My Secret Santa's Secret Baby

by Jamie Knight

  Near the top of this list of unavoidable and indispensable things in life, at least for me anyway, are freshly made baked goods. I had always suspected it was a large part of the reason why it seemed like bakery owners set up fans inside just to blow the scent out into the street to draw in unsuspecting suckers.

  Captured by the sweet scent like a giant in the mist, I was drawn into the neighborhood bakery, just blocks from meeting my density at work with my new job. The smell was even stronger inside. It was more than enough to make my tummy rumble.

  I could almost taste the donuts as they sat all sweet and indicting under the glass. I couldn’t decide which kind I should buy because I wanted all of them. Suddenly, it was like a light bulb appeared over my head as inspiration struck from the clear blue sky.

  “I’ll take a dozen, please,” I said to the guy behind the counter.

  He smiled.

  “Which would you like, Miss?”

  “One of each,” I answered, gesturing at the expansive array of options.

  “Of course,” he said, looking happy to oblige.

  The box was heavier than I thought it would be. The bakers must have really filled up the jellies to get them to that level of heft.

  Still, I was proud of my cleverness. I hadn’t had to decide which flavors I wanted, and I could share them among my new colleagues as an act of goodwill and let them choose for me, because I’d eat what was left.

  I really did want to be popular. Not only to help my chances at a permanent job, but also because I never really had a friend in school, except the ones my parents had insisted that I hang out with. I hoped the working world of adults might be different.

  Once I approached the office building, it looked like the peak of Mount Doom, only even more intimidating: all shiny black glass showing the viewer back to themselves as though seeing into their soul and creating a warped version of it.

  Eventually I found the entrance, a section of the seemingly endless surface appearing as though by magic. I ventured into the lobby, carrying my computer bag in front of me like a chest plate, wary of what horrors might be found therein.

  “First day?” asked a kind-looking and very old security guard, whose name tag said “Sam” on it.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, instantly sounding like the sheltered kid I had always been while growing up.

  “Name?”

  “Skye Stewart.”

  Flipping through the pages in his big book like St. Peter at the pearly gates, he came to my listing.

  “Sign here,” he said, turning the book toward me, the pen already set in the crease between the pages.

  “Donut?” I asked, opening the box.

  “Why, thank you,” he said, selecting a freshly made apple fritter.

  After applying my Jane Hancock to the first space next to my name printed on the page, I was given leave to cross through the metal detector and into the building proper. I had never been so happy that I didn’t really wear jewelry as I was when I passed through those silent gates.

  Not that I wouldn’t wear it if I was able to afford it and if my mother wouldn’t go nuts. I’d worn a necklace my friend had loaned me once, when I was twelve. Mom had said it made me look like a tart and ripped it off so hard the chain broke. If it hadn’t, I was afraid she would have taken my head off.

  I flinched at the memory, my hand unconsciously going to my throat as I walked to the elevators, the donut box tipping somewhat in my one available hand. The bell dinged a happy tune as the elevator door opened, standing out against the austerity of the place and granting me passage to the safety of its chamber.

  My breath came out in a whoosh as I leaned back against the wall of the gently humming elevator.

  “Nine-hundred ninety-nine. Nine-hundred ninety-eight.”

  It was a trick I’d picked up in school. Apparently panic attacks weren’t uncommon in the children of our community, so much so that the school board decided to step in and teach basic meditation techniques.

  We weren’t quite the children of royalty, despite the claims of some, although we were pretty close. New monied folk like the Rockefellers would have laughed at the pretentiousness, but we were Oregon rich and that was enough for most. Many in our immediate circle never actually ventured beyond the state.

  The bell dinged again, marking the elevator’s arrival on the 15th floor. The shiny chrome doors opened onto my immediate future.

  “First day?” asked the young, pretty receptionist, barely looking up from her magazine.

  “How did you know?”

  “You have the look.”

  “What look would that be?” I inquired, although I almost didn’t want to know.

  “Hope and whimsy combined with abject terror. Trust me, darling, I know the feeling of those first day jitters.”

  “Donuts?” I offered, trying to act unfazed, but secretly wondering if everyone could tell how nervous I was as easily as she could.

  “Um, yeah, sure. Wow, you really come prepared.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling as if my ploy had worked.

  Always carry donuts when you want to project confidence, I told myself, as a mental note for any future point in my life when I might need the advice.

  I lowered the lid back into place and looked around, feeling stupid again.

  “Where do I go?” I asked.

  “The cubicle farm is over that way,” she said, pointing to the right, “but there is going to be a staff meeting in the boardroom, which is over that way, next to the arcade across from the ping-pong court.”

  It took me a few seconds to fully process the end of her sentence. The words ‘arcade’ and ‘ping-pong court’ did not easily fit into my mental image of a big publishing house. Not that I was worried to hear that the employees were allowed to have fun. No wonder they’d had so many responses for what was unlikely to be a permanent position.

  Following the receptionist’s directions, I went to find my cubicle, which had a temporary name plate already Velcroed to the exterior wall. I knew in my gut it was done as a matter of course and so that everyone knew where to sit and what to call everyone else, but I felt welcomed just the same.

  The boardroom wasn’t difficult to find after that. I just had to follow the distinctive sound of ping-pong paddles after I had turned down the corridor to the right of the reception desk.

  I was the first to arrive, which gave me the opportunity to set the donuts in the middle of the table and flip open the lid. They looked a bit odd, sitting there with all their uneven heights. One of their members was clearly absent.

  Feeling a rush of heroism coming upon me, I swept up a wayward Boston Cream and gave it a new home in my tummy. I ate it fast so that people wouldn’t notice and assume that I had brought all of them just for me.

  The box did look a lot more organized after I did that, with five donuts lining each side.

  Suddenly the door opened with such a ruckus that I nearly jumped out of my skin. It sounded like a thunderclap. Taking hold of the arms on my claimed chair, I kept myself mostly in check.

  “Hey, donuts,” said one of the ping-pong bros.

  Those two little words set off a feeding frenzy. People seemed to come out of nowhere to devour the sweet goodness, making the donuts disappear within minutes. No one stopped to even wonder where they had come from.

  The box was swooped up and discarded as soon as it was empty. I wasn’t exactly expecting a parade, but a ‘thanks’ would have been nice.

  Such thoughts soon fled from my mind. I had assumed that everyone who was going to be at the meeting had already arrived, not noticing the empty seat at the head of the table.

  The senior editor’s chair.

  It was a seat of power soon taken by the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. My tummy flipped and my pussy tightened as I tried not to stare or drool, Both goals proved to be a challenge given his distracting good looks.

 
Was this the mysterious Simon Del Rey?

  If not, someone was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

  The meeting passed like a blur. It took most of my available attention to write down some keywords, my mind too often getting lost in the pools of Del Rey’s blue eyes.

  “That’s about everything,” he finally said, in a warmly casual tone.

  “What about Secret Santa?” asked the woman next to me.

  “Oh, don’t think I’ve forgotten our time-honored holiday tradition,” he assured her. “I was just pausing for dramatic effect.”

  Reaching down into the bag sitting at his feet, Del Rey brought up a hat, placing it on the table. It was one of the old-fashioned kinds that rich men in the movies wore, except it was full of slips of paper with peoples’ names written on them.

  I wished the receptionist were here so that I could tell her I wasn’t the only one who had come prepared.

  Taking out a piece of paper, he passed it to the person on his left. The hat made the rounds before returning empty to Del Rey’s hands.

  He flipped it up into a rakish position on his head. I would say he looked like Sinatra, but that would be insulting. To Del Rey.

  “Have fun, kids,” he said with a wink, before strolling back out of the boardroom and momentarily back out of our lives, cool as you please.

  I could have sworn that wink was aimed right at me.

  But maybe it was just wishful thinking.

  Chapter Four - Simon

  My parting wink was aimed in Skye’s direction as I left the boardroom. I knew who she was and exactly what I wanted to do with her by that point.

  After I had parked and walked into the building, I saw that Sam was at his post, like he had been every day since I saw my future at the company when I was a tea boy back at 15 years of age. University was never really been a thought. I knew there was money coming sooner or later and my parents would help me out as long as they still lived.

  It was really more a matter of finding something to do and publishing seemed the thing. I could have pulled a Lord Byron and lived on my parents’ money while I wrote, but I wanted to contribute to the industry that had given me so much, books basically being my only friends as a kid.

  I did write, of course, but it was purely for the love of it. Some might sneer that this made me little more than a hobbyist, an amateur. But that type clearly had no idea what the word ‘amateur’ really meant.

  Instead of referring to something not for pay as so often assumed by English speakers, the word getting twisted over time, amateur reduces from the French word for ‘lover.’ Basically a true lover, usually of the sexual form, but others as well, all of which could be accurately applied to me with little embarrassment.

  Rather past the largely superstitious mores of ‘polite society,’ I took things as they were, demonstrating a strong preference for the beautiful and true, rather in the traditions of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. ‘Romantic,’ in the philosophical sense, was an accusation I wore with great pride.

  “Morning, Mr. Del Rey,” Sam had said as I walked in, with a tip of his hat.

  “Morning, Sam,” I had told him, taking up the pen as Sam turned the book toward me.

  “The new editor arrived today, Mrs. Stewart.”

  “Did she now?”

  “Yep, you’re in for a treat.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “You’ll see,” he had said with a wink.

  It would have been so easy to pull rank and demand to know more, but that just wasn’t how my silk was cut. I made for the elevator, my mind turning with possibilities. Good old Sam knew I liked a mystery and a tease, both of which made the normal workday more interesting.

  “Mr. Del Rey,” the receptionist, Inga, had called out to me by way of greeting, from behind her magazine.

  “Inga,” I had answered, not bothering to tell her to put it away.

  Inga was a professional and she knew to stop reading if someone needed something. But most of the time, they really didn’t.

  Still wondering who the new employee was that Sam had referred to, I had gone through the door to the boardroom. The employees tried to be quick, but I had seen the box of donuts being emptied hastily just as I arrived, no doubt out of shame that they hadn’t saved me one.

  Not that I minded, but it would have been nice if they had thought to. Just as they hadn’t thanked whoever brought them, the powdered sugar still on their mouths as I sat down, rendering any manner of speech highly unlikely.

  She stood out immediately as soon as I glanced around, her hourglass figure just my type, and her pretty eyes bright and eager. That was definitely who Sam had been referring to. She fought my eye immediately, as if embarrassed to be the newbie among the more seasoned employees.

  It didn’t take Sexton Blake to realize that she was the new hire, Ms. Skye Stewart, in the flesh. And what flesh it was. I found my eyes wandering to her chest as I went through the usual motions. Her big breasts seeming to defy gravity as they all but hovered in front of her.

  I could see she that was young but exactly how young was difficult to tell. The applicants had to be eighteen in order to be considered for the job, there being legal contracts to be signed, but my instincts didn’t put her at much older than that. My cock got as soon as I looked at her.

  My younger self might have run with it and allowed me to think of Skye as little more than a prize to be won. But I found myself on the saner side of thirty and I knew that she was something special.

  I had women throwing themselves at me constantly, but I had gotten tired of the easy chase a long time ago. I didn’t want to ruin a good thing with Skye. So, I’d hurried to get out of there so that I could keep some mystery on my end of things, too.

  Sure, Sam knew I’d like the new hire.

  But he hadn’t known how much.

  Nor just what lengths I’d go through to get her.

  Chapter Five - Skye

  The thin black line blinked on the vast field of white like a prairie after a fresh fall of snow. In a single flash of inspiration, I fully understood what my predecessors in the literary arts meant when they referred to the ‘tyranny of the blank page.’

  Ideas danced mockingly in my head like demented sugarplum fairies, taunting me with their very existence. I was a classic, or indeed cliché, example of a writer who couldn’t write because of writer’s block.

  The ideas were there; there was no mistake about that. It was just that when it came to actually putting them down, none of the words I thought of were right. At least according to my own perception.

  The greatest obstinate on my way to finishing something was my own kneecapping perfectionism and self-doubt. Abandoning my labors like the anti-Hercules, I decided to instead get ready for work.

  The semi-suit I’d worn the first day had hardly turned a head. Not that that was a bad thing. In some ways it was a positive, as logic dictated it would be difficult to fit in while standing out.

  I didn’t want to be celebrated, just noticed, though it was more than possible that being apparently invisible had more to do with my novelty than any instant dislike on the part of my co-workers. At least some of them.

  I knew at least two other people were there on the same terms that I was, which was basically that we were to be gum to clog up the leak in the dam until things settled down. It only stood to reason that they would also be angling for a permanent position when the magical elf dust cleared.

  It was a situation which couldn’t help but lead to a sense of competition and misplaced animosity in some people. I was quite sure Del Ray had noticed me, but I wanted him to notice me even more. And I wanted to make friends with my co-workers.

  I wondered about dressing sexy. Something to really grab attention and make me get noticed. Sure, some attention would be negative, but it probably already was in some corners. I couldn’t be too obvious about it or there would likely be rumors that
I fucked my way into a permanent position outside the editor’s bedroom.

  To no great surprise, I chickened out and went with the shin-length, plain black dress that I used to wear to church. I considered adding the hat that went along with it to my ensemble but decided against it, the resulting look turning out to be far too absurd. Not quite as absurd as the pathetic old custom that men absolutely had to take off their hats before going into church and women wouldn’t be allowed in without one, but it was a close second.

  The toaster clicked, ejecting the sugary goodness of slightly off-brand toaster pastries, going me a taste of the college life without the crushing student debt to our government overlords. My mouth full of strawberry and icing, I headed out to the bus stop.

  Jack Frost took a good-sized chomp at me as I waited by the sign, my nipples getting to be more like diamonds with each passing second. There had been a bench here at one point. I had overheard the legends about it by some veteran bus riders who were talking about it the day before. I wished it was still here.

  As I passed under the bridge for the second time, no less wowed then the first, I wondered how many trips it would take before the architecture of New York would stop even being noticeable. I hoped never.

  An impression I would have very much liked to shake was the nagging if quiet sense of doom when approaching my place of work. I was given to understand that a lot of people weren’t exactly thrilled about going into work, though it seemed unlikely that many would see the office as a potential harbinger of doom.

  I’d seen other towers before. Most of the ones in Uptown didn’t really bother me. It was clear that there was an element of ‘yikes’ to the Pigeon building in particular that could only be the result of special effort. Or my Tolkien-addled imagination.

  Sign-in went in smoothly today, Sam’s quick and courteous service making it less of an obligation than a pleasure. I was pretty sure I caught him eyeing my chest as I bent over to actually put pen to page, but I couldn’t blame him really. They really were right there, and I didn’t think he could see much through the layers of black cotton.