Dirty Little Secret Santa (A Santa's Coming Short Story) Read online

  Dirty Little Secret Santa

  A Santa’s Coming Short Story

  Alexis Adaire

  Contents

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  Other Santa’s Coming Books

  The Book Hangover Lounge

  Also by Alexis Adaire

  About the Author

  Callie

  “There he is!”

  Madison squeals when she recognizes the man in the chair, loudly enough to make the parents in front of us turn around and laugh. The man in question is impossible to miss, with that red velvet suit and impressive white beard. As far as mall Santas go, this one looks like the real deal.

  Or at least, he looks like the Santa Claus we all remember from our childhood, they guy who would somehow manage to leave the perfect presents under our tree for us to find on Christmas morning.

  “This may take a while, because I have a lot to tell him,” my niece says. Though only six, she’s already got the materialism of a teen.

  We wait patiently in line for Madison’s turn. I’m glad for the distraction, though. I love my niece and have been feeling pretty lonely the closer the calendar turned to Christmas.

  Holidays are hell when you’re alone. And I’ve been alone ever since I caught my longtime boyfriend, Tyler, cheating on me a year and a half ago.

  That’s a long time to go without a boyfriend.

  And it’s an eternity to go without sex.

  I push the thought out of my mind as we step to the front of the line. Wow, did the mall ever pic the perfect Santa this year. This guy looks perfect for the part and has an innocence to him that wins the kids over instantly. We’ve been waiting in line for thirty minutes and I haven’t heard a single kid cry, not even the youngest ones.

  When it’s Madison’s turn, she runs up to Santa and practically leaps in his lap. Santa asks her name and age, then asks what she wants for Christmas. For the next couple of minutes, she rattles off a list of all the stuff she wants for Christmas, and at the end assures him that she’s been a good girl “almost all year.”

  Suddenly Santa looks directly at me as he asks Madison, “And what does your mom want for Christmas?”

  “That’s not my mom, it’s my Aunt Callie. She told me she wants a boyfriend.”

  Santa laughs as he sets Madison on the ground. Then he surprises me by signaling me over.

  “Come sit in Santa’s lap and tell me what you want for Christmas, Callie.”

  I am not going to sit in some pervy mall Santa’s lap.

  “Come on, Aunt Callie,” Madison says enthusiastically. “That’s how he knows what to bring you.”

  I approach Santa, ready to tell him I’m not about to sit in his lap. When I see the expression on his face, though, my heart practically melts. He’s so grandfatherly, so perfectly trustworthy, that I know beyond a doubt his intentions aren’t pervy in the slightest.

  In fact, he looks like he’s concerned about me.

  I climb up on the little platform and plop down gently in his lap, his chubby belly nestled against me. This is no cheap Santa suit he’s wearing; this thing looks expensive and well-worn. The white beard is definitely real, with curls spilling down to his chest. And the looks in his eyes can only be described as “twinkly.”

  “Hello, my dear,” he says as the other parents snicker at the adult making a fool of herself. “Little Madison here tells me you’re having a tough year.”

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “I could use a Christmas miracle, Santa. Do you have any good men at the North Pole?”

  He laughs, a deep warm laugh that makes me feel good. “None over four-foot-six, I’m afraid.”

  “I might settle for that. Desperate times…”

  He takes my hand in his white gloved hand. “No need to be desperate, Callie. Santa’s got your back.”

  Santa winks at me as I climb down off his lap.

  I walk away hand-in-hand with Madison.

  Well, that was certainly weird.

  The rest of the day I help Madison and my sister decorate their Christmas tree, but my thoughts keep returning to the kindly man playing Santa. I know he meant well, but I find myself a little irritated that he said something to get my hopes up. Then again, maybe he was just trying to cheer me up.

  Later that night I’m making my social media rounds and see a Facebook friend request from some guy named Grayson. I’ve never met this dude and he’s definitely not a friend.

  Curious, I check out his profile. He doesn’t post much, but there’s a dozen or so pictures. He’s apparently a firefighter for the Los Angeles Fire Department, and he’s so incredibly handsome that I secretly wish he’d have posted a shirtless pic I can drool over. He’s got dark hair and a well-trimmed beard, and soulful brown eyes.

  My oh my, I could use a friend like that.

  However, Mr. Firefighter seems to have a lot of girlfriends, because in nearly every image he’s with a different cute girl. Doing shots in Mexico, sitting near a roaring fire at a ski resort, etc.

  Obviously a player.

  I check his friends list and see the only person we know in common is a Santa Claus account. Funny, I don’t remember friending a Santa. I click over to that account and have to say, it’s extremely well-done, with pics of his North Pole toy factory, elves, reindeer, and even a smiling Mrs. Claus. The profile picture of Santa himself looks a lot like the guy from the mall; then again, all Santas look pretty much the same, don’t they?

  Still, it’s kind of annoying that Facebook added this corporate Santa to my friends list without asking.

  Returning to the firefighter’s page, I hover my mouse arrow between the “confirm” and “decline” buttons for a few seconds before declining his friend offer. I have no idea who this ladies’ man is, but handsome as he may be, he’s not the kind of guy I need in my life.

  I can’t get to sleep that night, because now my head is filled with thoughts of Santa, the lack of a man in my life, and the hot firefighter/player.

  I’m a great corporate headhunter and excel at finding the perfect employees for my clients. So why the hell can’t I find the right man for me?

  Grayson

  “Where to, Saint Nick? The North Pole, I assume?”

  The old man’s smile makes his eyes crinkle on the sides. “No, I won’t ask you to take me all the way home. If you just drop me off at the bus station, I’ll have Rudolph come get me.”

  Whatever, dude. “Bus station it is, then.”

  Station 13 just finished its annual Christmas toy presentation, where all the toys we’ve gathered over the last few weeks were given to local kids from struggling families. It didn’t take too much effort on our part, and the looks on the kids’ faces made it more than worthwhile.

  This year, the Captain thought we’d do something different so he hired “Santa Claus” to hand out the gifts, and an hour ago that Santa pulled into the station in the passenger seat of truck number four.

  The gathered kids screamed his name and jumped up and down. I have to say, this guy makes a great Santa. As he started handing out the toys, I sidled up to the Captain.

  “Man, where’d you get this guy? He’s perfect. The kids love him.”

  “Isn’t he, though? Booked him through a local agency.”

  Once it was all over and the kids gone, the Captain asked me if I’d give Santa a ride home. I was happy to oblige, and that’s how I find myself now seated across from Saint Nick in my truck, en route to the Greyhound station.r />
  “So what do you do for a living, Santa? Or are you retired?” He definitely looks retirement age.

  “Can’t retire with this much on my plate. I keep pretty busy with the toys and all.”

  Okay. Whatever.

  “What would you like for Christmas, Grayson?” he asks. “You’re on the good list this year.”

  Man, this guy might be nuts. Or maybe he’s an actor who doesn’t want to break character. I’d bet on the former, though.

  “How about a hot woman?” I reply cheekily.

  Santa laughs. “Haven’t you had enough hot ones? How about I set you up with a good one instead?”

  This dude acts like he knows me, and his guess is close enough to be annoying. Not wanting to be a jerk, I play along. “Sure thing, just make sure she’s attractive enough, Santa.”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I may be old, but I still know women.”

  I pull into the bus station parking lot just as he says that. I’m suddenly in a hurry to get away from this crazy old fart. “Have a good trip back to the North Pole.”

  Santa nods, then climbs out of the truck and wanders off, attracting stares every step of the way.

  I have no idea who the chick is who sent me a Facebook friend request, but ever since this Russian troll stuff came out, I make a habit of not accepting requests from people I don’t know personally. She’s cute as hell, though, so I click through to her profile page.

  I have no idea what this Callie girl does for a living, but she looks smoking hot in a bikini: shoulder-length blonde hair with a sweet little curl to it, eyes a shade of blue as deep as Crater Lake and the cutest little nose. She’s also got a nice flat stomach, perfect medium size tits, and long, beautiful legs. I’m six-four myself, so the longer the legs, the better. I click again and see that she looks just as amazing in a gown or in jeans. Damn, too bad she’s actually a fat nerd working out of a Moscow office.

  Just to make sure, I check out her friends and see the only common friend is a Santa account, which I don’t remember adding. Man, fuck Facebook. Every year they get a little creepier with the way they do business.

  As for the Russian nerd posing as a hot chick, one click and he’s gone forever.

  I quickly check my OKCupid account. Nothing new there. Same old desperate chicks I see every time I log in.

  It’s funny, but I had no problem finding dates back when I wanted to remain single. I must have gone out with two dozen women in the year prior to my mom’s death. Now that I’m finally in a place in my life where I’m ready to settle down, though, none of them look appealing.

  Callie

  There he is again.

  Seriously, I’m beginning to wonder if this Grayson firefighter dude is stalking me.

  I’m staring at his OKCupid profile because he just “liked” me. Now if I “like” him back, we’ll be matched up.

  Only I’m getting a little creepy vibe about this guy. First Facebook, now OKCupid, and we don’t have any friends in common?

  Before I pass, I scan down his profile. Typical guy stuff: likes classic rock, baseball, etc. Says he’s finally ready to settle down after sowing his wild oats. Judging from all the pics of him with women on Facebook, I’m guessing he sowed an entire field.

  Then at the very end of his profile, I see a link that says, “If you don’t want to date me, at least consider buying a charity calendar. It’s for a great cause.”

  I click, and a second later stop breathing altogether.

  He’s naked.

  They’re naked.

  It’s a naked firefighter calendar.

  I mean, you can’t see everything, but they’re all definitely naked, with assorted props covering the naughty bits.

  And the hottest of all these firefighters is this Grayson guy. Holy shit, he’s got a body from Heaven. Wide shoulders, broad chest, tight six-pack, and muscular thighs. It makes me wonder if the strategically placed firehose lying across his thigh and over his crotch is a metaphor.

  I stare at all twelve naked guys, but keep coming back to his picture because, to be honest, he’s by far the best looking of the bunch.

  After sighing because I wish I could meet a guy like that who wasn’t a potential stalker, I go back to his profile and click on the “X” to say I don’t want to be matched with him.

  The second I do that my email dings, and I see a new message from someone named Nick Beard. Clicking it open, I find an invitation to a benefit fundraiser tomorrow night for the local children’s cancer center. At City Hall, no less. I seriously doubt I would know anyone there. Still, the headhunter business is all about networking, and since I don’t already have plans, I guess I’m in.

  When I arrive at City Hall, I’m immediately glad I wore my silver gown. There must be two hundred people here, and everyone is dressed to the nines.

  I was right, though: There’s nobody I know here. In a town this size, that’s not a surprise. So I spend a couple of hours drinking Champagne and eating canapés while chatting up strangers. I’m pretty good at this sort of thing and succeed in making a few contacts which might pan out down the road, not the least of whom is the Mayor of Los Angeles himself.

  I’m on my third glass of Champagne when across the room I see a man in a sharp dark gray suit with a slate blue tie, staring a hole in me as he walks in my direction.

  It’s him. The firefighter. And oh, my, does he ever clean up well. Damn.

  Then I realize he might actually be stalking me. I mean, this is getting pretty weird.

  “Hi,” he says in a voice that’s as honey-sweet as it is deep. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  What a crock of shit.

  I decide to play innocent and see what this is all about. After all, he can’t do anything with all these people around.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “We have now. I’m Grayson.”

  He extends a hand and I shake it. It’s a strong, manly handshake, yet still tender. “Callie.”

  I see a quick look of surprise in his eyes, then he smiles. “You don’t happen to speak Russian, do you?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Just a little joke to amuse myself.”

  He’s so fucking handsome and practically oozes physical energy. I have a strong desire to throw my arms around him just to feel those muscles. Then I remind myself that he keeps popping up in my life in a very creepy manner.

  Maybe it’s time to get away from this guy.

  “Well, Grayson, I’m going to call it a night. Take care.”

  I stroll away, stopping just long enough to get my coat from the coat check girl.

  Under the light of the full moon I head for my car, turning once or twice to make sure no one’s following me, then climb in and turn the key.

  …and nothing happens.

  My battery is dead as can be. Dammit, I bought it less than a year ago. This is stupid.

  I try again in vain a few times, then give up. I could call an Uber, but then my car might get towed if I leave it overnight, so I decide to return to the party and ask the cop working security if he can give me a jump.

  “Sorry, miss, I’m not allowed to leave my post,” the middle-aged officer says. “But I know someone who can help.” He brings his walkie-talkie up to his lips. “Hey, Ronnie, find Stone and have him come see me up front.”

  The cop smiles. “Stone is bound to have cables. He’s like an adult Boy Scout, always prepared.”

  A few seconds pass before I see the firefighter again walking towards me. Dammit, what does he want now? And does he have to be so fucking handsome?

  “Need something, Ronnie?” he says to the cop.

  “Yeah, this young lady needs a jump. Miss, this is Grayson Stone. He’s a firefighter so you can trust him.”

  Great. All those people inside and this is the guy they pick to help me out. Wonderful.

  Crossing the parking lot, I say, “I’m sorry to be a pain. Just help me start my battery an
d I’ll be on my way.”

  “Helping a damsel in distress isn’t a pain. It was stuffy in there anyway.”

  When we reach my car, he says, “I’ll get my truck. Wait in the car so you don’t get cold.”

  It is unseasonably cold, but in LA that means in the high forties. I ignore his advice and pop my hood, then wait until he pulls up.

  Grayson shines a flashlight onto my battery to check it out. As I lean in to watch, I catch him checking out my cleavage as well, so I pull my coat tight.

  “Everything looks okay,” he says. Glad you like what you see, Mr. Firefighter-Stalker. “Let’s hook up the cables.”

  He pulls them from the toolbox in his truck bed, the opens his hood and clips one end onto his battery. I move closer to watch what he’s doing, and when he turns, we’re face to face with the moonlight illuminating us. His eyes are mesmerizing, and that jaw. That thick hair.

  Grayson is looking at me in exactly the same way, as if he’s seeing something for the very first time.

  “My God, you’re beautiful,” he says.

  Sparks fly between us.

  Not figurative sparks, but literal ones. The ends of the jumper cables in his hands make contact and sparks fly everywhere, causing both of us to gasp and jump back a step, bringing a quick end to the strange moment.

  The firefighter looks unsettled as he hooks the cables to my battery. “Get in a give it a shot.”

  I do, and the car fires right up. Thank God.

  I leave the engine running as Grayson undoes the cables and shuts my hood, and I wait until he’s put them back in his truck before I thank him.

  “Glad to help,” he says. That voice is intoxicating. We stand there for a second and I realize we’re doing it again, staring into each other’s eyes.

  Then I kiss him.

  Fuck, I did not mean to do this.