Page 6 of Shy Santa

I grabbed the arm of a lady who rushed past, her head buried in a clipboard.

“EEKK!” she squeaked, grabbing her chest covered in a tight black tank top. “DAVE!” she screamed when she looked at me.

Probably should have trimmed my beard and taken more time cleaning up before coming out. At least my shirt was clean, and my jeans didn’t have holes in them. I pulled my knit cap off my head. “Sorry ma’am. Didn’t mean to scare you, but I’m looking for Dillon Montgomery.”

“What’s wrong April?” A man walked over. He was almost as big as me. A black shirt with security written in yellow across the front stretched across his chest.

“The Dude’s looking for Dillon. Sorry, I screamed, but he scared me coming out of the shadows.” The lady, April—I think that’s her name—said as she inched closer to the security guy.

The large man crossed his arms over his chest, assessing me. Figuring he was the fastest way to get to Montgomery, I held out my hand and introduced myself. “Bear Alexander. I was told to ask for Mr. Montgomery; that someone would know where to find him.”

Not saying a word, he turned and headed down a hall to the right, where the lady had come from.

Nodding my head at the woman, I followed the guy up some stairs to the back of house area. We passed a few people, mostly guys and a few women, in costumes and in various stages of dressed.

I mentally shrugged and focused on the interview ahead. The idea of selling myself was not something I was comfortable with. The thought of answering random questions about myself gave me hives. Who cares what my favorite color or day of the week is? As for the question of why they should hire me? Well, because I am here and need a job.

The list of interview questions I found online overwhelmed me. Where do I see myself in five years? Fuck, at this point I didn’t know where I would be next week, other than trying to find a job in this town or in one of the larger cities nearby.

And don’t get me started about the one asking if I had a personal mission statement. Whoever decided they needed a mission statement to live life needed their head examined.

At the top of the stairs, the security guy opened a door and cocked an eyebrow at me.

I stepped through to see that I was on the back side of the stage and a group of partially dressed men danced to an intense beat blaring through the sound system. A short guy with a long stick yelled at the front of the stage, pacing as he watched the dancers shaking what their daddy gave them.

Benson better have a good explanation of what exactly he got me into. There’s no way in fucking hell I was getting greased up and shaking my ass on stage. They’d have to close the show and file for bankruptcy.

Security man tapped my shoulder and walked down the stairs at the side of the stage and to the back of the theater. “Boss man’s the black sweats.” He tilted his head toward the two men at the back in a heated discussion.

I headed down the stairs and up the slight incline to the back bar area. The dude in red sweats threw up his hands, spun on his heel and stormed off. Muttering to himself.

“Please tell me the agency sent you?” Mr. Montgomery said when I stopped in front of him.

“Nope. Benson sent me. Name’s Bear.” I discreetly wiped my palm on my jeans before I held it out.

The man looked at my hand for a moment before grabbing hold. “Dillon Montgomery. Benson said a friend of his needed a job fast. You’re not in trouble or just got out of jail, right?”

He eyed me up and down like I was a piece of meat. The urge to cover myself grew. Wonder if this is how chicks felt when men eyed them?

“No sir, discharged from the Marines a couple months ago after a change in family circumstances.”

“Knocked a woman up and she demanded you play family? Come on.” He walked toward the lobby doors.

How do you explain a child dropped in your lap that you never knew about? “Not exactly.”

He snorted. “Had my fair share of trouble with baby mamas. Got me a brilliant woman now.”

We walked up a couple sets of stairs to the third floor of the building before he led me into a set of offices.

“Benson never said what the job was.” I hedged, not sure what I was walking into.

Mr. Montgomery opened a door and dug around a few boxes inside. “That’s Benny for you. I have a few openings right now. And I just had another damn spot-on stage open up. So right now, I’m down two dancers and a bartender.”

“I’ll take the bar Mr. Montgomery, never slung drinks, but I’m a quick study.” I jumped on the opportunity to not shake my ass and make a fool of myself.

Back stiff, he turned to me. “Mr. Montgomery is my father. Call me Dillon.” He shoved a handful of fabric at me. “Two sizes of shorts and two sizes of collars, I think will fit you.”

“Uhhh… What am I supposed to do with this?” Horrified, I held up a tiny pair of red, hot pants with white fir lining.

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