Jingle Balls: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Anthology

by Dylann Crush

  I glared at Prescott as I got my breathing back on track. “I said I was fine,” I hissed, not daring to look at him. “What the hell is in that weird beer, anyway?”

  Prescott stiffened in his chair, the flirty vibe gone in an instant. I did look over then, seeing him shift uncomfortably while he looked out over the crowd. His face swung in my direction and I lurched back at the fear in his eyes.

  “That’s why I called you,” he ground out, teeth clenched. And I didn’t think he wanted to nibble on me. “Something went wrong with this batch, and because it takes months to make, I didn’t have time to start over again.”

  I leaned in closer, his cologne reminding me of something or someone, and I desperately needed to inhale it some more. “What do you mean something went wrong?”

  Our noses were now just a few inches apart. The man had full-on diva lashes. Did he put something on them to make them grow like that? Or was this just another set of fabu-lashes wasted on a man who didn’t care about them?

  “I don’t know!” he exploded in a hiss, his hot breath hitting me in the forehead. “That’s why I needed your help. Do I look like some kind of bacteria genius?”

  I assessed him, happy to have the chance to give his red tuxedo-clad body a once-over. “Nope. You look like a guy who wants to take me home tonight so I can play with your jingle balls.”

  Holy hotcakes! I said it. I got the flirt ball rolling, people. I amazed even myself. Time stood still as I waited for him to give me the green light.

  Prescott leaned even closer, and I prepared for the inevitable kiss from those pouty lips of his. My eyelids fluttered shut, and I felt him approaching. This was it. The fairy-tale moment when I came to an event single and left with the hot, tattooed bad boy new in town. Twenty-nine years old and my moment had arrived.

  A whack to my forehead had my eyes flying open. Prescott had his palm against my head, his expression all scrunched up, examining my face.

  “How much of the Kombrewcha did you drink?” he asked in alarm.

  Were we playing twenty questions first? “How much did you drink?” I asked petulantly. I wanted to make out, not quiz each other on our imbibing habits.

  “Jesus H. Christ. This is a disaster,” Prescott muttered, his sweaty palm leaving my forehead.

  A loud clunk, followed by a crash and a high-pitched scream, had our heads turning to table twenty-one.

  “Shit. The jingle balls have hit the fan,” Prescott said aloud.

  3

  Prescott

  Things had gone from bad to worse. Science-girl had—dare I even say it?—flirted with me in the most bizarre manner I’d ever encountered, and then the Kombrewcha casualties rolled in.

  Some guy at another table had pitched headfirst into his salad, unable to stay upright. I stood so quickly my chair tipped over. While everyone rushed over and called 9-1-1, I knew it wasn’t a heart attack. He had a red Solo cup in front of his place setting. Empty.

  I snapped my fingers at a passing server. “Get the coffee flowing at all the tables. Right now!”

  The poor waiter hustled off, tossing glances at me over his shoulder like he wondered who the stranger was giving him orders. I just hoped he listened and got coffee to these poor inebriated citizens of Hell. Hazel joined the circle of people around the poor guy, ordering everyone to step back and give him some breathing room. The only response was a hefty snore while he slept peacefully on the makeshift wood floor of the Jingle Ball.

  Another scuffle on the other side of the tent, and a lone woman singing happy birthday in a questionable singing voice, caused us all to head in that direction next. A young woman stood on top of the banquet table serenading her husband, including a booty shimmy in a manner that was too good to be unrehearsed. The husband sat there, red faced, urging his wife to get off the table before she hurt herself.

  Hazel charged to the front of the spectators and snapped her fingers for the servers to get the woman down. Then she whipped around and speared me with a gleam in her eye that had me inching backward. She pushed people out of the way like a charging rhinoceros if they had to get through a crowd of people to kill their prey.

  I turned and ran, honest to God, fearing for my life. I flew out the entrance flap of the giant tent, the cold of early December hitting me in the face and spurring me on to move faster. I had long legs, and back in the day, I was a good runner. A few too many beer samples had slowed me down a bit, but for the most part, I still had it. I got two steps away from the tent when an enormous baby blue 1970s Cadillac swooped to the curb outside Bennett Park, bouncing as it hit the brakes.

  “Get in Pres-COTT!”

  I ran straight for it, some part of my brain wondering what the hell Jazzie was doing hanging out the driver’s side window of an old boat of a car yelling for me to get in like we were Bonnie and Clyde in the middle of a bank robbery gone bad. I’d answer that question later, when I knew my balls weren’t on the auctioning block by a pissed-off Hazel Redding.

  Sliding my hand over the hood, I yanked the passenger side door handle. The damn thing wouldn’t budge.

  “Hey! You get back here and fix this, you alcohol agitator!” Hazel came racing out the tent, surprisingly fast on that high of a heel.

  Damn, women were amazing creatures. But now wasn’t the time to marvel at the better sex. I had two balls who wouldn’t be staying at my first Jingle Ball.

  I grinned, doing what every boy dreams of doing. I dove headfirst into the open window like a Dukes of Hazard badass, my hands landing on warm, wet flesh, my nose clipping the gear shift, and my junk narrowly missing the doorframe. Somehow that kind of landing never happened on the television show. Jazzie shifted into drive, hitting my nose a second time, and took off, tires squealing. My legs hung out the window, and I lost a shoe before I could twist in the seat and sit upright.

  “Holy shit!” Jazzie yelled as she took a corner way too fast for a car this long.

  Looking out the window as I tried to grab the seat belt, I saw the park whizzing by. Twisting, I discovered there was no seat belt in this damn car, so I gave up and turned my attention to Jazzie. She was soaked. Her hair hung down in wet tendrils and her glasses had water spots.

  “You can slow down now, Danica.” I couldn’t help the smile that tugged on my face. I should be ashamed of myself. Or even just worried about my longevity in this town after tonight’s stunt. But I couldn’t seem to focus on any of that when Jazzie gripped the steering wheel with one hand and shoved her glasses up her nose with the other. My little crush grew bigger. And so did my cock.

  “How’d you know I needed rescuing?” I asked.

  Jazzie lifted a shoulder, her little sweater shrugging off. The exposed creamy skin tempted me. Yep, I’d truly lost it. I was getting hot and bothered over a bare shoulder.

  “I didn’t. Yedda walked right up to me when you left the table and tossed a glass of ice water in my face. Sobered me right up, I’ll tell you that much. Then she handed me her car keys and said to go pull the Caddy around and that you’d be needing it any moment now.” She shrugged again, and I bit my lip to keep my hand away from her. “Guess she was right.”

  I shook my head slowly, absolutely delighted with the craziness of Auburn Hill. I couldn’t get kicked out of town or socially ostracized from ruining the Jingle Ball. These were my kind of people. I belonged here.

  “So where to now?” I asked, in a bit of a daze.

  Jazzie slowed down finally and the wind whipping through the open windows wasn’t so icy. I glanced at her arms where I saw goose bumps marring that white creamy skin. She must be freezing in a wet dress, with wet hair to boot. My cock twitched, reminding me the night didn’t have to end just yet. She did offer to play with my jingle balls, didn’t she?

  “Want to head to my place and grab some dry clothes? I’m just down this next street,” I offered, my tone light despite the ache in my gut. I hadn’t been with a woman in six months and I hadn’t even taken matters into my own hands. I
had a backlog that needed unjamming, and Jazzie was the perfect woman for the job. She was a scientist, for Christ’s sake. She seemed like a weirdo in the opposite way I was a weirdo. Sex between us could be explosive. Or horrible. Probably no in-between. But I was willing to give it a go, being an adventurer and all that.

  “Sure,” she answered, her tone equally light, her eyes trained on the road in front of us.

  I gave her directions until she pulled the blue beast into my driveway, the back of the car scraping on the curb. I was renting a little house close to downtown as I intended to set up a shop there once my inventory multiplied. That dream might be dead in the water after tonight, but I’d deal with that tomorrow. Right now, I had a wet woman coming back to my place after rescuing my ass, and the possibility for sex trumped everything else. I’d made that rule years ago, and I was sticking by it.

  The car door wouldn’t budge again, so I had to climb out the window, not nearly as cool and coordinated exiting as it was getting in. Jazzie smothered a laugh as she watched me, an eyebrow lifting as I walked toward her, down one shoe.

  “Did the clock strike midnight, Cinderella?” she asked right before a delicate little snort escaped.

  I loved a woman who laughed at her own jokes. “All battles have casualties, madam.” I tipped an imaginary hat to her, and she smiled, biting her lip. I hustled to the front door, getting it open and sweeping my hand for her to enter before me. I wrinkled my nose as she passed, trying to remember if I left any dirty clothes out before I lugged my vat of Kombrewcha to the Jingle Ball. I wasn’t known as the tidiest bachelor in the world, so sue me.

  Jazzie glanced around my pad, her glasses continuing to slide down her nose. She should look like a wet rat, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her soaked dress. The material was plastered to her, highlighting tight nipples standing at attention atop perfect breasts. As a connoisseur of tits, I’d say they were C-cups, the ideal size to fit in my hands. She shivered, and I blinked those thoughts away. I wouldn’t get a chance to squeeze them if she froze to death.

  “Here, let’s get some dry clothes for you.” I stepped toward her and put my hand on her low back, steering her through the living room with the intent on hitting my bedroom for a pair of sweats.

  She came to an abrupt halt in the living room, her intake of air sounding more incredulous than appalled. “What the hell are you doing with a mechanical bull in your house?”

  I shrugged, like it was as common as a coffee table. “I bought it from a bar that went under a year ago. I plan to use it in my Kombrewcha bar. It’s the perfect blend of debauchery and exercise, just like my brew is the perfect blend of alcohol and health.”

  Jazzie swung her gaze over to me, her lips still parted. She didn’t have those fake puffy lips all the women were paying for these days, but they were no less tantalizing.

  “That’s—well, that’s an amazing idea that holds some merit,” she finally said.

  I bowed. “Why thank you for your vote of confidence. I may have jacked up the Jingle Ball brew, but I do have a brilliant idea here and there.” I clapped my hands and got back on track. “Now, how about some dry clothes?”

  She smiled, following me as we entered my bedroom. I found a pair of sweats that didn’t have holes in them and an old Christmas sweater I’d worn to a party a few years back. Jazzie took one look at the humping reindeer conga line with a keg of beer at their hooves and stepped into my bathroom to put it on without a word. Damn, each second I spent with her, I liked her even more. Based on her demure dress and sweater—and yeah, the glasses and the science degree—I thought she’d be boring with a capital B. Turn her nose up at everything. Find me lacking in every which way. And yet…tonight had been the best night I’d had in a very long time.

  Even though I probably killed my fledgling business before it was up and running.

  The door opened and Jazzie came out, dressed head to toe in my clothes, a sight that had my cock twitching again. Total caveman mentality, but damn, I liked her in my shit.

  “Why don’t we get something to drink and celebrate our incredible escape from Hazel’s angry clutches?” I held my hand out to her and she took it, the slide of her palm against mine shifting something in my chest.

  4

  Jazzie

  “We might need to get some ice for your nose. It looks kind of swollen,” I said, looking at Prescott’s face.

  He’d taken off his suit coat and only remaining shoe, and then unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the top of another tattoo that I hoped climbed all over his torso. The man was incredibly handsome, a total goofball, and everything I never thought I could be attracted to. My previous partners had been fellow scientists, the kind that understood how my brain worked and just made sense to me. Prescott made zero sense, and like a train wreck, I couldn’t seem to look away.

  He led us back through the living room, where I eyed the bull with both skepticism and intrigue. I’d never ridden one, had never even wanted to ride one, and yet there it sat, tempting me with its fake leather saddle and headless presence.

  He let go of my hand when we entered the kitchen, swinging open the fridge and handing me a longneck bottle of beer. “Hope beer’s okay. Pretty much all I have on hand.”

  I looked at the label and then back at him, agape. “You’re a weird beer traitor!”

  He smiled full out, his face transforming from handsome to downright blinding with a beauty I couldn’t look at without squinting. He slung an arm over my shoulder and pulled me into the living room.

  “My obsession started with beer and then moved into Kombrewcha—not ‘weird beer’ by the way. You can’t really expect me to turn my back on my first love, do you?” He hit a light switch and a pitiful Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the corner of the living room lit up with exactly one string of bulbs.

  “Wow, you really went all out with the Christmas decorations,” I said dryly, not seeing any other signs around his house that the holiday was just a week away. “I have questions.”

  Prescott gestured to a mishmash of pillows on the floor, sitting down and pulling me down next to him. “I have answers,” he said with a wink.

  My cheeks heated, and I groaned inside my head. No reason to blush over a wink. I literally already told him I wanted to fondle his balls. Now that was a reason to blush.

  “First, why do you have a mechanical bull secured to your living room floor, but no couch or chairs? Second, how is pinched-nose Penelope Fines your sister and you’re so…you? And thirdly, does the bull work or just for show?”

  Prescott took a sip of his beer, his Adam’s apple working in this throat. I held my breath, wanting desperately to trace my finger down his neck and into his shirt, peeking below to see the design of the multicolored tattoo. He answered me, his deep voice jolting me from my daydream.

  “I don’t have a lot of people over, so no need for a couch. Besides, I’m usually out on the back deck, tending to my brew, so I don’t sit around that much. Second, there’s a ten-year age gap between my sister and me, and we have different fathers. Thirdly, why not try it out and see? I dare you.” His eyes glittered in the light from the Christmas tree.

  Whatever madness pulsed through his veins skipped hosts and made itself comfortable in my chest. “One hasn’t lived unless they’ve ridden a bull, right?” I said without thinking about it too much. Thinking would only mean I’d come up with a list of twenty reasons not to do it.

  Prescott took my beer and set it on the floor next to his. He stood, taking my hands to help me up, pulling me into his body. Dear God, I’d only had a sip of the beer and I was lightheaded, feeling every single muscle pressing against me. Locking his gaze with mine, he reached down and lifted me up. I would have gasped, but I’d lost normal bodily function the second I saw Prescott at the Jingle Ball. My legs wrapped around his waist and I could feel his thick erection pressing against the thin cotton of my pants. Definitely should have kept my wet underwear on, just one extra layer to help me
keep my sanity.

  Prescott swung around and deposited me on the bull, the rough slap of the leather against my unsuspecting backside jolting me from his erection’s spell.

  “Swing your leg over,” he instructed. “And let go of my arms, sweetheart. Just grab the padded strap with one hand and get yourself seated.”

  But I didn’t want to let go of his arms.

  “I know you don’t, but you can’t ride the bull like this,” Prescott said, a smirk on his sexy lips.

  I guess I was saying all my thoughts out loud now. That’s great. I’d be fired on Monday. One couldn’t work at the FART facility testing odors without having a snarky thought or two. Still, I didn’t let go of his arms. I was frozen, half on, half off the bull, stuck between wanting to live a little and wanting to live a little in Prescott’s arms.

  He made an exasperated noise and then climbed on behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and fulfilling both my desires. He leaned forward, and I went with him, wondering if you had to ride a bull like I rode a bike when I wanted to be more aerodynamic. He slapped the bull under his neck, if the poor thing had had a neck, and the beast between my thighs began to move and a Christmas song by Mannheim Steamroller belted out from speakers hidden somewhere in the room.

  Deck the Halls was a jaunty tune normally, yet such a weird song to have going when riding a mechanical bull. I burst out laughing, the laugh turning into a whoop as the beast shifted. Prescott shifted behind me, his arms holding me tighter, his cologne mixing with the joy I felt in that moment, to be forever etched in my memory. The bull sped up and Deck the Halls sped up with it, sounding like the band took speed before a concert.

  I hung on to that padded strap like I had a solid gold belt buckle to win, never one to give up too easily. The speed increased again, the shift of the bull feeling like it was trying to buck us off now instead of just moving around. For one terrifying second, Prescott and I lurched to the right as a unit, the weight of us almost tearing my hand from the strap. The bull violently shifted left, and we stayed on. My laughter turned to delighted shrieks. But it was only a tease, because the next change in direction had us flying off the bull and landing in a heap on the carpeted floor.