Chapter 3 The Eve Shift
The Eve Shift
The storm comes in sideways, turning Main Street into a sheet of white static by four o’clock.
Soon, everything will shut down due to the weather, and a ping in my pocket tells me the first thing to die is the annual “Miracle Gala.” My first time ever attending, and it looks like the Christmas spirit itself does not want that.
The PR group chat continues to ping, messages with exclamation points and snowflake emojis flood the screen as if the weather is God’s own marketing plan.
Typing out my reply, I send the only response they will need.
Me:
Pivot to remote giving. Post the donation link. Tell them I’m devastated.
I’m not.
I continue my drive back towards the cabin, the storm following me home.
By the time I make it there, the driveway is buried under a white curtain, and the pines bend low like penitents.
It’s the kind of night people in Jollytown dream of perfect postcard snow that makes you forget frostbite exists.
Fortunately, the sight does little to a man like me.
Putting the car into park and grabbing my phone, I scroll through the endless emails, some wish me happy holidays, others requesting time off—all of which I ignore, except for the ones requesting a timeline of arrivals.
Work never stops, not even for the rich.
Each contract, each sale I acquired, only made my greed greater…
After fifteen minutes, I finally step out of the car and walk inside. Dropping my keys into a white bowl before removing my black coat and my shoes, I saunter over to the small living room and light the hearth just enough to watch the flames catch.
I grab a glass container holding some kind of expensive bourbon and a small glass, before walking towards the small adjoining kitchen.
The smell of cedar and smoke fills the lodge.
It’s supposed to feel like peace, but all I hear is the faint hum of my laptop waking up on the counter.
Focusing on the device, I lean into the wooden counter top, my index finger dragging the touchpad as I navigate through my apps.
Before long, I find my way into my inbox, which blinks with panic—suppliers delayed, shipments stalled, warehouse crews begging to clock out early, all while I take a sip of the bourbon I just poured. Loosening my tie, I ignore every excuse and begin to type.
Me:
No one buys happiness after midnight. We deliver now, or we lose them to someone else. Christmas doesn’t stop for the underachievers.
A ping from the company group chat catches my attention.
Emily:
Mr. Porter, I’m sorry. I have to go home soon, it’s Christmas Eve.
My lips curl in disgust as the smooth taste of bourbon floods my mouth, burning my throat before warmth settles in my gut.
Me:
So what? That’s when joy sells. No excuses.
A full minute passes before I see her typing bubble fade.
Good. At least someone is working. I glance out the window above the sink, and the forest is a blur of white.
The storm eats the horizon, and the porch light carries a halo around the snow.
For a heartbeat, I swear I see a figure in red standing beyond the tree line still, head tilted as if he’s listening.
A gust of wind knocks a branch free, causing the vision to shatter with the snow.
“I need to sleep,” I mutter as I pour myself another drink and head back towards the living room with my laptop.
Grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV—the news plays in the background.
A news anchor pops up on the screen, dressed in a green ugly Christmas dress, blonde curls cascading down her shoulders as she smiles beside footage of a neighborhood wrapped in yellow tape.
“Police respond to another string of Christmas Eve break-ins...” I turn it off before I hear the rest. I simply didn’t care, chugging the rest of the bourbon, then taking a quick glance at my reflection, watching as it distorts and fades into a ghost in a suit due to the glow of the laptop monitor.
My dark tone loses the melanin and color fading to a pale shade.
A buzzing sound has me running a hand down my face and letting out a yawn I’ve been holding for far too long.
My eyes burn from staring at screens, but the buzzing is another text from a man I should have blocked weeks ago, but good sex kept me throwing bones at the desperate dog. Shane lounges in a bed naked with a bow wrapped around his thick and veiny length.
Shane:
Still working, Toy King?
I smirk despite myself. Aren’t I always?
I want to say, but I leave him on read like I always do, despite the blood rushing like a freight train straight into my cock.
My hand instinctively moves towards the bulge growing in my pants just in time for the signal on my cellphone to die, and the lights flicker as the wind shreds through the chimney.
Ignoring my erection and slamming my laptop shut, I stand there not knowing what to do with the delays.
I want to shower, but the constant pinging on my phone interrupts the need.
For a second, I think of fucking my hand to relieve some of the stress tensing my muscles and taking root at the base of my neck.
A groan escapes my lips as I pour another drink.
More notifications roll in, more delayed orders, shipping errors, and a frozen truck somewhere outside Denver. A sigh escapes my lips as I open up the laptop and start dictating responses, watching as the numbers climb.
Even now, on Christmas Eve—end of the quarter—everyone else is slowing down while I’m still building my empire.
My stomach growls, the pang of hunger slamming into me.
Pulling myself from the screen, I walk to the fridge, pulling out a ready to eat meal and microwaving it.
My back rests on the wooden edge of the counter as I wait for the microwave to stop, still looking at my phone screen while typing out responses and looking at the warehouse cameras.
Beep! Beep!
The sound alerts me that my food is ready to eat, and of course, I eat the sorry excuse of meatloaf standing up, my eyes flickering between spreadsheets and the security feeds.
The factory cameras show silhouettes moving under the fluorescent lights—my people, still assembling happiness by the hour.
Their faces somber and their movements rushed. Good. Work keeps the world warm.
A blur of red catches my eye as it moves around in the corner of my feed. I rewind. Nothing. Play. Nothing. Rewind again. Still nothing. Then the image crackles once, like static, and clears. Placing my phone down on the counter, I bring my fingers towards my temple and rub the tension away.
When another message comes in, Emily again.
Emily:
Power outage in sector B. The crew wants to head home before the roads close.
My response is immediate.
Me:
If they can drive, they can deliver.
Thankfully, Emily is a smart cookie and doesn’t question my response. Placing the phone back onto the counter, the sound of a log shifting and the flame spitting catches my attention. The sound startles me enough that I spill the bourbon on my keyboard.
“Shit!” I curse as I blot the liquid with my sleeve, and freeze when I notice the reflection in the dark screen. A tall shape by the window, holed in red light from the fire, but when I spin around, there’s nothing—just my own coat hanging on the peg.
Snow howls against the glass, the television flickers back to life on its own, the volume whispering just loud enough to bleed through the room:
“He sees you when you're sleeping…”
I shut it off and focus back on my screen. The company dashboard has gone red—every shipment marked delayed, every worker status offline except one.
The ID code blinks 1: NG-01
Neno Garcia.
It can’t be.
My throat tightens, rolling my neck as I refresh my screen over and over. It’s impossible. That account was deleted years ago. Running a hand down my face, I watch in horror as the cursor moves by itself, typing over the reports.
HO! HO! HO!
The fire hisses from behind me, the wind howls, and knocks at the door.
While my eyes remain glued on the screen, my reflection shifting and smiling at me, my eyes are hollow, and my grin too wide to look anything but demonic.
The cursor blinks, waiting for my reply, but I slam the screen shut and pour myself another bourbon instead.
Outside, a single bell jingles once, and then the lights flicker, causing panic to rise, only to be disregarded by my thoughts. The true horror is all the red across my screen.
“I need a shower,” I mutter, pretending the shake in my hands is just from the cold.
I step into the bathroom, turning the shower on, and quickly the steam from the hot water fills the room, creating condensation that fogs up the mirrors. I stand beneath the water, allowing it to beat on my muscles to relieve some tension, but all it does is drag me into the past.
To the first moment, he was on his knees for me, taking my cock into his warm mouth, just as my hand grips the base. My eyes flutter shut, and I tip my head back, making sure to step away from the running water, and move my hand upward and curving it around the tip.
Each movement peels back my foreskin, the precum making it slick, and my balls draw tight. Heat gathers at the base of my spine as I recall the feeling of his pierced tongue, the cool of the metal ring against the warmth of my length.
Fuckkkkkkk.
My pulse quickens with the movement of my hand, each pump bringing me closer to the edge.
Hips bucking wildly, wishing to feel something besides my palm.
Wishing for a Christmas miracle to thaw my frozen heart, and the feeling intensifies with the memory of Neno’s eyes as he looked up at me from behind his thick curly lashes.
The tip of his tongue ran down my shaft before burrowing itself between my legs, taking my balls into his mouth.
Suckling softly, his tongue lapping each one with care.
Each of my strokes of the wet muscle is in sync with his stroke on my cock.
, and just like that, I spill into my hand, making a mess of my stomach.
Opening my eyes, my shaky fingers drift to where the sperm decorates my toned abs, and I spread it, causing tingles throughout my body.
SLAM!
SLAM !
The sound stops me dead in my tracks. Peeking my head out the glass shower door, I try to tune into the sound, but a chill runs up my spine when all I hear is silence.