The Counterfeit Claus

This story is dedicated to N.J. Nielsen, Tracy Tucker Faul, Val Hughes, Amara Devonte, for each and every little thing they do… and of course, to the evil urchin who sparked off the idea for the Rescue Twinks by spilling glitter all over my house. Thanks, kidlet!

...and as always, every story I will ever write is for my Balthazar, and the sweet, wild, half-fae wench who led me to his door. Yes, yes, I do mean you, naughty Countess J.

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both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book should not 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
everywhere except the land of UtaDamDenial. It is also a blatantly meanie-butt maneuver.
It takes the author’s hard earned ducats (that’s greenbacks to you) right out of their pockets.
Just don’t do it.

Cover Artist: A.J. Corza
Editor: Val Hughes
The Counterfeit Claus © 2012 Cherie Noel ISBN # CN001
Attention Readers: This book uses Ameriglish. English

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 of the publisher. 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.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Jeep:
© 2012 Chrysler Group LLC
Starbucks: © 2012 Starbucks Corporation Dunkin’Donuts: © 2011. DD IP Holder LLC. YouTube: © YouTube LLC.
Danger Mouse: © Nickelodeon, originated by CosgroveHall

Justin Bieber
Michael Clarke Duncan Ft. Leonard Wood St.Nick

The sound of Justin Bieber’s twinkish tenor crooning his latest hit carved a jagged little hole into the velvety silence cocooning Devon. He groaned, flailing one long arm towards the pesky little voice. What the hell was Justin Bieber doing in his bedroom anyway? A high note reverberated in his ears, exhorting him to just open his eyes and—Devon snagged his cell phone, flipping it open.

“Sot—” The thick southern twang combined with the use of his last name—or at least a portion of it—told Devon who his caller was before his sluggish brain caught up to the irony of a Bieber song announcing anything to do with “the one and only Michael Rose, badass extraordinaire.”.

“Rose, you are so fucking dead.” Devon’s voice crawled up out of his chest like a snarling, slavering beast. “You know I worked the show up on campus last night before my regular job. Christ man, I musta told you five hundred times how geeked I was to finally get a gig with campus security, even if—”
“Sargent So—” The silence after Rose’s bitten off

utterance had Devon rubbing at his eyes and trying to figure out why in the hell Rose would be calling him at the ungodly hour of ten-thirty am.

Well, it was ungodly for someone who’d been at work until well after seven in the morning. Devon lost a good fifteen seconds musing about how he should have gone straight to bed when he got home. He rubbed a hand across his stubble covered jaw. Instead he spent time he could have used to sleep obsessing over the hottest guy he’d ever seen. Devon spotted Hottie McHotpants walking across campus two days ago with Roses’ younger brother, Sam. The guy with Sam was a pocket sized piece of perfection with the most delicious ass and—

A hideous retching sound spilling from the tiny speaker at the top of his phone snapped his attention back to the present. Devon sat up in bed, clapping a hand over his mouth as his own stomach clenched and roiled in sync with the vile squelching sounds coming from the other end of the phone.

Rose grunted. There was an ominous splashing noise accompanied by a low, piteous sounding moan. A couple of gnarly, lung-and-stomach-clearing hacks later, his normally honey drenched voice rasped over the line. “Sergeant Soto. Sarge. I need a real favor. I’m due at work in like, an hour. Already talked to my boss, and he said as long as I have a replacement he won’t write me up as a late call-off. Please, Dev. You know the gig—the Santa thing, just like we did during the last deployment, but usually with less camouflage and swearing.”

Devon reached over to turn on the faux oil lamp he used as a bedside light. His mother was always foisting off kitschy stuff on him. He would never in a million years admit to anyone how much he actually liked the weird things him mom gifted him with. A small smile graced his generous lips. His madre was a hot mess, but he loved her beyond all reason and respected her right down to the soles of her feet. One of the things she’d drummed into him long before the Drill Sergeants at Fort Leonard Wood got their hands on him was that he was never to let down a friend in need. Scrubbing a hand along his jaw, Devon resigned himself to a grueling twenty-four hours before he could sleep again. “Rose, are you trying to say you want me to fill in at your job at the mall?”