Page 7 of Daddy's Christmas Elf
A lurid green suit, so tight it could have been spray painted on, clung to every lean muscle. And as for the make up… Dark eyeliner smudged the skin beneath his captivating, mesmerising eyes, eyes that needed no cosmetics to make them stand out. Deep red lipstick painted a pair of generous, pouty lips, but it was smeared across the elf’s mouth, as though somebody had taken possession of those lips and kissed him long and hard. The boy, with his large, clear eyes and red-smeared mouth, looked at the same time both innocent and debauched.
Heat prickled over Grey’s skin as a tingle raced the length of his spine. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter.
“I can only apologise for what happened,” Grey said, his voice too loud and formal. “Had I realised what was happening I’d have intervened sooner. If it’s any kind of consolation, he won’t be returning to his job in the New Year. I know the event planner dismissed you, and although I can’t force her to re-instate you, I can however arrange some measure of financial compensation for what happened.”
The elf jolted back, his eyes widening.
“Why would you do that? It wasn’t your fault—”
“My employee — or former employee — caused you to be fired so it was to some degree my fault, even if only vicariously. But, for now, you need to get home, so let my driver take you.”
“Wow. Thank you, but you’ve no need—”
“There’s every need.”
A flush flooded the elf’s face. He looked up at Grey through beautiful, captivating eyes. With his dark hair peeking out from under the felt hat,elfinwas the perfect description.
“I don’t know what to say… But a lift would be good. It’s bloody freezing.”
“Colin.” Grey looked at the chauffeur, whose professionalism slipped as he stared at Grey as though he’d lost his mind. “We’re taking a detour to…?” Grey turned to the elf.
“Stockwell.”
Across the Thames and the polar opposite direction to where Grey lived, in Hampstead. He could give him some money for a cab and even the loan of his coat, yet turfing the elf out of the car, after the disastrous night he’d had, to make his own way home didn’t sit easy with Grey.
“That’s not a problem. Colin, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Mr. Gillespie,” the chauffeur said, his professional demeanour back in place, as he gave a brisk nod and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
“Thank you,” the elf said as he buckled up. “The last Friday night before Christmas isn’t the best time to be out on the street, dressed like something from an extra in an adults-only seasonal special, as your employee put it.”
“Ex-employee.” Grey said it automatically, his brain suddenly preoccupied with thoughts of what that seasonal special might entail.What the—?Maybe he should get Colin to drop him off at the bar, after all. “What’s your name?” Hadn’t the prune-faced event planner said? He couldn’t call the guy Elf, even if the name did suit him.
“Elias Turner. Eli for short, and it’s what everybody calls me. I think my parents were having a particularly sick joke when they landed me with that name. My middle one’s even worse. Kestrel.”
“Elias, or Eli’s, fine. But — excuse me?”
Eli couldn’t have said what Grey thought he had. Could he?
“Kestrel.”
Yes, Grey had heard right.
Eli was scrutinising him as though he expected him to laugh. Grey met Eli’s gaze and didn’t flinch. “It is, let’s say, a somewhat unusual name.”
Eli shook his head and laughed softly. In the dim light in the back of the car, it sent a shiver through every one of Grey’s nerve endings.
“That’s one way of putting it. The other is that my parents, grungy old hippies the pair of them, had smoked too much weed on the day they had to register my birth. Reckon I’d change it by deed poll if I could ever be bothered to get around to it.”
Eli rested his head against the window and stared out at the crowded streets, but his eyelids soon fluttered to a close.
Grey cast regular glances Eli’s way, careful for his gaze not to linger too long. He’d asked for Eli’s name, but disappointment scratched at him that Eli hadn’t asked in return.
As the car pushed its way through the traffic, Grey thought about the pile of work he could get through over the next few days when the firm was closed for the Christmas and New Year break. He’d be spending the Season of Goodwill alone, so what difference did it make if he chose to work when everybody else was celebrating with their families and loved ones? A spasm of regret and sadness shuddered through him.
How could his life have changed so radically and irretrievably in just over a year? Grey squirmed, crossing and uncrossing his long legs. He’d marked, only a month ago, the anniversary of the start of the decline by drinking far too much and failing miserably with the escort he’d hired for the night. It was supposed to have been a stark message to himself, if nobody else, that he had moved on. Instead it had been demeaning and embarrassing, the loss of control so alien to his nature, that he’d thrust a huge tip at the guy, doubling his rate for the night, before all but shoving him out the door.
“Mr. Gillespie?”
