Page 1 of Santa Daddy
1
BLOOD AND JINGLE BELLS
DANI
Ihave a Kim Kardashian ass.
There. I said it.
One that made every pair of leggings I own scream for mercy, and right now it’s squeezed into candy cane striped tights that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
After losing thirty pounds (thank you, anxiety and celery) I finally convinced myself I could pull off the world's skimpiest elf costume for my seasonal mall job. Sixteen-fifty an hour plus tips. Which, when you're staring down $87,000 in student loans and a studio apartment where the radiator sounded like it was murdering small animals, counted as a Christmas miracle.
Green velvet romper that barely covered my ass? Check.
Tights so tight I couldn't bend over without risking a workplace incident? Check.
Bell collar that jingled every time I breathed? Double fucking check.
This morning I looked in the mirror and gave myself a pep talk. You got this, Dani. You are a candy cane goddess.
That was six hours ago.
Before I spent my shift being groped by entitled dads who apparently think their Amex Black Cards come with complimentary sexual harassment while their sticky-fingered spawn scream at Santa about wanting iPads.
Nothing said Christmas spirit like assault set to All I Want for Christmas Is You.
Now it was past six, December darkness swallowing the city whole, and I was hauling ass through the parking lot because the 6:15 bus wouldn't wait and my student loans sure as hell wouldn't pay themselves. Cold bit through velvet like teeth. My breath ghosted white in frozen air. Behind me, the mall bled Jingle Bell Rock into the night.
Fa la la la fuck my life.
The shortcut through Pinebrook's tree lot would save me ten minutes. The difference between making my bus and freezing my tits off for forty-five minutes waiting for the next one.
Stupid? Absolutely.
But my feet were dying in these stripper heels, my phone was at 2%, and I'd been making terrible decisions since birth. Last Christmas I spent alone eating ramen, watching other people's families through my window. This year was supposed to be different.
Spoiler alert: it was worse.
The lot opened before me like a graveyard someone decorated. Hundreds of Fraser firs stacked in crooked rows. The vendor's shack sat dark, CLOSED sign swinging in the wind.
Empty.
Pine scent slammed into me, thick and green. String lights overhead blinked sickly yellow, half dead, casting everything in jaundiced shadows.
I was thirty feet in when I heard voices.
Deep. Male. Russian.
Just workers closing up. Keep walking.
Except the lot was already closed. And something about the tone made my skin crawl.
I slowed. Pressed my hand to the bells, trying to muffle them.
The voices got closer.
Then another voice. Pleading. "Please. I have?—"
