Page 14 of Bad Santas

A Nonsense Christmas - Sabrina Carpenter

It’s bright as fuck.

That’s the first thing I think as I crack my eyes open. The immediate second?

What the hell happened last night?

I feel like I got run over by a train, muscles in my body I clearly do not use on the daily screaming in protest when I roll over. The Christmas party, coming home, throwing on a movie…

I shoot up right on a gasp as it hits me, stare rounding out.

Nick.

The boys.

They were…

No, that’s crazy.

There’s no way any of that was real. Ithadto be a dream. A vivid, tantalizing,deliciousdream. The man I met, while sexy as all hell, would never have followed me home and invitedhis sonsto partake in my twisted masked man fantasy.

Because you know him so well? You talked to him for what? Five minutes? Pretty sure a one-night Santa gig doesn’t require a background check…

My eyes widen impossibly more at the thought. It’s true… What do I really know about him? He could be capable of anything and I mean, I asked for it, right? Maybe not for him to be one of the sexy masked men, per se, but I flirted with him. I let him touch me. If he’s remotely unhinged, even one tiny screw, that was an explicit invitation.

Not to mention, itfeltreal. My body can attest to that. So either I got railed beneath the tree or I must’ve sleepwalked my ass to the gym and worked out for two hours straight. Or maybe I just slept wrong—because that’s the most logical explanation, right?

Right. Yeah. I slept wrong. It was a dream, that’s it.

“One helluva dream,” I mutter, slipping out of bed and into the en suite.

It’s not until after I finish my business and flip on the lights to brush my teeth that I realize… I’m naked. My gaze flicks up to the mirror and almost immediately, my jaw hits the faux marble countertop.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

The evidence is all there; bite marks, slight scratches, fingerprint-shaped bruises,hickies…

I look down at my body as if the mirror were lying, but the image remains the same.

Holy fuck, it wasn’t a dream.

Grabbing my robe off the back of the door, I slip it on and rush out into the living room. More evidence stares back at me. The coffee table’s pushed up against the tree and there’s popcorn strewn on the floor—along with my pajamas. The couch is more than simply just askew, too. But it’s what laid over the back that catches my attention most.

Brow curving, I make my way over and pluck the piece of paper first.

Call me.

- N

Again, my eyes round out, a small wisp of air shooting into my lungs as I flip it over and take in the phone number on the other side. Then the skull mask on the couch. It…was real. It really fucking happened.

I did some hoe shit for Christmas—and it looks like my sexy Santa wants round two.

The End

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