After the benediction, I slipped out before the crowd could catch me.
7
Axel
Iwent back to the Santa throne and took a seat, flask in hand, not ready to leave. I wanted to see her, the good reverend’s daughter. The fake snow stuck to my boots, the seat creaked every time I shifted, and somewhere under the layers of cotton and fake fur, I’d begun to itch in places I didn’t know I had nerves.
Darla Maple—Pastor’s Princess, reigning Queen of Misplaced Mercy. She moved through the chaos with an ease that was almost supernatural. She wore a green dress that looked demure from a distance but hugged her hips like it had been sewn on wet. The hem hit just above her knee, modest enough for her father’s taste but short enough to show the smooth expanse of her legs every time she bent to clean up a stray craft supply or rescue a dropped sippy cup. Her hair was down, parted to one side, a single loose strand caught in the static electricity of theroom. Every kid within a hundred feet loved her; every adult wanted to be her, or be inside her, or in her case, both.
She was working the room, wrapping things up, but every so often she’d catch my eye and not look away. There was something there—a dare, a question, a fuck-you to the universe that said I see you, and you better have the balls to see me back.
I watched her, tried not to be obvious about it. But the problem with watching someone like Darla is that everyone else in the room is already doing it, so you’re just one more set of hungry eyes in a crowd full of starved wolves.
She finished her rounds, gave a couple of volunteers her signature smile (genuine, a little tired, but never fake), and then started toward the Santa throne. The crowd parted for her, even the children stepping aside like she was radioactive. A couple of the older church women shot glances in my direction, their mouths tight, arms folded across their chests. One of them made the sign of the cross, which was impressive for a Protestant.
She stopped in front of me, hands on her hips, head cocked.
“You holding court, or just hiding from the clean-up?”
Her voice was soft, with a Southern lilt that didn’t sound like the other girls in this town. There was steel in it, though, and a low current of amusement.
I gave her my best Ho Ho Ho, which sounded like I was trying to cough up a lung.
She laughed, a real laugh. “You know you’re the scariest Santa I’ve ever seen, right?”
I grinned, teeth bared under the beard. “It’s the diet. Nothing but whiskey and cigarettes for three months.”
She walked around the throne, circling me. “Is this what they mean by ‘Santa’s Little Helper’?” Her hand brushed the back of the chair, close enough to my neck that I felt the warmth of her skin.
“Only if you promise not to narc me out to your dad,” I said.
She smiled wide and shook her head. “He’s too busy counting the offering plates to care.”
She leaned in, her mouth close to my ear. “You ever take that thing off, or is it a permanent lifestyle now?”
I shrugged. “You wanna find out?”
She froze for a second, like she hadn’t expected me to say it, then leaned closer. Her lips grazed my earlobe. “Maybe I do, Santa.”
There was something off about the way she said it—not the flirt, not the joke, but something deeper. I could tell she knew, or at least suspected. I was the only man in the room who wasn’t wearing a label, and that made me both invisible and the most dangerous person here.
She slid around to the front of the throne, standing between my knees. The suit bunched and pulled, the cheap fabric crinkling under her hands.
“I need a Christmas favor,” she whispered, voice low.
I let my hand drift to her waist, fingers pressing into the soft curve just above her hip. “I’m listening.”
She didn’t move away. In fact, she stepped closer until the edge of her thigh pressed into my knee. “I have to take a picture with Santa,” she said, louder now. “For the church newsletter. My dad insists.”
There was no camera in sight, but I played along. “You want on the lap, or just a handshake?”
She arched an eyebrow, then, without warning, she swung one leg over and straddled my lap. The weight of her was instant, delicious, and I fought the urge to adjust myself under the suit.
The room got quieter, the women at the folding tables stopping mid-sentence. Even the few kids left seemed to sense something had changed, some law of nature broken.
Darla leaned in, her arms around my neck, her face inches from mine. “Smile for the camera, Santa.”
I put a hand on her lower back, holding her in place. She didn’t resist. If anything, she ground herself a little deeper into my lap, her skirt riding higher. The heat from her body went straight through the felt, through my skin, right into my fucking bones.
