Page 31 of All I Wank for Christmas

“Right…”

“We were short on time, so I found some bib overalls in the sleigh and made the next delivery. I figured it was better than assless chaps. But since I didn’t have my magic suit, I got caught in the yard. You guys showed up, and here we are.”

Sheriff DeWitt clears his throat and rubs his forehead like I’ve given him a headache from hell. His forehead is wrinkled like I’d expect for a man of fifty-two. His frown turns down his mouth, highlighting the forming jowls on his face. His dark hair, what’s left of it, is graying, and he pushes his wireframe glasses up his porous nose.

“Sir, I’m going to ask this one time. Have you taken anything tonight that may be altering your mental state?”

“Like drugs or something? No,” I say, waving my hands in front of my face. “No drugs. No alcohol.”

Sheriff DeWitt closes his laptop and rubs his face. “You’re lucky we’re not busy tonight. We don’t usually put mental cases in general population.”

“Mental case? I’m not mental! I’m telling the truth.”

“Can anyone back up anything you’re saying right now, son?”

Holly could back me up. I can’t bring her into this, though. These men know her. I can’t let them think less of her or think she’s involved in this. If they find me guilty of breaking and entering, Holly could get in trouble. I hope she’s far away from here. I hope she got on the sleigh and got to somewhere where she could use the tablet and call my mother for help. Surely, Holly would do that. She wouldn’t just run away and abandon all the toys.

Abandon me.

This is a disaster. I look at the time on the wall clock above the sheriff’s head and lament it’s already after one in the morning in this time zone. I’ve got the magic touch with time, but only if I get my suit back. I have gifts to deliver, and this yahoo that likes hand jobs from my girl is holding me up.

“I have nobody that can back up my claim, sir. You’ll simply just have to believe that you’re keeping children from getting their gifts tonight. You’re going to be sorry for this in the morning when children wake up and start crying.”

“I’m sure. But I could just tell all their parents that Santy Claus should have been in his suit and not fucking around with a woman while wearing chaps on his arms like some kind of deranged bat. Something tells me that wouldn’t go over well.” He looks at Deacon and waves the younger deputy over. “Take Santa here to general population. He can sit with the drunk guy until he sleeps it off. If he’s still adamant he’s Santa tomorrow, call psych and have them pick him up.” He moves a file to the side of his desk and takes a sip of coffee, grimacing at the taste or the temperature. “I’m too old for this shit.”

It smells like pee in here. It could be the old, striped mattresses that look like they have more than pee stains on them, or it could be the smell has become ingrained in the floor after several years of drunk people peeing on the tile. I should have turned around and punched Deacon right in the face instead of letting him bring me to the den of piss.

At least I’malmostalone. Only one thing could make this night worse, and that’s a prison fight and getting shanked or forced to blow some dude named Earl. The cells next to me are empty, and the two cells across the row from me are unused. One drunk man stands at the cell door three doors down and across from me. He’s so drunk that his eyes droop and spit runs out of his mouth. He slurs something at me that I don’t understand, resulting in more drool from his mouth, and I wave, deciding that staying as friendly as possible is my best bet. Maybe he’ll be my new prison friend.

Turning away from him, I walk to the double-paneled windows and knock. Sturdy. I don’t know why I thought they wouldn’t be. A human male couldn’t squeeze through the small slot, but hopes of someone cutting me out through the window come to mind.

Nobody’s coming for me, though. Not a soul in the world, save Holly and the douche canoes that work here, know that I’m here.

Who do I call for my phone call? My mother’s in Canada. So are the elves. Dad’s sick and completely incapacitated and doesn’t even know who I am when I visit him. The only person I could call is Peter McQuiven, the man who has the Eagles season tickets next to mine. I only have his number because we take turns buying beer and hotdogs at games so only one of us needs to miss game action. I text him how many hotdogs I want one game. He texts how many beers he wants at the next. We sure don’t have the type of relationship where we call each other to be bailed out of jail.

I don’t cry often. In fact, I don’t think I’ve cried since one of the elves tested a bowling ball by throwing it at my scrotum when we were fifteen. Tears come to my eyes now, though. My lids, not accustomed to salty tears on them, burn like I’ve never cried. It’s such a foreign concept to my body. My hands shake, and I’m not sure what to do with them. I shove them in my bibs and shiver. It’s cold in here, and the police took my arm chaps.

How did I fuck up so royally? I know. I wanted Holly and just wanted to enjoy her. Sweet, gorgeous Holly who’s beautiful and smart enough to figure out Dad’s stock system. It also doesn’t hurt that her pussy tastes like butterscotch.

And that mouth.

She probably hates me. I’ve ruined Christmas for her forever. She won’t be able to look at a mall Santa or even stockings for the rest of her life. Even worse, I ruined Christmas for kids around the world. Children are going to wake up to nothing tomorrow. Their stockings will be empty, not even a lump of coal in the toe. They’ll think they’ve been naughty and react poorly, probably acting out in response. What’s the point of being good for a year if Santa doesn’t show up because he’s getting railed by an angel with an anal bead wand? They won’t write letters again, and our output will drop. Could my family lose their position? Would there be no Santa anymore? I’d actually have to get a job. It’s not like I’m trained for anything. It’s hard to believe, but there aren’t a lot of practical, well-paying jobs for a guy whose only skills are testing toys and driving a team of reindeer.

Maybe Holly could get me a job at The Happy Stroke Club. I’d go from giving children gifts to jerking off grown men. My tips would be good since I’m a guy and know what I’m doing.

I plop on the stained mattress and put my head in my hands, letting the tear that was balancing on my eyelid drop to the floor. I stare at the stained tile and think. How can I ever fix any of this? Can I fix Christmas?

More importantly, can I find Holly and make all of this up to her?

Chapter 12

Holly

“Hi,Deacon,”Icoo,walking through the door. I wish I wasn’t in sneakers. It’s much easier to saunter or sashay in a sexy way with high heels on. “You’re working awfully late tonight. Need some company?”

Deacon raises his head from where he’s doing paperwork and startles, his light eyebrows rising to his dishwater blond hairline. He looks behind him like he’s worried someone’s watching, but the bullpen’s mostly empty this time of night on Christmas Eve. Sheriff DeWitt’s in his office pacing and on the phone with someone, smiling and probably wishing them a Merry Christmas. Beat cops are out doing their job. The only people here are Deacon, the receptionist at the front door, Sheriff DeWitt, and a younger guy I know from the massage parlor only as Roy. Roy, if that’s his real name, stands in the back break area, stirring a cup of vending machine coffee and watching snow fall outside the window. He looks uneasy in his deputy uniform, and it sags a little in the thigh area.

“Holly Hepperdine?” Deacon whispers. “Are you OK? What are you doing here?” His eyes slide up my bare legs, and I shiver. It has nothing to do with the cold. Deacon likes a rough tug and can get a little handsy with my tits. “Did you get mugged or something and need to file a report?”

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