Desperately Seeking Santa

by Eli Easton

  “Bet you can get closer than that,” I rasped out. “Being an expert on wrestling holds and all.”

  He hesitated, looking at my lips.

  I could have jumped on him, but I needed to know he wanted this. Still, a nudge wouldn’t hurt. “Mack? You can kiss me if you want.”

  “Okay,” he said, and he did.

  His lips were warm and soft. The close-mouthed press of them was not hesitant, but also not demanding more. Which was probably good, because even that much made me feel light-headed. I closed my eyes with an exhale of relief. He liked me. He did.

  I reached up and touched him for the first time, gliding my palms along those big shoulders and wrapping my arms around his powerful back. He felt so solid and vital. A want that was deeper than mere lust grabbed hold of my lungs and squeezed. I felt one of his large hands rest on the small of my back. I heaved a shaky sigh against his cheek. I wanted to stay like this forever.

  Except… I was greedy for a wee bit more. I sucked his bottom lip into my mouth to taste him. His hand stiffened on my back and his tongue hesitantly swept my mouth. He tasted of chili, cinnamon, and mint toothpaste. I wrapped my arms around him more tightly, pressing my chest to his wall of pecs. My ankles hooked together over his firm ass.

  Oh. Dios. Now I wanted more. So much more. Mack kissed me deeply, passion making his hands tremble on my back. I wanted to feel them against my bare skin. I loved the way he kissed—warm and sucking, slow erotic pulls, making me think of other things he could be pulling on and—

  There was a buzzing sound so loud it practically ruptured my eardrums. I broke away, startled.

  “Sorry. Gotta take out the cornbread.” Mack chuckled, chagrined. He turned off the timer on the old stove. Damn, that thing was wicked.

  “Where’d you get that buzzer? A 1940s air-raid siren?” I asked.

  Mack huffed. “Hey, we lived here for three years before I figured out the timer even worked. Burned a lot of TV dinners before that.”

  He grabbed a black pot holder and took out a tin of cornbread, the top nice and brown. He put it on the counter. I glanced at the chili, which was bubbling in the pot.

  “Um… Maybe you could turn that off, and we could eat later?” I suggested, putting my hand on his shoulder and rubbing with my thumb. I wanted more of what we’d just been doing. Preferably hours of it. Preferably naked and horizontal.

  Mack took a shaky breath and met my gaze. He took my hand from his shoulder and kissed the palm. “If I start that up again, I won’t stop. And I wasn’t planning on that tonight.”

  “Do we need plans? Because I’m good. I’m cool with not stopping,” I said hopefully. Lust was still gripping me hard.

  He shook his head. “It probably seems dorky to you. But I…” He made a frustrated face. “I’m not the most trusting guy.” He shrugged.

  I could see he wanted me but had made up his mind. I got the sense Mack could be very stubborn when he wanted to be. Hell, his wrestling career said that if nothing else did. And I knew he guarded his personal life. Apparently, he didn’t trust me enough—yet. Did it have to do with all this weirdness about the Elks charity dinner? Or was it that I was a reporter? Did he think I might report on my hot night with the Mountain?

  It was disappointing, but I had to admit it was probably wise on his part. I willed my body back from mach five and dropped my hand.

  “That’s cool. I guess we don’t know each other all that well yet. But you know I wouldn’t tell anyone, right? About you being gay?”

  Mack frowned at me, eyes dark and troubled. “It’s not that I’m in the closet so much as… I just don’t want to risk my scholarship.”

  “I can see that.”

  “For the past four years, I’ve tried to keep my head down and not get in the papers or anything. I’ve only got six more months to go. Then I’ll graduate and I won’t need the scholarship anymore.”

  “What about Owen? He’s out and he has a scholarship,” I pointed out, not trying to argue, just genuinely asking.

  Mack turned off the chili. “Owen was out when he applied to Wisconsin. So they knew what they were getting. And he still has to put up with a lot of shit for it. Maybe they’d be fine if I came out. Maybe they couldn’t legally deny me my scholarship because of gay rights or whatever. I just never wanted to test that theory. Or make waves. People like my dad and me, we don’t have a lot of wiggle room for mistakes.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat. It hurt me that he felt that way. But given his dad’s incarceration, I could understand why Mack was cynical about the system. I nodded. “Okay.”

  “I don’t care what the fans say or about the other wrestlers or any of that bullshit,” Mack added with a growl. “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

  “I know you aren’t,” I said quietly. “It’s okay. I get it. It would be a lot of fuss and bother if people knew, and the scholarship…. I totally agree—it’s not worth the risk. No worries. I’d never want to fuck things up for you.” I nodded my head adamantly, even though, inside, my heart felt heavy and aching. I couldn’t help wondering: was this basically a brush off?

  “Do you still want to, um, see each other? Like this? If I don’t tell anyone?” I asked, needing to know the score.

  He gave me a sad look and took both my hands in his. His dwarfed mine, but they were so tender they made my heart throb again. “Fuck, Gabe. I’m really messing this up, aren’t I? Sorry. I was just trying to explain that I’m not a guy who hooks up all the time. Honestly, the past few years, I’ve been focused on sports and my studies.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “But yeah, of course. I’d like to hang out and get to know you better. That is—if you’re cool with that.” He sounded doubtful.

  Did he think I only wanted sex? I was sure now that he didn’t completely trust me. And that was okay, as long as he gave me the opportunity to prove myself.

  “I like hanging out with you,” I said breezily. “Not that I don’t want your hot bod. But it’s your sparkling personality that’s the real draw.”

  This made him smirk. “Right. Because I’m such a chatterbox.”

  “You can be, when you’re talking about something you care about.” I hopped off the counter. “So. Can I set the table?”

  He relaxed. “Yeah. Bowls are in the cupboard behind you.”

  I got to work.

  We ate at the little table in the kitchen and talked about our classes and finals. Mack had a heavy load that semester—no pun intended, but one was literally a load-bearing class. I carefully avoided any talk of the Elks article. Mack asked me about my plans for Christmas. I was going to spend it in Indianapolis with my mom, sister, brother, and his wife. Fortunately, the dreaded filial trip to visit my dad had been done at Thanksgiving. Mack was going to spend Christmas and New Year’s in Madison with his dad and George.

  “Who exactly is George anyway?” I asked Mack. I had an idea he was friends with Jim, maybe even someone he’d known in prison.

  Mack got a fond smile. “George worked at St Mark’s when I was there. He was a driver and general handyman, I guess. Before he got sick.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “Is he okay?”

  “He had prostate cancer, but he went through chemo and all that. He’s doing a lot better.” Mack’s eyes got a faraway look and his spoon paused over his bowl of chili. “I think my dad was more comfortable talking to a guy at St. Mark’s. You know? So George would call him and let him know how I was doing. Took me to the prison for a visit once a month. And he did stuff with me. Fishing. Movies. Came to my wrestling matches….” His gaze refocused on me. “George didn’t have to do any of that, but he did. We owe him a lot.”

  “I’m glad you had someone like that. He sounds like an amazing guy.”

  Mack nodded and took a big spoonful of chili.

  I had an urge to say something lame like: It takes a village! Fortunately, I thought better of it. I honestly was happy Mack had a father figure during those
years. I tried not to think about the years my own dad was MIA.

  “Do you guys have any traditions? For the holidays?” I asked, breaking off another piece of cornbread.

  “One really cool one.” Mack’s eyes lit up. “George has his pilot’s license, and if the weather’s not too crap and he’s feeling up to it, we fly up to Mackinac Island for the day. It’s a big deal to get permission to land on the island’s airstrip. Every year, George reserves a slot for the following year. My dad loves that place so much.”

  “Oh yeah?” I smiled. Jim McDonall hadn’t struck me as the romantic type.

  “They have a big tree and the shops are all decorated. Have you ever been?”

  I shook my head. “Not in the winter. I went once a few summers ago. Rented a bike and rode around the island. I loved it.”

  “Yeah. You should go at Christmas, though.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “Are you taking off right after finals?”

  I shrugged. “I’m open. I’m driving, so I can leave whenever I want. As long as I’m home by Christmas Eve, mi mama won’t kill me.”

  “Maybe we could fly up there a little early this year, and you could come along. We’d have to go with George and my dad, though. My dad would kill me if I went without him.” Mack looked sheepish.

  “That’s okay! I’d love that. And we can probably ditch them somewhere. A taffy shop maybe. That shit is sticky.”

  Mack laughed. “I like your sense of humor, Gabe.”

  I like you, I thought. I didn’t say it.

  I hoped Mack was still talking to me by Christmas. What if Randall pushed the Elks article in a direction that offended Mack’s sense of loyalty? The thought made my stomach sour and made me shove my bowl away.

  After dinner, we did the dishes together, which was very mi familia. My brother and I used to do the dishes together when I was growing up because my sister and mom cooked. Afterward, Mack and I watched a movie. He had some old Vincent Price films recorded from TMC’s Halloween month in October. We watched The Tomb of Ligeia and The Witchfinder General, sitting on the couch together and snuggling. Mack’s arm was across my back and I rested on his chest. It was almost as good as sex.

  Okay, not really. But it was nice. It was very boyfriend-y, and it made me happy to know he liked me enough to cuddle. I was horny, though, and I had a strong urge to start something. Maybe I would have been able to seduce him if I started kissing him again or nuzzled his neck. But I didn’t want just one time with Mack. I wanted… what?

  To be boyfriends for real? More nights like this one? Yeah, I did. I absolutely wanted that with Mack “the Mountain” McDonall. I was attracted to him on so many different levels. I had stars in my eyes for the big hombre; I’d freely admit it.

  It was nearly midnight by the time the second movie ended, so I got up to leave. Mack retrieved my coat from the closet and kissed me at the front door. The kiss was warm and wet, and it was the first time we’d kissed while standing. I went up on my tiptoes, and Mack leaned down. I got as close to him as I could with him leaning down like that.

  He felt so good against me. He felt invincible and mighty and gentle too. By the time he pulled back a few minutes later, I could feel that we were both aroused. But that was okay. I’d take a kiss. For now.

  “Night, Gabe,” Mack said.

  “Night, Mack.”

  I woke up that night with my heart pounding and a lingering sense of dread. I couldn’t remember the dream, but I’d been running from something. The wisps vanished as I tried to grasp them. I turned on the light and looked at the clock. 3:01 a.m. Great. It wasn’t like I needed sleep.

  And then I remembered.

  Oh. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

  I bounced out of bed, grabbed my laptop, and booted it. Biting my cheek hard, I navigated to the folder where I’d been keeping everything related to my Elks article. I clicked on the audio recording of my interview with Walter Stickle.

  See, for about twenty years we had the same Santa, a guy named George. Very nice man. But then poor George got cancer. And one year—guess it was about four years ago now—he called me up and said he didn’t think he was up to it. He insisted on sending someone around to replace him.

  George. The frail old man at the match, the family friend who’d taken Mack under his wing when he’d lived at St. Mark’s.

  Mack at the decorating party. I like to help when I have the time.

  I fast-forwarded to the end of the Walter Stickle interview. “He was great. Really good with the kids. Made a big impression.” There was the sound of Walter chuckling.

  He made a big impression? Big?

  Oh no.

  I broke out in a cold sweat. This couldn’t be happening. I googled for photos of the charity dinner online, but couldn’t find any. Damned old people! Did they never take and post selfies at events? What was up with that?

  I shot an email off to Walter Stickle and spent a few hours cleaning my room, taking a long, anxious shower, and trying to convince myself I was wrong. I was so nauseous that I couldn’t stand the thought of breakfast, but I did down three cups of cream-laden coffee. Because, you know, I wasn’t nearly tense enough.

  Walter emailed me back at 6:23 a.m. By 7:00, I was pulling into the parking lot at the Elks Lodge. Walter was waiting for me inside, and he unlocked the main door to let me in.

  “I thought college students hated getting up early?” he teased good-naturedly.

  Yeah, that’s when they don’t have a ton of guilt weighing them down.

  “I wanted to get an early start this morning,” I said, trying to appear calm.

  Walter didn’t notice the fakeness in my tone. “Well, I admire a go-getter!” He patted my shoulder and led me back to a musty-smelling office.

  “Photos. Photos. Sorry, I just got here myself, so I haven’t had time yet to find them.”

  “That’s fine. I really appreciate your help.” I rubbed my hands together to warm them. It was frigid out this morning, but my chill wasn’t all from the December air.

  Walter scanned a big wall of bookshelves. It took forever. I resisted the urge to bite my thumbnail.

  Finally, he pulled a fat binder. “This is from 2015. Yup. Don’t think the 2016 photos have been journaled yet. A couple of the wives do the books.”

  “You had the same Santa in 2015, right?”

  “Sure did. Past four years. Let’s see… Need to make sure December is in here.” He turned pages. He turned them slowly.

  I wanted to scream, tear the book from his hands, and run away with it like Gollum with the ring. My precious. I didn’t.

  At last, he tapped a page. “These are from the Christmas party. Here you go. Take a look.”

  He put the open book on the cluttered office desk. I hurriedly moved things aside so it could lay flat.

  At the top of the page was a label handwritten in a florid style. It read: St. Mark’s Dinner. December 12, 2015. The photos, in four-by-six, were mounted on the page with little black corner mounts. Super retro. I felt like I was in a creepy old movie or something.

  The first page had photos of the decorated dining hall and some Elks ladies placing floral arrangements on the tables.

  “Great. Thank you,” I said, desperate to dive in.

  “Take your time looking that over. I’m gonna go start some coffee.”

  “Okay.”

  Walter left me alone in the office. I turned the pages. There were quite a few photos. Pages two and three showed tables full of diners, lights dimmed in the room so the candles on the tables shone warmly. Some of the photos were blurry due to the low lighting.

  I turned the page. There were photos of the children having their dinner in the lounge. I noticed a younger Sasha in one. She was grinning a cheesy, gap-toothed grin and holding out two large oranges for the camera.

  I turned the page. Santa. There he was.

  My mouth went dry. The pictures were perfectly ordinary, of course. Santa squatting down by his sack of gifts at the doorway, kids surr
ounding him. Santa in his “throne,” a big chair in front of a paper fireplace similar to this year’s. Kids on his lap. More kids on his lap, and still more. In most of them, the kids and Santa smiled for the camera.

  His outfit was like any mall Santa’s—red velvet with white fuzzy cuffs and collar. A big black belt. The bushy white beard, wig, and red hat hid his features. He looked big, but it was hard to tell from these poses, and there was never a close-up shot of his face. I needed—

  I turned the page. And there was a photo of Santa standing next to Sharon Mandel. She was looking up at him. Really up. Santa held a boy on his left arm and a girl on his right. My breath stopped.

  Santa was huge. He had to be close to seven foot. And in this photo, his face was well-lit. I recognized those dark brows and thick dark lashes.

  Santa was Mack McDonall.

  I clutched my head with my hands and groaned. Oh, mierda. It all made sense now—how reactionary Mack had been that first night at Jordan and Owen’s, how he’d asked me about the article again when I took him cookies, how upset he’d been to see me at the decorating party.

  Mack didn’t want me to know he played Santa for the kids. He wasn’t a bragger. He kept his softer parts closely guarded. Maybe, the way he’d grown up, it was a defense mechanism, not wanting to show weakness. But that wasn’t even the main thing. Probably what Mack really, really didn’t want? Was for me to put it in the paper.

  If you think being a wrestler, even an undefeated one in his senior year at a Big Ten university, is no big deal? Then you know nothing about college wrestling. If it got out that the fearsome, brutish Mack “the Mountain” McDonall was playing Santy Claus for a bunch of orphans, and furthermore, that was because he’d been one, had lived in a children’s home for years, because, you know, his dad was an ex-con who’d spent years in the slammer for aggravated assault….

  Ye god. That was a story that would draw attention like tinder drew fire. Mack would hate that story. God, he would hate that so hard. He’d never speak to me again.

  And what if he didn’t even show up at the charity dinner because of me? He’d said something like that once, about how the guy who played Santa might just not show up if he knew I was gunning for him. I could imagine how disappointed all the kids would be if Santa didn’t appear, and how bad Mack would feel. And it would be my fault.