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  He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

  M/M Romance

  Sara Dobie Bauer

  Copyright

  Cover Artist: Natasha Snow Designs

  He Sees You When You’re Sleeping © 2020 Sara Dobie Bauer

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  Intended for an 18+ audience only. This book contains material that may be offensive to some and is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.

  Trademarks

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  About the book

  We met when you were just a child, but you’re a man now and need my protection.

  With Christmas Eve approaching, I’ll watch over you.

  Whether you know it or not.

  Because no one is allowed to hurt you.

  No one but me.

  At 20K words, He Sees You When You’re Sleeping is a twisted take on Santa, featuring M/M romance, violence, and the holiday season.

  To Tiffany, my Gemini twin and spooky sister.

  Warning

  This story contains child abuse, extreme violence, explicit sexual content, dubious consent, and attempted suicide.

  He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

  He went by Kris, although little children knew him by another name. When December 24 arrived, so did the woman in black, her face always hidden by a hood. Together, they would spend a night of toil that felt much longer than only one night. They had spent Christmas Eve together for decades, maybe more. Kris wasn’t clear on time. The only thing clear was his annual duty: walk the world every Christmas Eve, protect children, and leave gifts for the ones who believed.

  There weren’t as many believers anymore; several houses didn’t glow as Kris walked a poor street on the outskirts of New York City. Sadly, most of the small houses were dark, which meant the children who lived there no longer awaited the entity known as “Father Christmas.” That meant Kris could pass by those homes. He and the woman in black had no time for unbelievers.

  They stopped in front of one house, though, and Kris tilted his head to the side, curious. The house was ramshackle, probably built in the 1970s or early 80s. Bright white snow sat heavily on the roof—at least six inches—and Kris wouldn’t have been surprised if the roof caved in. He was impressed the house still stood at all with its decrepit, cracked siding; one broken window, covered in thick paper and tape; and not a single Christmas light.

  Yet, the house …

  It didn’t glow, per se. It flickered. Kris couldn’t remember seeing anything like it, and although his ageless memory was vast, he knew it couldn’t be trusted. There was a big, empty space in his life before he became “Kris.” He remembered nothing before that one Christmas Eve when he woke up and started walking with the woman in black, visiting all the houses that glowed—so many back then. So few now.

  Why did this house flicker, like an aged light bulb about to go out?

  He didn’t bother asking his companion for answers. In all their time together, the woman in black never spoke. When Kris approached the front door, made of scraped and weatherworn wood, she followed. Kris took them to The Other Place where they couldn’t be seen. Then, they walked through the front door.

  As soon as they entered the cramped foyer, Kris smelled cigarettes and heard shouting. A child cried, “Run! Go!” followed by the sound of furniture being knocked over.

  An adult voice joined the hubbub: “You little shit.”

  Kris actually startled at the vicious smack of flesh hitting flesh. Then, the echo of a body hitting the floor. The misleading quiet swish of bodies in an altercation. The child cried out again just as Kris turned a corner, and the woman in black lingered behind, as usual.

  Kris entered a living room with a threadbare couch, cheap TV, and dark fireplace. An overflowing ashtray was knocked over, spilled beside a three-legged coffee table held up by a stack of phone books.

  Invisible to all present, Kris ground his teeth at the scene as a father knelt above his son, who couldn’t have been older than ten, and smacked him repeatedly, while the child flailed his skinny arms to no avail.

  The father kept cussing, mumbling to himself, and Kris smelled alcohol from where he stood. A soft whimper caught his attention. In the back corner, beneath a kitchen table, two children—smaller than the one being attacked—stared in horror but remained hiding. Apparently, this was a usual occurrence, their bigger brother defending them by accepting the brunt of their father’s ire.

  Kris’s heart ached.

  After one more solid whack, the drunken dad pointed in the boy’s face.

  The boy bled from his mouth but didn’t shed a tear.

  “That’s what you get for asking for a goddamn fire because it’s Christmas.” The word came as a taunt. “Christmas ain’t even real, you fucking halfwit. It’s just another useless day.” Then, the father pushed to his feet and wove across the room unsteadily before disappearing down a dark hall.

  It took a moment for the child on the floor to sit up, but he did eventually, dark hair a mess. He wiped his bleeding face on the sleeve of an oversized flannel shirt with a hole in the elbow. Kris recognized the boy, although on previous Christmas Eves, he had never looked so malnourished, so sick.

  After a silent moment, the two other children exited their hiding spot and joined their brother in the center of the room.

  The little girl, hair in a messy ponytail, said, “Told you,” and poked her brother in the knee.

  He didn’t acknowledge her, just stared into the empty fireplace.

  “Yeah,” the other child said. Although probably no older than six or seven, he had a rough appearance as though he’d spent several years living on the street.

  The smaller children recovered fast and left, probably off to their bedrooms to play. Kris hated how fast they recovered, because it meant this third child—the elder child who had protected them—received beatings often. And no one cared.

  Kris observed as the bleeding boy continued staring into the fire with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. That was when he noticed.

  It was this boy who flickered. This boy had called Kris into the house.

  With a snap, Kris produced a fire in the fireplace, and the child skidded backwards across the warped wooden floor. Then, Kris wrapped the boy safely in The Other Place and sat at his side. Kris might have expected some kind of reaction—a scream, perhaps, which was why he’d wrapped them in the place where no one could see or hear them until Kris allowed.

  But the child didn’t scream. He looked at Kris, at the fire, and glanced over his shoulder down the hall.

  “No one will bother us,” Kris said quietly.

  The kid wrinkled his nose. “Shit, he must have hit me really hard this time.” The profanity sounded extra ugly coming from the mouth of someone so young.

  “Does your father hit you a lot?” Kris asked. He felt huge next to someone so small and frail. He wondered when the child had last eaten.

  The boy winced. “That’s
not my father.” He shrugged. “I don’t know my father. Frank is just my foster asshole.” He wiped a drop of blood from the side of his mouth with his thumb. “Who are you anyway?” Reflected flames danced in his wide eyes, green as a freshly cut pine tree.

  “Father Christmas.”

  The child’s head whipped toward him. “What? Like, Santa?”

  “Yes.” Kris nodded. “And you believe in me.”

  “Naw.” He poked at his socks. One of his toes escaped from a tattered hole. “That’s just kid stuff.”

  “Aren’t you a kid?”

  “Course not,” he replied. “I’m ten years old, man. I’ve been ten since this summer.” He sat up straight as though that would detract from his protruding collarbone, sunken cheeks, and the sickly pallor of his skin. “Foster asshole” had to be starving him.

  Even as the child denied his belief, he flickered with light once, twice, three times.

  “What’s your name?” Kris asked. Of course, he knew it was Jack—Jack Benson. Vague memories of previous years’ gifts floated like smoke: a toy guitar, a skateboard, even a Beatles album, Magical Mystery Tour. Kris asked, though, to see if the child would lie. The boy already seemed so angry; how close was he to becoming something bad?

  But then he said, honestly, “Jack,” and pointed up at Kris. “What’s yours? I’m not calling you Santa.” He waved a skeletal little hand at the fire. “And how’d you do that anyway? You a magician?”

  Kris considered the question. “I’m very good with gifts.”

  “So the fire’s a gift for me?”

  Kris nodded.

  “Well, Frank is going to be pissed when he sees it.”

  Kris knew Frank wouldn’t see the fire; soon, he wouldn’t be seeing much of anything, especially after Jack rolled up his sleeves to reveal hand-shaped bruises on his too-skinny wrists.

  “You better go, actually.” Jack sniffed. “Magician man.”

  “My name is Kris.”

  “Thanks for breaking into the house, Kris. Frank busted the TV when his stupid, drunk ass tripped last night, so it’s been extra boring around here.” Jack certainly didn’t talk like a ten-year-old, although Kris supposed that by the look of things, Jack had more nasty life experiences than most full-grown adults.

  “I want to give you something.”

  Jack turned to look at him, emerald eyes squished together in suspicion.

  Kris reached into his thick, dark red coat and pulled out a snow globe. Inside was a detailed rendering of New York City. He shook it once while Jack watched, and tiny white flakes and silver glitter danced in the water’s current.

  Jack’s eyes widened before he recovered with a disinterested sneer. “Lame.”

  Kris could tell the child actually loved the snow globe but also knew it wasn’t about the snow globe but about the gift. He doubted Frank gave the children anything for Christmas. Kris probably was—and always had been—the only gift-giver in young Jack’s life.

  When Kris held the snow globe out for Jack to take, Jack grabbed it in a rush like Kris might change his mind, take it back. He shook the globe some more and stared into the tiny city.

  “It’s a magic globe,” Kris said. “If you’re ever in trouble, real trouble, I want you to smash it on the ground, and I’ll be there.”

  Jack scoffed. “Why would I break this? It’s the only thing I own. Frank threw out everything else.”

  Kris was surprised with himself. Giving away enchanted trinkets was a rare thing. He’d done it perhaps a dozen times, only when a child was in dire need, but he couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. Maybe it was time he protected a child once more. Their joy was, after all, his purpose.

  And Jack looked so very fragile.

  The boy shook the globe again, and although he tried to bite back a smile, one soon blossomed, revealing crooked teeth. “I’m going to live in the city someday. Have a big place of my own. All mine.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Jack chewed his bottom lip and quirked an eyebrow at Kris. “You are Santa, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The light surrounding Jack no longer flickered but glowed bright. He hugged the snow globe to his chest. “Isn’t tonight really busy for you?”

  “I manage,” Kris said. His job became easier and easier every year due to social media, television, and cruel older kids. As belief dwindled, so did Kris’s responsibilities.

  Jack looked down at the snow globe he kept pressed against his heart. “Well. Thanks.”

  “Remember what I said.” Kris stood. “If you ever need me, break it.”

  Jack’s gaze moved to the floor. “I’ll be okay. Frank doesn’t hurt me too much, and he’s not as bad as the last jerk.”

  Frank wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Kris just hoped Jack’s next foster family would be better.

  With a nod, Kris left the living room. Behind him, he allowed The Other Place to fall away, replaced by reality, although he kept the fire lit for Jack. He then disappeared into the back hallway of that horrible home.

  He found Frank unconscious on a bed covered in stained sheets. He’d passed out with a lit cigarette between his fingers—a cigarette that Kris grabbed, dropped on the frayed carpet, and ground out with his big, black boot.

  Kris watched Frank sleep and snore. Then, he took a pillow and shoved it against Frank’s face. For a couple moments, Frank didn’t respond. When he did, he first mumbled something and tried to sit up. Kris wouldn’t let him. That was when Frank blindly flailed, kicking his legs to no avail. He screamed into the pillow, as Kris pushed it down harder.

  Once Frank stopped moving, Kris still lingered, holding the pillow tight to make sure Frank had truly suffocated. Kris stood slowly and looked down at the wide, unmoving eyes of a dead man, face frozen in a silent scream. No one in that house would have to worry about “foster asshole” ever again.

  Kris turned to leave, and the woman in black stood before him. Together, they walked back down the hall. Kris gave little Jack one last glance before they vanished out the front door and into a chilly Christmas Eve. Snow had started falling again in big, soft flakes. Kris pulled his hood up and walked. He knew they would walk all night, and the woman in black would disappear in the morning.

  Kris couldn’t remember what he was doing when it happened. He felt first a tingle on the back of his neck. Then, a breeze blew at the black hair that hung just to his shoulders—hair that never changed, despite his unfathomable age. He knew what was coming. It had happened before. Despite all the blank spaces in his brain, Kris remembered this: the way the air tingled and popped right before he was summoned.

  A child was in trouble.

  The wind picked up and swirled around him, an invisible whirlwind, increasing in violence. Soon, Kris felt the pull of his body being lifted. He closed his eyes and whipped through the air.

  Mere moments later, he landed on his feet in a sunlit apartment where two men fought on the floor.

  “Fighting” gave the altercation too much credit. One man lay on his back and tried to dodge blows as the other rained down punches that would have knocked out a horse.

  Kris took but a moment to digest the scene. Based on the mess—books and paper all over—this “fight” had not always been on the floor. Kris scanned the area, and there it was: a shattered snow globe, probably broken in the struggle. Water surrounded the busted trinket, and yet, the tiny renderings of New York skyscrapers remained intact and standing proud.

  Jack, Kris remembered. The child’s name was Jack Benson.

  Kris whispered the name before taking stomping steps forward. He grabbed the attacker’s leather coat and pulled.

  The man flew backwards and knocked into a kitchen table that lurched with his weight. The other man—the young one with blood on his face—sat up slowly, gasping for air.

  Kris looked back and forth between them. Where was Jack? Jack was a child. Jack was ten years old. Jack was skinny and small and …

/>   Bright emerald eyes stared up at Kris from the floor. Familiar eyes that once reminded Kris of fresh pine and still did.

  Jack was all grown up.

  The man in the leather coat muttered, “What the fuck?” Then, he addressed Kris. “Hey. Sasquatch. Get the fuck out of here or I’ll kick your ass, too.”

  Kris didn’t move, but he did look down at … well, Jack, he supposed … whose hands shook as he touched what was definitely a broken nose. How much time had passed? Jack was an adult now. Unlike the child in need of a haircut, this man wore his dark brown hair short and probably sleek when not ruffled by a thorough beating. His blue Polo was torn at the neck, and jeans covered long, slim legs that ended in combat boots.

  Kris’s study was interrupted by the sound of more cussing, which drew his gaze. He watched as the villain pulled a gun from the back of his pants.

  Despite sitting on the floor, covered in his own blood, Jack had the audacity to shout, “What? Are you going to shoot me now?”

  The man pointed the gun at Jack but only long enough to say, “Shut up,” before aiming the barrel at Kris’s broad chest. “I told you to get out.”

  Kris approached the man, and the gun went off, emitting but a wisp of sound due to the silencer. Kris felt no pain, and the intruder got off one additional shot before Kris reached him, took both his wrists in his hands and squeezed.

  Two loud pops echoed like thunder in the room when Kris broke the man’s wrists to bits. The gun hit the floor, and the man howled. When Kris let go of him, he fell, writhing, with wrists now bent like broken tree limbs.

  Kris loomed above. “I think you should get out.”

  Tears tumbled down the man’s face as he rolled over onto his belly and skittered toward the door like a cockroach startled by sudden light.