She whispered, so only I could hear, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” I said, matching her volume. “But I could get used to it.”
She bit her lower lip, then let it go with a little pop. “Good answer.”
Someone in the crowd actually took out a phone and snapped a picture.
That was when I let my hand slide up, just under the hem of her dress. She stiffened for half a heartbeat, then relaxed, her thighs parting ever so slightly to give me room. The tips of my fingers grazed the lace edge of her panties—white, with a little satin bow at the hip—and I felt the heat of her radiating through the thin cotton.
She gasped, the sound almost inaudible. But her body didn’t move, didn’t jerk away. Instead, she leaned in, her mouth against the side of my fake beard, her breath hot on my cheek.
“You’re a bad Santa,” she murmured, just for me.
I let my hand linger, then pressed my fingers a little harder, enough to make her breath catch in her throat. She was trembling, and I could feel the pulse at her hip beating like a drumline.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t pull away.
Instead, she dug her fingernails into my shoulder and whispered, “If you get caught, you’re fucked.”
I didn’t care.
The moment went on longer than it should have. The women at the tables started whispering, the men glanced over their shoulders, and the room started to feel charged—like the air before a lightning strike.
That was when Bart Stanton, a.k.a. The Hammer, made his entrance. He was the church’s unofficial head of security, six-four and built like a prison riot. He moved through the crowd with a slowness that was scarier than any charge, his pale blue eyes fixed on the throne.
He clocked the scene—Darla on my lap, my hand under her skirt, the two of us frozen in this perfect, radioactive moment. He didn’t say a word, just raised one meaty fist and pointed. On his pinky was a signet ring, heavy and gleaming in the fluorescent light. He tapped it once against his palm, like a judge about to drop the gavel.
“Pastor,” he called, voice low but deadly. “We got a situation.”
The room went silent. Darla’s body went rigid, and for the first time, her eyes flashed panic. But she didn’t move, not right away.
I squeezed her thigh, just once, and she looked down at me—really looked. Something passed between us, and I couldn’t tell if it was gratitude or terror or something even more fucked up.
She slid off my lap, smoothed down her skirt, and stepped to the side. Her face was flushed, her hands shaking just a little.
The Hammer advanced, backed by two more goons in matching black church polos. They moved in formation, three points of a triangle, all eyes locked on me.
The beard was stifling now, my mouth dry, my heart banging at my ribs like it wanted out. I stood up, straightening the Santa suit, and faced him.
Bart didn’t blink. “You got ID, Claus?”
I could smell the violence coming off him, the way some dogs can smell cancer. I knew, in that instant, that if I didn’t act fast, I was dead—or worse.
I glanced at Darla. She shook her head, just once, the message clear.: Don’t fight.
But I’d never been good at taking advice.
Bart took another step. “You deaf, asshole?”
I took a breath, let the adrenaline settle, then said, “Didn’t know you needed a license to give out presents.”
The other two closed in, their hands already balling into fists.
Darla stepped forward, hands up, her voice shaking. “It’s fine, Bart. He’s a volunteer.”
Bart glared at her, then at me. “He can volunteer down at the precinct. Let’s go.”
They reached for me. I ducked, sidestepped, and threw a left hook into the nearest guy’s solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping. The second one swung wild, and I caught his wrist, twisted, and drove my knee up into his balls. He went down hard, retching onto the fake snow.
