Bad Boy Santa: A Second Chance Christmas Romance

by Sophie Brooks

  But the little boy was determined. He moved around in front of me and I put my hands out, intending to block him if he tried to sit. But then suddenly Liv was easing her body in between us, and it was she who settled on my lap, her ass pushed back against my hard length, blocking it from innocent eyes.

  She jolted when she felt the bulge behind her, but spoke in a fairly normal voice. “I haven’t been able to sit on Santa’s lap all day, and I have a Christmas list, too. So why don’t you tell him yours first, and then I’ll go next after you’re done?”

  This was apparently agreeable to the boy who launched into a long list of toys he liked. Liv squirmed a little on my lap, trying to position herself so that she wasn’t right up against my cock. “Not helping,” I whispered in her ear. A woman writhing around on my lap was not the way to make my erection subside. In fact, it had the opposite effect.

  Liv was tense as the kid droned on. She had both hands on the arms of my chair, no doubt trying to keep some of her weight off of me. Off of my hard cock. That left me no place for my hands, so I reached around her waist, resting them on her thighs. She shifted again, inadvertently rubbing against me. Yep, definitely not helping.

  At last the boy was done and Liv sprung to her feet. She took his picture in front of the tree while I tried to think about the boring social study lectures that our high school civics teacher had given. A minute or two of that was enough to get the blood rushing away from my engorged cock.

  When we were finally alone, Liv kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Say it,” I demanded. She was clearly gearing up to scold me.

  But all she said was, “Santa’s supposed to be pure and good. And above all, asexual.”

  I grinned at that. “Yeah, well, you had that when I was Todd-Santa. But Jackson-Santa is a man underneath all this padding. As I believe I just proved to you.”

  She blushed but didn't back down. “What would you have done if I hadn’t… taken one for the team?”

  I laughed uproariously at her phrasing and she blushed harder. “Is that what you called it? I prefer ‘throwing yourself on the sword.’”

  Her lip twitched up in spite of herself. But that only lasted a few seconds before she was glaring at me again. And then she moved away, straightening up the presents by the tree and muttering under her breath.

  Perhaps I should have stuck with being Todd. She hadn’t forgiven Jackson in six years, and it didn’t seem likely she was going to start to now.

  Olivia

  Who knew that being an elf could be such a depressing job? At least it was if the elf in question had a toxic boss. Or a drunk boss. Or both.

  As it turns out, Jackson had been on his best behavior before, when I didn’t know who he was. As “Todd,” he’d shown up on time, made polite small talk with the kids, and had smelled like aftershave, not liquor fumes. Jackson’s version of Santa was a bit more like a common misspelling: Satan.

  One evening, he showed up with a flask in a pocket of his bright red suit, and it was clearly not the first drink he’d had. I’d had to make up a story on the spot about how sometimes Santa needed quiet time so he could make plans about what route he’d take with his reindeer and sleigh on Christmas Eve. Not sure if the parents bought it, but the kids had been delighted.

  Another time, I told one of my elf tales to a group of assembled children while Jackson snored gently in his chair. I figured I’d give him another five minutes and then wake him up—preferably with a bullhorn if I could find one.

  But then one evening, he was unusually alert and attentive to the kids, joking with them, teasing them about their Christmas lists. When we hit a slow point, he looked up at me. “Let’s go out for drinks after this.”

  “I can’t, I have to get home.”

  He studied me from over his bushy white beard. “You asked me for drinks before.”

  “I asked you for coffee.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Fewer alcohol fumes,” I said, waving my hand in front of my face though he didn’t appear as if he’d been drinking tonight.

  “I wanted to go out with you,” he said. “I just couldn’t because I would’ve had to take off the beard and the wig and you would’ve recognize me. Plus, I knew you wanted to go out with Todd, not Jackson.”

  I shrugged. It was true. “Todd was a nice guy.”

  “A nice guy with no balls,” Jackson said.

  “A nice guy who was sober enough not to need a designated driver for his sleigh,” I countered, and he laughed.

  “Come out with me tonight. Please.”

  Damn, why did he have to look in my eyes right when he said “please?” This was the man who’d hurt me so much back in high school. Not at first. At first, he’d been my best friend. Both of us were smart but nerdy. Both of us were outsiders. Junior year we’d become good friends, and senior year we’d been inseparable. We always said that if neither of us found dates for senior prom, we’d go with each other.

  As the end of high school approached, I’d found myself looking forward to going to the dance with him. Daydreaming about it. It was exciting but also a little scary. He’d always been a friend, but suddenly he felt like so much more.

  The dance itself had been lovely. Neither of us were very skilled on the dance floor, but I was content to be in his arms during the slow numbers. And as he held me close and rested his cheek on the top of my head, it had seemed like he was pretty happy, too.

  Until the party afterward at Angie’s house.

  We’d had beer. We’d flirted. We’d kissed a time or two. And then more beer. Then he’d led me upstairs to a bedroom. It had been wonderful and exciting and thrilling—until it wasn’t. Until we were both naked, the bed sheet pulled up to our necks, and suddenly I was nervous. Shy. Sure of my feelings for him, but unsure that I was ready to do that.

  He’d repeatedly asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t explain that even though I wanted to—and wanted him—I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. So I’d bolted, dressing in record time and running into the bathroom. To splash some water on my face and think about what I really wanted.

  The realization came quickly. I loved him. He was my best friend, and he was the one I wanted to be with. With all my heart, I knew that though I wasn’t ready then, I would be soon, and I wanted my first time to be with the man I loved.

  And in that moment, I knew he loved me too, and I knew he’d understand.

  Except I was wrong about both parts.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, the door to the bedroom was locked. Confused, I made my way downstairs, where some of the guys were joking about Jackson and Beatrice. And at first, I thought it was just gossip. There was no way he’d be up there with her. Not after he’d just been planning to do that with me. But a short while later he came down the stairs, and she followed close behind, the buttons of her shirt done up wrong.

  Suddenly, the cool kids were cheering and ribbing Jackson good-naturedly. But I was silent, waiting for him to deny it. To say that nothing happened. But he didn’t. When his eyes found mine, it was like staring into the eyes of a stranger. The spark, the connection I’d felt with him all year was gone. If it had ever existed in the first place. Because if he could do that with her, then there was no way he loved me. And that hurt even worse than the betrayal.

  I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to see the look he usually gave me replaced with one of pity, so I’d fled. And avoided him—though it hadn’t seemed like he was very eager to seek me out after that. We didn’t speak again for six long years.

  “I can’t go out with you tonight.” Or ever, I added mentally. But he looked ready to argue, so I gave him one of many reasons. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m dressed like an elf. I don’t have any other clothes here.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, and to my great surprise, he let the issue drop. But ten minutes later, when we had another lull, he excused himself and was gone for a quarter of an hour, during which time I
had to make up more elf stories to entertain the children in the line that was forming.

  It wasn’t until the end of our shift that I found out where he’d gone. He hung out, neatening up the stage area while I e-mailed the digital photos. When I was done, he handed me a bag. “For you,” he said.

  Surprised, I looked inside. It was a dress. A somewhat slinky dress made of a metallic, golden fabric. “Why did you—”

  “So we can go out for drinks.”

  What? He’d bought this just so he could take me out? “Thank you, but… but I’m not sure I should. And also, I think you don’t really need any more drinks.” Which was true in general though it didn’t seem like he’d any tonight.

  “Then dinner. Please? For old times’ sake? We were friends for a really long time before things went downhill.”

  He was right. We were. So maybe one dinner wouldn’t kill me.

  Maybe.

  Jackson laughed as I told him about some of my second grade students, like the one that ate glue, the one that had painted an unauthorized “mural” on the wall of my classroom, and the one who would eagerly do all forms of math except subtraction.

  His responses made me laugh more than I had in a month. He seemed highly entertained, too. “You’re a really good story teller,” he said, taking a drink of wine. He’d ordered a bottle when we got to the table but that was nearly gone now, and I’d only had a half a glass.

  “Thank you. It’s a job requirement for an elementary school teacher.”

  “No, but you’re really good. In school, I knew you were a strong writer, but I didn’t know you had such a fantastic imagination.”

  I flushed. Coming from a man at the top of his field, that was quite a compliment.

  “Have you ever thought of writing a book?”

  Now it was my turn to take a sip of wine. I definitely had thought about that, but I’d never told anyone of my literary ambitions. I tried to sidestep the question, but he drew me out.

  “I won’t laugh. Just tell me,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Last year, I did think about maybe writing up my stories about being an elf in a children’s book. I had the whole thing planned out. It was going to be called, The Life and Times of an Everyday Elf. And it was going to show how elves spent the whole year training to be in Santa’s workshop.”

  “So basically, it would be a collection of all the stories you tell the kids now.”

  “Yes,” I said. “That was the plan.”

  “So what happened?” His eyes were focused on mine, and he was leaning forward. The only thing he did besides listen to me intently was to drink his glass of wine. And then order another bottle after that.

  “Nothing happened, it just sort of fizzled. I wrote up nearly a dozen little snippets about life as an elf, but then I looked into how much it would cost to hire an illustrator to create a picture book. Once I found out, I realized there was no way I could afford to hire someone to do the illustrations. So that was the end of that.” It had been a big disappointment, but there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t like I could sell a collection of stories about elves to an audience who didn’t expect pictures.

  The rest of the dinner was pleasant enough. Jackson was a good conversationalist. He told me a bit about his world travels, changing course any time his stories got too near the reality of war. I could tell that he’d seen some horrible things, though. The more he skirted around the subject, the more he drank.

  I waited for him in the entryway while he paid the bill. “There you are, Liz,” he said, his words slurred. “I mean live. No, Liv. But you should live, too.” He chuckled at his own lame joke. Then he offered to walk me home, forgetting that I lived in the same house I’d lived in in high school clear across town.

  “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I drive you home?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. “What kind of car do you have? Did I tell you I’ve ridden in a tank? Lots of times.”

  “Yes, Jackson, you did.” It was a bit of a wrestling match to get him into the passenger seat and belted in.

  “You smell nice,” he said.

  “And you smell like booze.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Back then, you really were.”

  I frowned. Was he drunk enough to forget grammar?

  “My best friend,” he elaborated. “You really were my best friend. You were fucking awesome.”

  I nodded politely as I drove through the dark streets. At the time, I’d thought that he was awesome, too. Before everything changed.

  Getting coherent directions from him was no easy task, but I was used to trying to understand little kids, so I persevered. When I pulled up to the parking lot of his apartment complex, we had round two of the wrestling match as I tried to get him out of the car and pointed toward the right apartment.

  “You’re so pretty," he said, swinging his well-muscled bicep around my shoulders. “And you look beautiful in that dress. I mean like really beautiful. Not just hot—like those girls in porn.”

  Oh god, this could get ugly fast. “Jackson, you’re drunk. Which one is your apartment?”

  “You’ve always been beautiful, but now, you’re like a fucking goddess. Your hair… I could look at it all day. On Saturdays and Sundays, I do look at it all day. And I also like to look at your—”

  “Jackson! Focus. Which one is your apartment?”

  “That one,” he said. “With the ugly door.”

  None of the doors were especially easy on the eyes, but I helped him stumble along to the one he’d indicated. Once there, I took his keys from him and tried one after another until the door opened. I positioned him so that he was facing the interior of his apartment and gave him a shove.

  He stumbled forward but then turned to face me as he held onto the doorframe. His eyes were red and cloudy as he looked at me, but his voice was steady. “Hurting you was the stupidest fucking thing I ever did in my entire life,” he said. And for just that moment his gaze cleared, and I felt like he truly saw me.

  And then he shut the door, and I was alone, stunned by his last words. Wondering if he really meant them. And wondering if anything could ever erase the past.

  Olivia

  The next morning was Saturday, and I expected Jackson to stagger in right at ten with bloodshot eyes and one hell of a hangover. Instead, he was already in his costume when I got there at quarter till. I wondered which mall coffee shop had suddenly started selling extra strength dosages.

  He was setting up his fancy camera at the little table when I got there. He’d actually brought two, plus a case full of other equipment. “What’s going on?”

  “Morning,” he said. “Thanks for helping me get home last night.”

  He was so cheerful. Alert. Awake. What the hell had happened? And did he remember anything about what he’d said to me last night? But those weren’t really questions I could ask, so I asked the next most logical one. “What’s all this for?”

  “For your book,” he said as if it should have been obvious.

  “What book?”

  “The Everyday Elf book. You said you couldn’t afford to hire an illustrator. But you don’t need an illustrator when you’ve got a photographer.”

  He smiled at my confusion. “An award-winning photographer.”

  “But—but what will you take pictures of?”

  “You,” he said. “The ones from the other day turned out great. We’ll take some more pictures of you doing elfie things, and you’ll write up the text. You said you’d already started.”

  “But—what—” I gave up, my mind reeling. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Did he really want to spend his time on a project like this? I marshaled my thoughts. “But by the time we get done, the Christmas season will be over. Though I suppose we could get it ready for next year.”

  “Nope, this year,” Jackson said with a wink.

  I gaped at him. Who the hell was this cheerful, eager man? I’d never seen him like this. No wait, I had.
In high school. When he got a particularly good assignment for the school newspaper. Or when he was working on a project for science, his favorite subject. Then he’d been like this then. Enthusiastic. Upbeat. Impossible to bring down.

  “It’s three weeks before Christmas. There’s no way we can get this done.”

  “Yes, there is. Through the magic of self-publishing. I talked to some of my colleagues and friends this morning.”

  “Already? But it’s barely ten.”

  “It was evening where they were. A lot of them have self-published memoirs of their careers, their time in hot zones around the globe, and so on. And from what they said, we can put something together fast. If we work together… and if we worked our butts off.”

  I stared at him. Was he serious? That we should work together? That he wanted to help me? That this could possibly work?

  But it turns out that he was.

  For the next forty-eight hours, we didn’t waste a second. I sat at the computer typing up more elf stories while he took care of the kids in line. He was patient, he was orderly, he handled them by himself. He’d suddenly become Super Santa.

  And during the down time, he’d set up photo shoots using props from around the store. He'd show me where to pose, and he’d shoot picture after picture which he’d edit on his computer in the evenings.

  Sunday morning found us out in the park at six o'clock. Six! I would have bet a hundred bucks that the last time Jackson had been up at six was on some night when he hadn’t yet gone to bed. But the town was deserted at that hour, and we got all kinds of shots.

  And on Monday, I took a personal day off work, and Mr. Reynolds let us use an empty office in the back of the department store. We used Jackson’s laptop to create the layout of the book pages. We worked all day, only taking a break to do our Santa shift in the evening. And after that, we continued to debate over every little detail, but by midnight, we were done. I never would have believed it was possible to get it done that fast, but we had.