the custom-made sleigh. Time to trade the smell of gasoline for the smell of cinnamon. Time to put on the mask.