Page 1 of Bad Santas

ONE

Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree - Brenda Lee

I’m not a grinch.

I love Christmas. It was my parent’s favorite holiday, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t mine, too. I don’t, however, love the annual company Christmas party I’m expected to attend with a merry smile on my face and the cheeriest of dispositions. It’s nothing more than an excuse for the past-their-prime corporate dogs to get together, knock back one too many drinks, and feel up every young, eager spring chicken with drunken promises of a promotion until one of them caves and spreads their legs.

I never fell for it, immune to their gag-worthy advances, so they keep away from me now. That, or maybe it’s because I’m no longer a spring chicken. At least not by society’s standards, anyway. I’m a childless, terminal bachelorette in her mid-thirties. My triple Ds have seen perkier days, my hips look like I’ve had at least three crotch goblins, and my squishy fupa lends to the fact I eat far too many carbs and don’t make time for the gym.

“Well, well, well, Noelle, don’t you look nice,” my boss, Jared, says as he slinks up beside me, a tumbler of bourbon or maybewhiskey nestled in his hand. The corner of his mouth quirks, his brown-eyed gaze drifting up and down my figure in a way I’ve not seen from him before.

Jared’s only been with Van Corp for about seven months, brought in rather quickly when my last boss quit on a whim, and within that time, he’s always been curt and friendly. But he’s never eyed me like a piece of meat. Then again, my tits are usually contained beneath some work-appropriate attire, so it’s not entirely his fault, I guess.

Especially when I decided on a skin-tight, fire engine red number for the evening with the luminous copper strands of my hair styled in loose, vintage waves.

“Thanks.” I take a sip of my champagne, tamping down the urge to roll my eyes, and scan the crowd for my work wife.

Much like my dress, the convention center is a wonderland of reds and whites. Mammoth-sized scarlet “gifts” hang overhead in various clusters like North Pole chandeliers, accentuating the crimson drapes covering the high ceilings. Red Christmas trees, red cocktail tables, red seating areas—almosteverythingis fucking red. The bar tops themselves are a pristine, shimmering white, but even the shelving behind them, housing row after row of liquor bottles, are the same bright, bloody color.

“Any fun plans for Christmas?” Jared hedges, keen on keeping the conversation flowing.

I rock my head indifferently, my gaze still searching for Alma. And no surprise here—she’s late. The day Alma Delfino is on time, Earth will spontaneously combust.“Nope. You?”

“Just dinner at my mom’s,” he shrugs, “nothing special.”

A few of the other guys from our floor amble their way over when they spot us, cutting our one-sided conversation short, and as they engage in their own chit-chat after I’ve greeted them—as I do every morning—I take that as my opportunity to slip away.

I don’t make it but fifty-feet before an arm loops through mine, falling perfectly in stride beside me. A wet kiss smacks my cheek and the sensual feminine musk of her perfume wafts up my nose.

“There you are, bitch. I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Alma hisses, knocking back what remains of her champagne.

As a server walks by, balancing a tray of empty glasses, she plops hers on it without missing a step and flashes him a beaming smile.

“You’vebeen looking forme?Pleaseee.” I yank her closer, digging my stiletto-shaped nails into her glowing tawny skin. She’s the Mirabel to my Ariel. “If I know you at all, you got here five minutes ago.”

“Fifteen actually,” she snickers, “but Nina from accounting stopped me as I was checking in my coat.”

“Why didn’t you bring her with you? She’s cool.”

Alma rakes her dark pin-straight hair out of her face and grins wickedly. “I think she has a thing for Gerard. Little hearts sparkled in her eyes when he waltzed in a few minutes after me, so I figured I’d give her a chance for a one on one before the awards start.”

“Poor thing. Does she know he’s a slut?” I snort, imagining Nina’s pretty green eyes lighting up like the Fourth of July as the Van Corp manwhore lays on the charm thick.

“She should. I mean, who doesn’t?”

I pin Alma with a knowing look. “Obliviously innocent girls like Nina.”

This time, we both cackle and continue past the massive archway of presents into the dining hall in search of our seats. If nothing else, at least these things always have booze and good food.

TWO

Santa Baby - Ariana Grande

After an hourof watching various colleagues called on stage to receive their awards—spoiler alert: I didn’t get one—jazz style Christmas music and idle chatter rents the air as everyone enjoys their meals. Some drift off to the dance floor once they’ve finished, while others wander back into the cocktail lounge to mingle and reignite their waning buzzes. Meanwhile, I’m looking for any reason to leave. I showed my face and put on a smile.

Surely that’s suffice, right?

“You arenotgoing to believe what I just did,” Alma murmurs as she slides into her seat beside me with a fresh vodka cranberry in hand.

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