Dear Santa: A Bad Boy Christmas Romance

by Lulu Pratt

  “Okay,” I say with a grin. “I won’t tell you that.”

  “You—!” He smirks, feigning a punch at my gut. “Come on, the whole crew is here! I’ll show you.”

  He grabs me by the arm and leads me through the hall to the actual reunion itself. Flashing, multi-colored lights spill from the doors to the gymnasium. Music thumps loudly in my ears as we get closer.

  The gym is decorated in typical fashion. Streamers and balloons cover the walls, all blue and white to match the school’s colors. A huge banner reading “Class of 2002” hangs from the ceiling, stretching across the entire length of the gym.

  The crowd that has turned up is a mixture of people like Clark, overly excited at the prospect of catching up on old times, and people like me, apathetic to the idea, but still here out of some sort of moral obligation.

  “We had bets on whether or not you were going to make it,” Clark slurs. His arm drapes around my neck as he leads me through the masses. Some I recognize, some I don’t. I’m not the only one who has changed since high school.

  “Oh yeah?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “How much was I going for?”

  Clark throws his head back in an exaggerated laugh. “Not as much as you would like.”

  With his arm still hanging on me, he leads me to a large table in the corner of the room. Sitting around the table are eight faces that I recognize all too well.

  Five men and three women, they are my collective “friends from high school.” The ones I used to hang out with during the day and drink with at night. When we could find someone willing to buy us alcohol, that is.

  A pleasant wave of nostalgia hits me as I look at them. Like most people’s high school experience, mine had its ups and downs, but these were the people who got me through it. We grew up together. A lot of my formative experiences were with these people right here.

  Judging from their body language, I guess that most of them, like me, have fallen out of contact with each other, and they are using this night as a means to catch up and trade old war stories. It makes me feel a little less guilty about not having spoken to any of them for the past fifteen years.

  “Look who I found,” Clark says as he pushes me onto the seat by his own. “Lurking in the bushes. Classic Blake!”

  “Hey,” I say to no one in particular, not knowing who to address. I opt for a group chat instead.

  “Blake,” the woman next to me beams.

  “Hey, Sally,” I nod.

  She has bushy red hair and white, porcelain skin. She was my first kiss, and I’m pretty sure I was hers. “It’s been so long. What have you been up to, Blake? Doing well by the looks of it?”

  “Oh, you know, this and that,” I say, keeping it vague.

  I was poor when I went here. Dirt poor. I come from a broken home that had more problems than money. It’s something that I don’t like to talk about, and I hate being reminded of it. But now that I’m successful and more than a little rich, I realize that I don’t really want to talk about that either.

  I don’t want them fawning over me or grilling me about the specifics of my job. People always find my work a little too interesting, and it grates on a person after a while.

  But then it hits me. I don’t have anything else to talk about. All I do is work. Whereas they’re all laughing and talking about their kids.

  “Sounds interesting,” Sally continues, holding her smile on me as she does.

  “Oh, it’s not,” I say, giving my head a shake. “Trust me. It’s just business crap. Suits, too much coffee and a lot of missed weekends. Nothing to tell really.”

  I’m a film producer and getting to be a pretty successful one, too. I made my fortune through a few smart investments in college, and I used that money to open a production company. Ten years later, I’m worth more than I’ll ever admit to anyone.

  “My son’s two now, the little bugger,” Clark says to everyone in earshot. “So cute that sometimes I just want to eat him up.”

  I sip on my drink and listen.

  “My oldest daughter starts school next year. So you never settled down, Blake?” Sally asks with a smile.

  “No. No kids, no wife.”

  I do my best to smile and nod along, but deep down, my stomach churns. Despite my money and success, the one thing my life is missing is a family of my own. I made a choice when I was younger to pursue a career over family. Lately, I’ve been questioning that decision more and more. I want to be a father, but I’m hardly about to enter into a serious relationship with someone. No fucking way.

  “Oh damn, I wasn’t looking forward to this,” Clark says a little too loudly.

  I look across the gym to see what caught him off guard. The moment I see it, I feel my heart sink.

  A giant screen stands behind the makeshift stage. Projected onto that screen is a video, made specifically for the reunion. We were asked to send in clips of our own for a series of videos that would feature. The one playing right now is to commemorate the people who couldn’t be here tonight. Specifically, those who have passed away.

  The reason my heart feels the way it does is that I know one face in particular who would be appearing on that screen. Her name is Lyndsey, and she was my high-school sweetheart. And sure enough, as I watch the few names and faces flash on the screen, Lyndsey suddenly appears.

  “Hey, didn’t you used to date her?” Clark asks me. He is slurring even more than he was earlier. I guess the alcohol is really kicking in now.

  “Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “I did.”

  Chapter 2

  CARRIE

  The only thing worse than attending a high-school reunion is having to work at one. As I walk among the tables and chairs and dodge the increasingly drunken attendees, I thank the gods that it isn’t my reunion. That drama is still waiting for me.

  What makes the reunion that I’m working at right now even worse than it would usually be, is the fact that it’s at the school I graduated from. Because of this, a number of the faces in the crowd are ones that I recognize. Luckily, they’re all at least five years older than I am, so none of them recognize me. Thank God. I’d hate for anyone I knew to see me catering for them. That’s an encounter that would be too much to recover from.

  Unfortunately, I have no choice but to work at the event. I’ve been trying to do it as little as possible lately, but I have bills to pay and my other job doesn’t cover them. My other job barely covers the cup of coffee I buy in the morning.

  I took this job purely as a means to pay my bills so I can pursue my passion, but as my expenses grow, so do my hours. Now, I can barely find an hour in the week to work on what I want. I actually managed to squeeze a few hours in last night, but that comes with a price. I’m tired now because of it, and it’s really starting to wear on me.

  “Are you finished with this?” I ask a very drunken lady as she leans against a table for support, an empty wine glass in her hand.

  “Sure am,” she slurs as she hands me the glass.

  Just as I’m about to take it, she lets go. I’m fast and manage to snatch it out of the air before it shatters all over the gym floor. I shake my head, walking on before I snap and say something that might get me fired.

  I can’t afford to be fired. I need this job, as much as I hate it. I’m a writer, or at least, I try to be. When I’m not catering, I’m hunched over my laptop. I’m currently deep in a book that I have been working on for some time. I want to say that it’s coming along nicely, but even I can’t lie to myself that convincingly.

  “Do you mind if I just grab these?” I ask a group of men standing by an empty table.

  None of them pay attention to me, which is mildly annoying, but it’s probably for the best. Drunken people are no fun when you’re sober. They’re not nearly as entertaining as they think they are.

  The table is laden with half-empty glasses. I start piling them onto the tray that I’m carrying with me.

  My mind is only half on the task at hand. The other half is
on the presentation that was shown earlier. There have been about five different presentations tonight, most of them mindless fluff about the success of the graduates.

  But one video in particular hit me pretty hard. It was a memorial to students who had gone here and have since passed away. Even though this graduating class is five years ahead of my own, there is one student who I knew very well. One who had passed away only a few months ago. Seeing her on that screen is like a punch to the heart.

  “Miss! Waiter!” I hear the voice call out behind me, but I ignore it. It’s more than a little demeaning to be called waiter, especially by someone who can barely stand. “Hello? Waiter.”

  A hand suddenly falls on my shoulder, pulling me back. As it does, I lose my balance and stumble backwards. The tray in my hand, full of empty glasses, smashes to the floor around my feet.

  “Oh no!” The owner of the voice wails.

  He’s an overweight man, with a red face and beady eyes. His glassy look and the way he sways dangerously as he stares at the mess he has made suggests to me that he has had a few too many.

  “It’s okay,” I assure him as I drop to my knees to pick up the pieces. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Here, let me help,” a deep voice says.

  “No, it’s fine…” I trail off as my eyes fall on the man speaking.

  It isn’t the drunk who was responsible for my stumble who is helping me. No, this man is about as far a cry from him as possible.

  He has dark, slicked-back hair and a chiseled jawline. His eyes, looking down at the broken glass, are a piercing blue. And even though he wears an expensive suit and is currently on his knees, I can tell that he has an impressive frame. This is a man who most certainly didn’t peak in high school. I don’t recognize him, but I sure wish that I did.

  For a moment I’m frozen, and all I can do is stare.

  “Sorry about my friend,” he says with a grimace as he scoops up a handful of glass shards. “It’s his first night away from the kids in a while. I guess he got a little over excited.”

  “That’s okay, really,” I say as I find my voice, which is a little too high-pitched at the moment. “Really.”

  This guy has a presence about him that suggests power and dominance. I can already sense it.

  “No, it’s not,” he says firmly. “But at least the glasses were empty. We’ll count that as a win.”

  “Oh, well, I can’t drink them anyway. So maybe I wish they were full.” It was an attempt at a joke, even though I’m not even sure what the joke even means. I have to work hard to keep my voice steady. I just want to come off as funny and not uptight.

  “You can’t have a drink while you’re working?” He asks. For the first time, he looks at me. Those eyes really are piercing, and I have to work not to gasp when I look into them. “That’s a shame.”

  “Don’t feel too sorry for me. I’ve been sneaking sips when my boss isn’t looking.”

  “And yet, I still do. How about this?” He stands up as he piles the glass shards onto my empty tray. “Hey, what are you doing after this? I think you and I could both use a drink.”

  I don’t know what to say. He has completely caught me off guard. Yet, I don’t come across men like this too often or ever. As such, there is only one thing that I can say.

  “Sure,” I reply, trying my best to sound coy and not a nervous wreck. “I’d like that.”

  Chapter 3

  BLAKE

  This bar is one that I know only too well, only for the wrong reasons. It’s because of its location near the high school that my friends and I used to try to sneak in here all the time. Now I don’t even need to show identification.

  I was going to leave the reunion early, as I’d shown my face, listened to small talk, and needed to get out of there. However, when Clark caused that waitress to stumble and drop the glasses, I felt something else entirely.

  I knew I had a reason to stay if only to see if the attractive waitress could leave her shift early. Fortunately, she’d managed, so now we are here.

  She is stunning as she sits beside me. Her long brown hair is tied back in a ponytail because of her job. Even though she wears loose jeans and a loose blouse, again for work, I can tell that she has a fit body, one typical of an L.A. beach girl.

  But it’s her eyes that caught me. They are the most beautiful shade of hazel I have ever seen. They’re also deep, too, as if she is hiding a secret. Something that she doesn’t want anyone else to know. I can’t stop staring into them.

  “So, you’re from around here then?” She asks as she takes a sip of her beer. We’re sitting in the back on the bar, hidden from the drunken locals who currently populate it.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask with a coy smile as I take a swig from my own drink, a vodka soda. The fact that she ordered a beer has me impressed, though. If it wasn’t for the fact that I ordered first, I would have gotten the same.

  “Well, you led me here like you come here all the time. Either that or you have built-in radar for local, crummy bars. Plus, I mean, you were at the high-school reunion. So, obviously, you went to school here.”

  “Perceptive,” I say, smirking. “I used to live in the area, and I used to come here a lot, when I could get in. Would you be surprised if I told you it hasn’t changed at all?”

  “I think I would be more surprised to find out that it had changed.” She smiles at her own joke. It’s the first time that I’ve seen it, and it only makes her more beautiful.

  “Not much does around here,” I respond as I chuckle at her joke. “I swear the bartender has looked eighty-five for the past fifty years.” I indicate to the bartender, currently cleaning a glass with a dirty rag. He looks like he could be anywhere between fifty and a hundred.

  “Does that include you?” She asks. “Did you wear expensive suits and watches when you were in high school? Boy, I bet that made you popular.”

  “No, no. I was more of a basketball shorts, T-shirt kind of a guy in high school. With the occasional button down, when I was feeling fancy.”

  “Oh, that is fancy,” she jokes as she takes another sip of her beer, more of a swig than a sip really. “So, what do you do that allowed you to swap the shorts for suits?”

  I hesitate. As mentioned, I’m not big on telling people what I do, at least not when I first meet them. And if it was anyone else, then I probably wouldn’t have said anything.

  But there is something different about Carrie. I find myself wanting to impress her, which is odd for me.

  “I’m a film producer.”

  “Really?” She asks, instantly perking up. “What kind of films? Anything I’ve seen?”

  “I’d be surprised,” I admit. “I mainly do independent films. But I’m looking to expand.”

  “Still, that’s pretty amazing.”

  “You think so?” I ask as I take another sip. As I do, I keep my eyes trained on her, making sure to catch her own.

  “Anyone who does what they love for a living is impressive,” she counters. “I wish I could do that.”

  “What do you do?” I ask.

  It’s small talk, but for some reason it doesn’t seem that way. It feels like we’re creating a connection more than anything. I have known her for less than an hour and yet if you were to ask me now, I would swear it was longer.

  “You know what I do,” she says coyly, offering me a wink as she sips on her drink.

  “Apart from working for the number-one caterer in L.A.?”

  “I’m a writer,” she says. “Or at least, I’m trying to be one.”

  “Trying?”

  “Well, I will be one, I mean. It just takes time, and practice, and more time.”

  I can tell that it’s a sensitive subject for her. So naturally I push.

  “Anything worth doing takes time,” I tell her. “That’s how you know it’s worth it.”

  “And was it that way for you?” She asks. She sounds as if she doesn’t believe me, or doesn’t want to anyway
.

  “Of course. The first movie I produced took two years, and I lost money. But I used that experience to make another and another, and, well, now you’ve seen the suit.” I flick the lapel on my suit, and she laughs as I do. It’s a sweet laugh, one that I want to hear again.

  “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. For now. But if it doesn’t work out for me. I’m going to blame you.”

  “Deal.”

  ***

  We have been in the bar for at least three hours. But the conversation has been effortless and free flowing. There have been no gaps, no awkward pauses.

  Everything that has been said has been built off previous conversation, I can sense myself getting to know her on a deeper and more intimate level.

  It’s strange, but as I glance at my watch, seeing that the night is about to come to an end. My dick twitches at the thought of taking her home and fucking her stupid.

  “So, what are your plans after this?” I ask casually.

  As I do, I take a sip of my beer. I switched it up after my first drink.

  “After the bar? Well, seeing as it’s almost two in the morning, I’m guessing that bed is on the horizon. Or at least Netflix and bed.”

  “As great as that sounds. I think that you should come home with me instead.”

  I’m straight forward in the way I say it, almost making it so she can’t say no. It’s a trick I had learned from my long years of playing the field.

  “Is that right?” She responds, sounding more intrigued than anything.

  “Yes. I don’t like the idea of you making your way home in your current state. It’s dangerous, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  “As honorable as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” she responds. “I’m not that easy. And besides, I require a real date before I go home with a man. One where the location doesn’t smell like stale carpet and bad decisions.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’m counting on it.”