Page 5 of He Sees You

From the outside, you would believe that Dove Yarrow is nothing but nice. A good girl who works hard to save up her money while still donating to children’s hospitals and animal shelters. She rarely raises her voice, doesn’t smoke or drink, and her bills are paid two days before they’re due no matter what.

But there’s a secret side to my precious Dove. And like how Burns kept his distance from the woman who would become his wife before he realized she was twisted enough to enjoy belonging to him, knowing that Dove isn’t as sweet and innocent as she appears is like fucking catnip to me.

How can I resist?

Give it barely two more weeks and I won’thaveto anymore…

Because this year? Dove is on Santa’s naughty list, her name right next to mine. Only instead of getting coal in her stocking, she’ll be getting a Coleman in her bed for the new year—no matter what I have to do to make that a reality.

Burns thinks I’m overprepared. I don’t buy it. Until my cock is buried deep inside of her, her pretty voice panting my name in lust, in love, in absoluteneed, I will do whatever it takes to ease this woman into being mine.

I have two more presents wrapped and ready to go that will make that perfectly clear. Until then, I’ll keep up with my reconnaissance, and if anything changes—if an opportunity presents itself—I’ll be ready.

In the last six months, Burns has taught me more useful shit than I learned in all of high school and the academy. The most important lesson I’ve taken to heart? Is how most civilians don’t see our faces when we’re on duty. It’s like they don’t want to make eye contact with a cop as if we’ll see the guilt hidden deep within them so they look away, and we’re basically unrecognizable.

They see the gun, the badge, the uniform, and that’s what they remember.

It doesn’t just happen with a patrolman’s uniform, either. Because when I trade my blues for a velvet suit of red later that night, no one sees Officer Derek Coleman anymore. They haven’t all season.

And considering I’m following my mentor’s teachings to the letter and breaking every fucking law there is while playing this part, that’s probably a good thing.

THREE

SANTA CLAUS

DOVE

I’m being stalked by Santa Claus.

In the beginning, I thought it was Jerry, the creep who wears the suit at Waverly’s during the holiday season. He’s new this year, having replaced Pat, the department Santa who posed with the kiddies for more than two decades. Pat finally retired, but he did it last minute, and Jerry was the only Santa my manager could find to keep the annual tradition going.

Jerry is about fifteen years older than me, so definitely a young Santa, though with the fake beard and a pretty decent wig, it’s hard to tell. Plus the elaborate Christmas setup helps, and the belly he came by honestly. He’s good with the kids, too, and I guess I should just be grateful that, when it comes to his wandering hands and lecherous gaze, it’s me and my fellow elves who get the unwanted attention.

Mainly me, since I’m the only one of the girls who got bumped to Christmas duty from mid-November to the twenty-fourth of December that is currently single. Not that that stops Jerry from hitting on each of us every chance he gets. Still, I’ve been his preferred target since day one.

Lisa thinks it’s because I’m the designated photographer. I’m the one who snaps every picture while the other girls are responsible for keeping the line moving, upselling the Santa packages, and convincing the children to smile from behind where I have the camera on its tripod. It’s considered a prestigious position in my line of work. I get a bonus for heading to ‘Santa’s Village’ while the other shutterbugs stick around our usual studio for family photos and couple shots, but as much as I enjoyed the gig last Christmas with Pat, I can’t fucking stand Jerry.

That’s why, when I first noticed that I was being stalked by Santa, I immediately thought it had to be him. Like, take a hint. I haven’t been on a proper date since I moved to Springfield two years ago, but I definitely prefer my battery-operated boyfriend to this sleazy bastard. If I won’t go out for a drink with you at the end of our shift, why do you think I’d appreciate you following me home while wearing the ridiculous Santa suit?

Only it’s not Jerry. After I turned him down the last time, he started sidling up to Ally in the shoe section since she just broke up with Scott, the manager for menswear. Then I realized that unless he had enough of a thing for playing Santa outside of our designated hours to rent his own suit, he can’t take Waverly’s out of the store. Like the elf costumes, they’re put away at the end of the night and laundered every week. It can’t be him.

But it’ssomeone.

I’ve seen him waiting across the street from the parking lot where I leave my car for the day. On the corner of the street where my apartment building is. Outside my local grocery store, and sometimes even shaking his bell near the Chinese take-out place I head to when I’m craving shrimp lo mein. At first, I thought he was from the Salvation Army or some other charity—but though he has the bell, the black boots, the red suit, the hat,and a cheap-looking beard to cover his face, there’s never any collection tin.

I didn’t want to think he was following me. Like, how conceited is that? Of all the women in Springfield, Santa was chasing afterme? It had to be a coincidence… and I believed that until I purposely walked past him one night, smiling and waving and being all friendly-like, and he chuckled and said, “I hope you’re being a good girl,” with such a strange look in his deep green eyes, I knew then and there something was off.

Every damn Santa I’ve caught watching me has those same deep green eyes.

They’re the only feature I can pick out from behind the Santa costume, apart from his height—at least a head taller than me—his build—nowhere near as round as Jerry—and his skin tone—as white as mine, with a touch of red on the part of his cheeks not covered by the beard.I’d put him at about my age, too, though that just might be wishful thinking. The idea that Santa is stalking me is weird, but him possibly being a septuagenarian isworse.

He’s not just watching me, either, the way that Santa does in that old Christmas song, ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’. You know the one.He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows if you’ve been bad or good…He always seems to be there, but about two weeks ago, he sent me my first present.

It was a stuffed cat wearing a Santa hat, part of the same line of a collection that I’ve been working on since I was a kid.

I have at least twenty in my apartment now, all tucked away when it’s not the holidays, and I love them so much, I even had my parents ship them to me last Christmas. Anyone who knows me, knows about my kitty fascination, so that wasn’t so surmising.

What was? Was how that was only the first present.

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