Page 3 of Happy Krampus Xmas & the Meet Not Cute
“Is Krampus the reason why you refused to marry Gabe and Bez this month?” Michael stops feeding fries to his husband to question me one more time.
He just reminded me how pissed off my fiancés were at me when I refused to marry them. They turned into possessive, feral animals. My arse took the brunt of it, and I still feel the sting. I love their brand of obsession for me so fucking much, but I won’t have a fucked-up wedding because of Krampus.
Michael looks curious; I see no judgment in his gaze in opposition to the rest of the twats sitting around the table. To be fair. Raph looks just as disinterested as usual.
“That and the fact that aLet-It-Go, freezing outdoor wedding is not for me, mate.”
“You know that Santa, and consequently Krampus, doesn’t exist.” Raph tilts his head to the side, his eyes empty. How Michael endures that stare is a mystery to me.
“Gran was a Catholic at heart, she believed in Saint Nicholas’s tale. But her father was from a little Alpine village where the Krampus legend resides. I don’t believe in Santa, but I do believe in spirits—evil or holy, that is.”
Ash burps loudly, putting down his cup of coke. The brat is so rude, a genius with a tattoo needle, but terrible with manners and social interactions.
“I thought that sitting on the lap was for kids,” Ren suddenly says.
“Kids?” I scoff. “That’s my number one shagging position.”
“Ugh.” Ash lets me know howdiscontenthe is with an incinerating glare.
“Santa’s lap!” Ren clarifies.
“That’s a kink I never understood. A big guy wearing a pointy, fluffy hat? I dig the beard and the giving presents part, but I draw the line at living in the middle of cold-ass nowhere and competing with the dude’s fixation on children.”
“I hope children are not around to hear this.” Ren shakes his head. The mall is about to close, no ankle biters—kids. We will be kicked out soon.
“I think that the kink is more about dirtying up Santa’s goodness, making someone so powerful and pure move to the dark side.” Michael’s medical brain makes a very valid point. Too valid.
“Are you one of Santa’s groupies?” I ask him.
And cue Raph’s growly reply, “The fuck he is.” He tightens his steel arms around his husband.
“I don’t need Santa. I already sit on a bearded man’s lap,” Michael says calmly, scratching his husband’s short, dark stubble. “You should know by now that my type is tall, dark, and psycho.” He gives Raph a long kiss, too long and dirty for a public place. It makes me miss my men.
“I was talking about the flesh-and-blood Santa’s impostor in the Christmas corner.” Ren points to his left.
My eyes turn to the burly bloke sitting on the red throne forty feet from us. He’s wearing his Santa costume, complete with the big belt, black boots, and furry hat, while drooling over the skimpily dressed broad sitting on his lap.
I love her high yellow pumps, so much that I want to ask her where she bought them. When my gaze moves to her face, I blink a couple of times. It’s Magdalene! Or whatever her nameis. The hooker that used to live a couple of floors down in my old apartment building.
Finally, I can get some fun from this trip to jolly hell.
“Um, maybe I should go talk to them,” I utter.
“Who?” Michael has come up for air.
“This Santa’s minion seems to indulge in naughty stuff; maybe he can help to shed some light on the Krampus nightmare,” I explain.
Raph turns his head toward the bloke grinding against Magdalene’s butt. “He looks more like a sinner than a jolly fella.”
“He’s certainly en-joy-ing himself,” Michael jokes.
“Jealous, piglet?” Raph asks him, sliding his hand under his husband’s butt. I usually like to watch Miphael’s rated R shows. Not tonight, though. I leave my chair and head toward him, followed by Ren and Ash.
“Why are you stalking me?”
Ash sniffs as Ren taunts me, “Stalking? That’syourthing.”
“Dare needs to stop using his vocal cords, or he'll lose his talking muscle,” I mutter.
