The Christmas Throwaway

The Christmas Throwaway

RJ Scott

Published by Silver Publishing

Publisher of Erotic Romance

ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:

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You do not have resell or distribution rights
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This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000."

Cover Artist: Reese Dante

Editor: Devin Govaere

The Christmas Throwaway © 2010 RJ Scott

ISBN # 978-1-920468-44-6

All rights reserved.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material, is a model.

PUBLISHER

http://www.silverpublishing.info

For my family: for the love and support they have given me since Christmas 2009 when I decided to try and get my writing published. What a year.

The best gift I received this year was to have my first book published with Silver.
The Christmas Throwaway
is for Reese Dante, whose amazing cover art matches my

thoughts so closely. It is for Leiland and Silver, who took a chance on
Oracle
, and it is for Devin, who spots all of my three-handed aliens and makes me look good.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Ben 10: Alien Force:
Cartoon Network

iPod:
Apple Inc.

Lucky Charms
: General Mills Food Company

Mouse Trap
: Hasbro, Inc

PSP (PlayStation Portable)
: Sony Corporation
Trivial Pursuit:
Hasbro, Inc

University of Virginia

The Dallas Cowboys

Die Hard (1988)
: 20th Century Fox Film Corporation, Gordon Company

Stepford Wives (1972 novel)
: by Ira Levin
The Christmas Throwaway

RJ Scott

"Hey! You can't sleep here."

Zachary Weston had closed his eyes and let sleep

pull him under. The simple fact was that sheer exhaustion meant he couldn't physically stay awake any longer. Sleep came quickly, the sleep of the desperate man, despite the furious aching pain in his lower back. He had pushed on through the pain for the last week. Ironically the ice and frigid temperatures, whilst freezing his extremities, helped ease the aching.

Behind his eyes he saw a crackling fire in an iron grate, the red and gold flames casting a beautiful light throughout a room decorated for Christmas. A tree stood tall in the far corner, its sparkling fairy lights, colored tinsel, and baubles catching and glinting random colors.

"You can't sleep here."

Presents were scattered and piled, haphazard and

thoughtless in their arrangement, for there were so many.

Books and songs and warm clothes sat in wrapped paper, festooned with silver and gold bows, his name scrawled in gold on a fair share of them.

"Hey, you can't sleep here."

Outside the window it was snowing, not a blizzard, 6

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but soft fat flakes, which fell in a mesmerizing dance to join the soft shapes already hiding the mature garden from view. The cold meant the outside of the windows were frosted with creeping white tendrils that drew random patterns on the icy glass and reflected the colored lights from the tree.

"Hey…"

Zach bent down, picking up the first present,

looking back at his mom. She was smiling and happy to see her son so excited, sharing nods of understanding with his dad. They both had so much love in their eyes.

"Hey!"

Someone was speaking to him from outside the

room, but he couldn't see who. That didn't matter, because if he concentrated hard, he could focus on the gifts. He shivered, cold seeping into him, and unconsciously he moved himself closer to the fire, frowning when, if anything, the heat near him diminished. Stupid fire. He took his next gift, pulled at red and silver paper and uncovered the softest of sweatshirts, thick and warm and smooth, in a startling blue that his momma said matched his eyes. Despite the fire, he was still so damn cold, and quickly he pulled it over his head, the heat of the soft material on his frost-chilled skin comforting and warm. He 7

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smiled as he was as wrapped with affection and love and the sparks of a family Christmas as he was with the sweater.

"You can't sleep here."

Zach started. The voice from outside the room was suddenly right in his ear and the last vestiges of his dream nothing more than suggestions in his head. Abruptly, his eyes snapped wide open and, after a second, focused on the source of the words. Zach actually saw very little beyond the sudden blur of a silver badge and the navy blue uniform, and then focused on the speaker's eyes. They were flinty hard in the streetlight, and there were small puffs of white hanging in the air, created by the man's breath.
Shit!

Somehow someone had seen him and reported him, or the cop had spotted him. He was being moved on again. He pulled at the thin jacket that covered him, a memory of soft blue material flashing into his head and disorientating him momentarily.

Zach had so hoped to avoid the law, cautiously

optimistic that the churchyard might be a place of sanctuary on Christmas Eve.

"Sorry," he said quickly, scrambling to his feet as fast as he could manage, which wasn't entirely that fast considering the aching cold that seemed to split his very 8

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bones in two. He cursed as his blanket fell from his numb hands and landed in the snow at his feet. That was the only warmth he had, a threadbare piece of material he had stolen from Goodwill when the woman in charge turned her back.

And now the damn thing was going to be wet.

Still, there was no time to worry about that; the cop wanted him moved on. He leaned down to pick it up, only to see the ground spinning up to his face at an alarming speed. Strong arms stopped him from face-planting in the snow, but he twisted out of them quickly. The man might be a cop, might wear a badge, but no one touched him.

Zach knew what men could want from the child he still was. He wasn't stupid, and he had dodged enough of it in the city.

"How old are you?" the cop asked, looking concerned and very much in authority.

"Eighteen," Zach lied quickly. He took a step back until his thighs hit the back of the bench he had been resting on. The cop stepped with him, looming large despite being a few inches shorter than Zach, his face creased in a frown.

"How old are you really?" the cop persisted, his expression calm, his voice low and curious.

Zach bit his lower lip, feeling the hot blood against 9

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RJ Scott

his tongue, the shivering inside him starting to manifest in shakes he knew even the cop would see. Carefully Zach lifted the blanket, damp and ice cold, trying to create a barrier between himself and the police officer with the intense gaze.

"Seventeen," Zach finally said, willing his teeth to stop chattering, "but I'll be eighteen in a few days." He added the last bit, giving the cop an out. He wanted to add
just leave me alone, I won't hurt anyone.

"Ben Hamilton," the cop said softly, holding his hand out as if he wanted to shake Zach's. Zach was confused, waiting for the glint of cuffs, uncertain, and he dug his hands deeper in the wet blanket he was holding.

The cop, this Hamilton, didn't move his hand, just held it firm and steady. Finally Zach thrust his cold hand out, the texture of the officer's leather gloves soft and strange beneath his touch.

"Zach," he introduced himself softly, remembering not to mention his surname. The cop didn't push him on it, just nodded and pulled his hand away.

"So, Zach, what's happened to you? Why are you lying on the bench at the Church of St. Margaret on Christmas Eve?"

The officer wasn't shouting; he was asking quietly, 10

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but Zach immediately started to go on the defensive. There was a concerned twist to the cop's mouth, and he had narrowed his eyes as he asked.

"I…" Zach stopped, assessing the lies he could spin, thinking of the stories he had used to persuade people to leave him alone. Nothing crystallized as right for this moment in time. There was something
to
this cop, a man who seemed not much older than he was, an officer who wasn't a city cop, but a small town cop. He wouldn't be part of the system the same way as the cops in the city who said he should go home.
I don't have a home.
Maybe… maybe he should tell him the truth?

"I can't be at home right now," he said finally, wincing as the cop's gloved hand traced the bruises over his left eye and down his jaw line.

"Who did this to you, Zach? Did this happen here in this town?" The officer's words spun a safe haven for sharing secrets, soft, insistent and not very cop-like. Zach shied away instantly from the gentle touch, an icy blade of uncertainty pinching his skin as he contemplated being in the dark church grounds on his own with this man. He seemed friendly enough, but what if it was just another act?

Cautiously, and trying not reveal his intentions, he looked to his left and then to his right. If he was going to run, he 11

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needed a head start and being held or cornered would take that head start away. To the right, dense foliage blocked an exit, to the left was the gate to the churchyard and the shadowy grave stones. That was his best bet. He shifted his weight to his right foot, ready in a moment to push himself away and to vault the gate. His leg shook with the added pressure, and he knew he would probably fall at the first hurdle. Still, any plan offered more hope than no plan.

"I fell," he said firmly, the same line he had used for most of his life, the same line that earned him looks that ranged from pity to doubt. When he had said those words to people from organizers at the soup kitchen, to cops on the corner, to the owner of the homeless hostel, he had been sworn at, propositioned, cried at, or pushed away in disgust. He wasn't expecting much from another man in authority.

"Uh huh." The officer didn't push for any more information, just nodded at the simple statement and took a step back and away. He spoke directly into his radio. "I'm heading home now. It was nothing to worry about at the church." Static broke the calm of the snow-deadened air, and a tinny voice acknowledged the radio message with a series of codes and a single name,
Ben
. The cop looked back at Zach, and Zach gauged that now the cop was two 12