Page 10 of Erotic Temptations 1
I pinched the fabric between two fingers like it was roadkill. No amount of dry cleaning could convince me otherwise.
Bryce’s voice dropped to that guilt-inducing octave. He was desperate. Not manipulative. Made resistance futile. “We need the extra money. Every penny counts.”
He was right, but why couldn’t his side hustle be something dignified, like a yoga instructor? I would rock those tight. Or a barista? I would be the queen of foam art while scoring free lattes instead of hemorrhaging my paycheck at Starbucks.
My gaze slid to the suit just lying there mocking me. Just looking at it made me want to bathe in industrial-strength sanitizer.
“You seriously can’t find anyone else? Like, literally nobody?” I’d personally track down his kindergarten nemesis ifit kept my body out of that suit. If Benny and Cameron knew about this, they’d be horrified. My best friends would demand an immediate psychiatric evaluation.
“If I knew anyone else”—Bryce’s voice competed with what sounded like a chainsaw massacre in the background—“I would've asked them. I gotta go. We need that last paycheck, Alex. Noon. Sharp.”
“You can’t possibly—”
Click.
“Fabulous. Just fabulous.” I tossed my phone onto the bed. “Santa better hook a bitch up for this.” A groan slipped out. I was Santa.
* * * *
Thirty-five minutes of cruising the mall parking lot, like I was casing the sea of cars for loot, only to find a space three light years from the door.
Which, to be fair, was probably the only exercise I’d get for the rest of December. If Santa Claus ever suffered a fatal heart attack in front of a Cinnabon, you’d know who to blame.
No one had prepared me for the unique flavor of humiliation that comes with waddling your polyester-clad ass across an icy parking lot with slush seeping into both shoes. The sky had that classic mall-gray haze, solid and featureless, the kind that promised more snow just as soon as you stopped pretending it was fall.
Getting the suit from the passenger seat required a wrestling match that stripped what remained of my dignity, plus a full minute of swearing at my own car door for trying to eat the beard. The thing smelled like a thrift store after a rainstorm and could probably be used as a murder weapon in at least three states. Dragging it on over my jeans and thermal wore me out.
I’d given up on the pillow-in-the-front idea, but Bryce insisted. “It needs to look authentic, Alex,” he’d said. Authentic for what, a geriatric Santa with a midlife crisis and gluten intolerance? I found an old belt in his backseat and went to work strapping the pillow onto my body. Every time I cinched it, the damn thing slipped sideways, so Santa’s belly swing-danced with every step.
The beard was another adventure. There was no way I’d let this abomination touch my lips, or really any part of my face, so I speed-solved with half a roll of cloth tape, both under the beard and anywhere the elastic threatened to irritate my skin. The hat was as oversized as the pants, which puddled at my ankles. All of this made me delightfully aerodynamic in the thirty-degree wind.
I did what any self-respecting gay man would do. I put on sunglasses and tried to act invisible. Then I realized, sunglasses plus Santa suit equals “Florida Man robs mall,” so I ditched the shades and prepared to meet my fate.
The mall looked just as bleak as I felt. Fake garlands drooped from the rafters. Bing Crosby crooned from the speakers like he, too, had been forced into this hell for minimum wage and was singing his way out. A couple of bored-looking moms glared into their iPhones as their kids nose-dived into the decorative snow. At least someone was enjoying themself.
I didn’t make a beeline for Santa HQ. I used every trash can, mall directory, and fake plant on my route as tactical cover, ducking behind one of those enormous planters every twenty feet. If I’d had a trench coat and fedora, I could’ve starred in a holiday noir titledSanta, P.I.
Somewhere around JCPenney, I realized the pillow had migrated to my hip, so now it looked like Santa was pregnant. Fixing it required three tries and a minor public spectacle in front of an elderly couple coming out of Wetzel’s Pretzels. Isaluted them with the empty beard package. They didn’t salute back.
And then? The kid sighting.
At the central atrium, a swarm—a literal swarm—of children had already gathered with their parental units. Some were hopping in place. Others were sobbing into their sleeves. A few were just staring at me like I was a fragment of their most disturbing hallucination.
Wonderful. Apparently, I was going to spend my Saturday traumatizing kids.
I tried to breathe. It was unclear why, since the beard now acted as a sort of biological air filter. The beard kept riding up, sticking to my taped chin. I suppressed a gag when I inhaled a few of the hairs into my mouth.
Just don’t think about it. What’s the worst thing that can happen from inhaling synthetic hair?I refused to let my imagination answer.
Santa’s throne loomed in the center of the chaos, upholstered in bright red plastic with suspicious stains on the armrests. The helper elf was already there, towering at least ten inches above me. There was a name tag. “Pineflame,” it said in Comic Sans.
At least they were trying to make the experience as authentic as possible.
Pineflame glared at me, arms crossed. He might’ve come off more intimidating if he hadn’t been dressed like an elf. “Where’s Bryce?”
I didn’t appreciate the snatchy tone. I’d eaten beard hairs and parts of my body I didn’t want to think about itched like I needed a flea dip. None of them wanted to be there.
“Family emergency,” I deadpanned. “I’m a sub.” My brows shot up. “I meanthesub.” Jesus.