Chapter 7 Axel
Axel
Iwent back to the Santa throne and took a seat, flask in hand, not ready to leave.
I wanted to see her, the good reverend’s daughter.
The fake snow stuck to my boots, the seat creaked every time I shifted, and somewhere under the layers of cotton and fake fur, I’d begun to itch in places I didn’t know I had nerves.
Darla Maple—Pastor’s Princess, reigning Queen of Misplaced Mercy.
She moved through the chaos with an ease that was almost supernatural.
She wore a green dress that looked demure from a distance but hugged her hips like it had been sewn on wet.
The hem hit just above her knee, modest enough for her father’s taste but short enough to show the smooth expanse of her legs every time she bent to clean up a stray craft supply or rescue a dropped sippy cup.
Her hair was down, parted to one side, a single loose strand caught in the static electricity of the room.
Every kid within a hundred feet loved her; every adult wanted to be her, or be inside her, or in her case, both.
She was working the room, wrapping things up, but every so often she’d catch my eye and not look away. There was something there—a dare, a question, a fuck-you to the universe that said I see you, and you better have the balls to see me back.
I watched her, tried not to be obvious about it. But the problem with watching someone like Darla is that everyone else in the room is already doing it, so you’re just one more set of hungry eyes in a crowd full of starved wolves.
She finished her rounds, gave a couple of volunteers her signature smile (genuine, a little tired, but never fake), and then started toward the Santa throne.
The crowd parted for her, even the children stepping aside like she was radioactive.
A couple of the older church women shot glances in my direction, their mouths tight, arms folded across their chests.
One of them made the sign of the cross, which was impressive for a Protestant.
She stopped in front of me, hands on her hips, head cocked.
“You holding court, or just hiding from the clean-up?”
Her voice was soft, with a Southern lilt that didn’t sound like the other girls in this town. There was steel in it, though, and a low current of amusement.
I gave her my best Ho Ho Ho, which sounded like I was trying to cough up a lung.
She laughed, a real laugh. “You know you’re the scariest Santa I’ve ever seen, right?”
I grinned, teeth bared under the beard. “It’s the diet. Nothing but whiskey and cigarettes for three months.”
She walked around the throne, circling me. “Is this what they mean by ‘Santa’s Little Helper’?” Her hand brushed the back of the chair, close enough to my neck that I felt the warmth of her skin.
“Only if you promise not to narc me out to your dad,” I said.
She smiled wide and shook her head. “He’s too busy counting the offering plates to care.”
She leaned in, her mouth close to my ear. “You ever take that thing off, or is it a permanent lifestyle now?”
I shrugged. “You wanna find out?”
She froze for a second, like she hadn’t expected me to say it, then leaned closer. Her lips grazed my earlobe. “Maybe I do, Santa.”
There was something off about the way she said it—not the flirt, not the joke, but something deeper. I could tell she knew, or at least suspected. I was the only man in the room who wasn’t wearing a label, and that made me both invisible and the most dangerous person here.
She slid around to the front of the throne, standing between my knees. The suit bunched and pulled, the cheap fabric crinkling under her hands.
“I need a Christmas favor,” she whispered, voice low.
I let my hand drift to her waist, fingers pressing into the soft curve just above her hip. “I’m listening.”
She didn’t move away. In fact, she stepped closer until the edge of her thigh pressed into my knee. “I have to take a picture with Santa,” she said, louder now. “For the church newsletter. My dad insists.”
There was no camera in sight, but I played along. “You want on the lap, or just a handshake?”
She arched an eyebrow, then, without warning, she swung one leg over and straddled my lap. The weight of her was instant, delicious, and I fought the urge to adjust myself under the suit.
The room got quieter, the women at the folding tables stopping mid-sentence. Even the few kids left seemed to sense something had changed, some law of nature broken.
Darla leaned in, her arms around my neck, her face inches from mine. “Smile for the camera, Santa.”
I put a hand on her lower back, holding her in place. She didn’t resist. If anything, she ground herself a little deeper into my lap, her skirt riding higher. The heat from her body went straight through the felt, through my skin, right into my fucking bones.
She whispered, so only I could hear, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No,” I said, matching her volume. “But I could get used to it.”
She bit her lower lip, then let it go with a little pop. “Good answer.”
Someone in the crowd actually took out a phone and snapped a picture.
That was when I let my hand slide up, just under the hem of her dress.
She stiffened for half a heartbeat, then relaxed, her thighs parting ever so slightly to give me room.
The tips of my fingers grazed the lace edge of her panties—white, with a little satin bow at the hip—and I felt the heat of her radiating through the thin cotton.
She gasped, the sound almost inaudible. But her body didn’t move, didn’t jerk away. Instead, she leaned in, her mouth against the side of my fake beard, her breath hot on my cheek.
“You’re a bad Santa,” she murmured, just for me.
I let my hand linger, then pressed my fingers a little harder, enough to make her breath catch in her throat. She was trembling, and I could feel the pulse at her hip beating like a drumline.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t pull away.
Instead, she dug her fingernails into my shoulder and whispered, “If you get caught, you’re fucked.”
I didn’t care.
The moment went on longer than it should have. The women at the tables started whispering, the men glanced over their shoulders, and the room started to feel charged—like the air before a lightning strike.
That was when Bart Stanton, a.k.a. The Hammer, made his entrance. He was the church’s unofficial head of security, six-four and built like a prison riot. He moved through the crowd with a slowness that was scarier than any charge, his pale blue eyes fixed on the throne.
He clocked the scene—Darla on my lap, my hand under her skirt, the two of us frozen in this perfect, radioactive moment.
He didn’t say a word, just raised one meaty fist and pointed.
On his pinky was a signet ring, heavy and gleaming in the fluorescent light.
He tapped it once against his palm, like a judge about to drop the gavel.
“Pastor,” he called, voice low but deadly. “We got a situation.”
The room went silent. Darla’s body went rigid, and for the first time, her eyes flashed panic. But she didn’t move, not right away.
I squeezed her thigh, just once, and she looked down at me—really looked. Something passed between us, and I couldn’t tell if it was gratitude or terror or something even more fucked up.
She slid off my lap, smoothed down her skirt, and stepped to the side. Her face was flushed, her hands shaking just a little.
The Hammer advanced, backed by two more goons in matching black church polos. They moved in formation, three points of a triangle, all eyes locked on me.
The beard was stifling now, my mouth dry, my heart banging at my ribs like it wanted out. I stood up, straightening the Santa suit, and faced him.
Bart didn’t blink. “You got ID, Claus?”
I could smell the violence coming off him, the way some dogs can smell cancer. I knew, in that instant, that if I didn’t act fast, I was dead—or worse.
I glanced at Darla. She shook her head, just once, the message clear.: Don’t fight.
But I’d never been good at taking advice.
Bart took another step. “You deaf, asshole?”
I took a breath, let the adrenaline settle, then said, “Didn’t know you needed a license to give out presents.”
The other two closed in, their hands already balling into fists.
Darla stepped forward, hands up, her voice shaking. “It’s fine, Bart. He’s a volunteer.”
Bart glared at her, then at me. “He can volunteer down at the precinct. Let’s go.”
They reached for me. I ducked, sidestepped, and threw a left hook into the nearest guy’s solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping. The second one swung wild, and I caught his wrist, twisted, and drove my knee up into his balls. He went down hard, retching onto the fake snow.
Bart just smiled. “Knew it. Knew you were trouble.”
He lunged, arms wide, trying to grab me by the neck.
I ducked again, this time rolling over the back of the Santa throne.
The chair toppled, smashing into a stack of folding tables.
The women at the crafts station screamed and ran for the doors, clutching their purses and Bible covers like riot shields.
Bart came at me, slower now, eyes narrowed.
“Stop!” Darla yelled, her voice cutting through the chaos.
But nobody stopped.
Bart swung, a wide haymaker meant to decapitate. I caught him on the chin with a jab, but it was like punching a sandbag. He grinned, wiped a fleck of blood from his lip, and grabbed me by the throat.
He lifted me off the ground, one-handed, my boots scraping at the air.
“I don’t care who you are,” he hissed. “You don’t fuck with this church.”
He squeezed. My vision went gray at the edges, the world shrinking to a tunnel with his face at the end.
Then, out of nowhere, Darla hit him across the head with a folding chair. The sound was thunder, metal on bone, and Bart staggered, dropping me to the floor.
I landed hard, sucked in air, and saw stars.
Darla was shouting, “Run! Go! Now!”