“I hope you don't regret last night,” she murmurs softly then, one brow up.
“Of course I don't,” I tell her quickly, swallowing. “I just... I don't know what it means,” I tell her carefully. I immediately want to kick myself, because why should what we did “mean” anything? For all I know, Jewel does this sort of thing all the time, and she saw a woman she wanted to do, so she just went for it. And there's nothing more to it than that.
But Jewel's smile deepens. “I like you, Kat,” she murmurs to me, pillowing her head on her arm as she shifts her weight so that we're touching, our hips bumping companionably together. There's a zing of electricity that races through me as she does this, and I roll forward, too, draping an arm around her middle as I look at her.
“I'm glad,” I tell her slowly, “because I like you, too.”
My snowflake clock is situated above my fireplace, and Jewel is lying in front of my fireplace, so when I look at her, my gaze drifts up a little, and I glance at the clock, taking in the time.
And then I process that time instantly, cold dread flushing through every inch of my body.
“Oh, my God,” I mutter, sitting upright, gasping. “Oh, my God! I'm going to be late if I don't get out of here in—like—a minute!” I stand up quickly, and then I bolt toward the bathroom as well as I can since I'm so damn stiff.
“Late? Late for what?” asks Jewel, sitting up and ruffling her hair with her fingers, sighing out as she sits back on her hands now. The blanket slides down the front of her body and pools on her lap, showing off her gorgeous bronze chest, the soft curves of her breasts so enticing that, for a moment, I'm tempted to forgo work all together.
I run a quick brush through my hair and grimace at my reflection in the mirror; my makeup is all smudged. I wipe some of it off and then reapply a quick coat of mascara. “Late for my job!” I yell out into the living room. “I work at True Women, in the mall.” I chuck my mascara into my makeup bag, peel into my bedroom for a clean pair of panties, and then I'm hopping on one leg down the hallway as I try to get them on and make my way out to the living room at the same time.
“What do you do at True Women?” asks Jewel, still seated on the floor, still leaning back on her hands and giving me a very sexy look, indeed, one brow up, her mouth curving at one corner as she smirks at me so gorgeously that I'm kind of undone.
I try to get my head back to reality, the reality that I really have to go to work today if I, you know, want to keep my job and all. “Well, right now, I'm an elf,” I tell her with a little laugh, pulling on my elf leggings and my elf shoes. I throw my bra on, and then my tunic over that, tugging it down over my chest and hips snugly, and I'm belting my Santa belt at my waist as I grab my elf hat and toss it on: it merrily jingles as it settles on top of my head.
I've already made up my mind (I made it up last night, actually), but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous to say it aloud. So I take a gulp of air, and then I'm telling Jewel, “Um...do you want to just move your stuff in today? I have an extra key right here.” I grab it off the mantle from its hiding place, under the Rudolph snow globe, and toss it to her. She catches it expertly, her hand flashing through the air to snatch up the silver key in an easy palm. She glances down at it with a smile, turning the key over in her fingers.
“You want me to move in today without you? I mean...are you sure?” she asks, her head to the side as she looks at me again, her amber eyes flashing.
“I'm positive,” I tell her, my heart racing, and the thing is, I really am positive about this. I know that maybe it's a tad bit impetuous to give a woman I don't even know a key to my apartment, but whatever. I have a really good feeling about her. We had an amazing night last night. I don't think she's the type of woman to take advantage of a good thing or trash the place while I'm gone and disappear without a trace. I don't think she has it in her.
And I really do have a good feeling...
“I'll be home at six tonight,” I tell her, and then I'm crouching down right next to her with what is probably a very goofy smile on my face. She's still leaning back on her hands, her chest perfectly nude (and, I must say, genuinely perfect, every curve of it something that I became intimately acquainted with last night, but that doesn't mean I don't want to look at it or kiss it all the more), her smile rogueish and her eyes raking over my body as I crouch beside her.
“I'll be here,” she says, with that very sexy smile as she leans close to me. And then she's glancing at the hat on my head and chuckling a little as she reaches up, poking one of the jingle bells with a playful finger. “With bells on,” she promises with a laugh.
My bells tinkle a little again as I lean forward and capture her mouth with a quick kiss. She still tastes of cinnamon, of heat, as she drinks me in deeply, tilting her face up to me, since I'm crouching over her now, and every single atom in my entire body is willing me to stay right here, right now. It takes a great amount of self-restraint to back away from that kiss, but somehow, I manage it. And then I'm scooping my purse up and off the floor and sprinting back toward the door, my keys in hand, my heart in my throat as I realize how happy I am.
“I'll see you then!” I tell her breathlessly, blowing her a kiss over my shoulder. She smiles at me, her long white-gold hair spilling over her bronze shoulder as she grins, and then I'm launching myself out of my apartment, so happy and light that I feel a little bit like I'm floating.
That happy, floating feeling lasts while I wait for the bus, stamping my feet and trying (and failing) to stay warm as the winter winds whistle down the street, and wet snow falls in icy, freezing sheets, coating the road with slush. By the time the bus picks me up and deposits me at the mall, I'm frozen solid, but I don't really care, and I'm not paying attention to how cold I am. Because the heat of last night, the heat of what we shared, the heat of Jewel's body as she arched over me, under me...it's all I can think about, all I can see when I close my eyes, still grinning like a fool, even here on the bus. Her beautiful bronze limbs entangled with mine, the heat of her skin under my touch and tongue...the heat of everything that was her.
When I do finally rush into True Women's entrance, the revolving door spinning behind me (and almost smacking me on my rear, but I'm too quick, and I narrowly scamper out of the way and avoid it. That door's been out to get me since I started here!), it's almost opening time—I just squeaked by in the nick of time. My boss, Tiffany, is marching down the center aisle, and she looks like she's already on the warpath with her glowering expression, her sleeves rolled up and over her elbows, and her high heels clicking with the impatient cadence of someone who already needs done whatever she's about to tell you to get done.
“Kat,” she snarls at me, “you're late!”
“I'm here just in time!” I promise her in a soothing tone, shrugging off my coat and skidding past her in my elf-shoed feet. “Where's Santa?”
“George is in back getting into the fake stomach,” she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder, “and remember, this is Friday, the Friday before Christmas,” she says, with all the enthusiasm of a dying woman, “so we're expecting record numbers of kids through that door, and—”
“Don't worry about a thing. I'll handle the kids,” I tell her with a wide smile.
Tiffany's assistant and right-hand woman, Becca, a good work friend, is peering around Tiffany's shoulder with big eyes. She's also grinning at me widely.
“Wow, you're in a great mood today, Kat,” she tells me teasingly, one of her brows up as she mouths at me, “What happened?”
I just smile hugely at her and salute Tiffany. “Just don't worry about stuff,” I say again. “It's almost Christmas!”
“It's almost Christmas,” Tiffany repeats dejectedly, then throws her hands up in the air. “I need a stiff drink, and it's not even nine a.m.”
I trot past the both of them and make my way back to the storage rooms of True Women. And George is there, trying to strap on the fake belly that all the mall Santas have to wear if th
ey don't have a naturally endowed bowlful of jelly. George is normally our night security guard who gets roped into playing Santa every year because he's such good friends with Tiffany and doesn't want to see her in a jam. He used to be a cop, and he's the salt of the earth and a really good guy.
He could also curse a sailor to shame.
“Kat, this goddamn thing is out get me!” he moans unhappily when he sees me. He's already wearing his big, fake white beard, and it's somehow twisted halfway around his head. The fake stomach is over his own stomach, but the straps for it are stuck around his noggin and are also somehow tangled with the curls of the beard and the Santa hat, which he's already wearing.
“George, every day I tell you to wait for me!” I say, and then I manage not to laugh too much as I get the poor guy untangled. Finally, his fake belly is sitting over his real one, the big white Santa shirt is over top of all of that, the beard is on the front of his face, and I'm helping him shrug into his Santa jacket.
“You're a good egg, Kat,” George tells me affectionately as he pulls on the white Santa gloves. “Okay, do I look good?” he asks, spreading his arms.
“Well, the dry cleaners couldn't get out the stain from that poor kid's vomit,” I admit, pointing to a spot on his chest with a conciliatory smile, “but I don't think anyone will notice! Just make sure you hold each kid on your right leg, and it won't show up in pictures.”
He's laughing. “I'll make sure to do that.”
“And make sure to ho-ho-ho properly!” I admonish him, handing him the fake pair of reading spectacles that really make a Santa Claus costume pop.
“How's this?” he asks me, then places his hands on the front of his Santa belt, just like the classic Coke advertisement. (I'm a Christmas nerd, but that's where we really get the image of Santa we know and love today. The more you know!) He tilts his head back, and then he's saying “Ho, ho, ho!” And it does sound like a proper Santa laugh.
“Good job,” I tell him with a wide smile, and then I take a step back. “I think you're all set. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” he says, but then he lifts up a hand. He's wearing the fake beard, but I can still tell that he's smiling widely beneath it. “You're in a good mood, Kat. What's going on?”
“Can't I just be in a good mood?” I ask him mischievously, but it's true—when he brings it up, my smile deepens (as if that were possible). “Okay,” I say, relenting as I hook my own thumbs in my belt and rock back on my elf heels a little. “I met someone yesterday.”
George gives me two thumbs up and beams at me. “What's she like?”
I open the storage room door and hold it open for him. The faux belly is kind of heavy, so when he strides out of the door, it's taking all of his balance not to fall over. I let the door shut behind us, and we make our way toward the center of the store and the “Santa's Toy Shop” area that I'm always tasked to create (truth be told, it's the highlight of the year, setting up that stage).
“Oh, you know, she's pretty awesome,” I tell him, grinning like a goof and not even caring.
“Stations, everyone!” comes the crackling PA overhead, carrying Tiffany's already exhausted voice. “The goblins are descending!”
George sits himself down on Santa's throne and leans back, cricking his back in the process. “I'm getting too old for this!” he mutters to me with a wink and a laugh, and then he places his hands on the arms of the chair, and I can hear the doors sliding open. We're about to get mobbed.
“I'm glad you're happy, Kat,” George tells me with another wide smile that the beard can do nothing to mask. And then he says something I could never have expected. His voice low, he murmurs to me, “Is this lady... Is she a werewolf, by any chance?”
He asks this question so casually, and there's a kid being wheeled in a stroller through the main entrance of the store who's screaming so loudly that I wondered if I misheard him—but, no, I totally heard him right, because I'm turning to glance at him with wide eyes, my mouth open, and he's gazing at me worriedly..
“Yeah,” I tell him quietly. “She is. How did you—George, how in the world did you know?”
His normally ruddy, cheerful face has gone a little redder as he glances down at his big Santa boots. “How long have you known me, Kat? Four years? Five?”
“A long while,” I tell him carefully.
“And you think of me as a friend?”
“Of course I do,” I tell him, and mean it. When a bunch of us go out for drinks after a long, harrowing day of dealing with holiday shoppers, I always sit next to George at the bar. He tells me amazing, death-defying stories of his days as a cop, and I tell him the new ways I've rearranged the holiday decorations at my apartment, which admittedly doesn't sound like an equal exchange, but George is an awesome enough guy that it works out pretty well.
“Well,” he says slowly, carefully, as a small line of children starts to descend in our general direction, tugged along by moms, dads, grandparents, wheeled in strollers, carried in arms. “I'm a werewolf, too. I could smell her scent on you. Werewolves have a strong, good scent that only other werewolves can smell. So. You're covered in it,” he says sheepishly, “and I'm assuming that the night went a little...um. Oh, damn it.” He rubs the back of his neck, ducking his head and shaking it.
“Amorously,” I tell him, my voice sounding a little wooden. “The night went a little amorously.”
“Good word, that,” he says with a chuckle. “Yeah, well. Like I said, I smelled her wolf-self on you.” He glances at me now, and there's genuine nervousness in his gaze. This is the guy who took three bullets in his police career, who looked a gunman in the eye and told him he wasn't afraid.
And now he's looking nervous?
“I hope this won't change anything between us,” he says a little heavily as he looks away. “But I've wanted you to know what I am for years. I hope you don't hate me now, Kat.”
He's afraid I'll hate him because he's a werewolf, I think, finally realizing what he means. Oh, my God. He's afraid I'll hate him. Him. George. The nicest guy around.
“No, no,” I tell him quickly, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I don't hate you, George. You're a good friend. I adore you. Wolf and all,” I add, remembering last night and what I told Jewel. Wolf and all.
He glances up at me, and—I kid you not—there are genuine tears standing in his eyes. Again, I feel the need to give an example that this is extremely non-George-like behavior. He's been pepper-sprayed in the eyes by disgruntled teens, and he didn't cry even then.
“That means the world to me, Kat,” he says, reaching up with his Santa-gloved hand and patting my hand with a heavy palm. “You're a good egg,” he tells me, which he always tells me, but I'm just embarrassed to hear it, so heartfelt. This is the guy who told me that he was proud of me (and meant the hell out of that statement) when I made employee-of-the-month last December (for being able to deal with the most difficult customers and children in a one-month period), and he always encourages me and cheers me on no matter what I'm doing.
I honestly think of George as a second father; my real father died when I was eighteen, and I had a kind of glaring hole in my life until George filled it.
So, yes, I'm embarrassed that he'd be so grateful to me for this, for the fact that I'm not freaking out or reacting negatively to his “I'm a werewolf” reveal. It makes me wonder what kind of reactions he's gotten in his life if it took him five years to tell me, wondering all the while if I'd completely write him off because of what he was, something he couldn't change.
George is of an older generation, and I don't think he'd consider himself liberal, but from the start, I was very open about the fact that I was a lesbian, and he never batted an eye. He treated me and my discussions about the dates I went on just like I was a straight person discussing a boyfriend. It was completely normal in his eyes. That meant the world to me.
He deserves the same treatment.
I squeeze his shoulder once
more for good measure, and the first kid of the day leans on the velvet rope that connects the two metal poles. This causes the two poles to start to cave inward, but I dart forward and keep one of the poles from hitting the kid in the head.
“I'm here to see Santa!” he tells me, giving me a very sticky smile (I'm pretty sure I see a whole gummy bear in his mouth, along with the remnants of a dozen others).
“Right this way, young man!” I tell him happily, and I unhook the velvet rope, thus declaring Santa's Toy Shop open for business.
The kid darts quickly down Gum Drop Lane and vaults himself onto George's lap. George was prepared, however, and swings the kid up into the air before settling him on his right leg, effectively hiding that pesky stain—because George is awesome and remembers details like that.
“Ho, ho, ho!” George declares loudly, giving a big smile behind the fake beard. “And what's your name, little boy?”
“Tom!” The kid shouts his name loudly enough to be heard on the other end of the mall.
But George doesn't skip a beat. “That's a great name!” he declares. “And have you been good this year, Tom?”
“No!” the child tells him cheerfully.
A very bedraggled mother—the parent that Tom left behind when he made his run for Santa Claus—wilts next to one of the metal poles, leaning her entire weight upon it. “He's right,” the mother mutters, glancing at me with bloodshot eyes. “Do you have kids?” she asks me.
Holiday Wolf Pack Page 10