I open the door and turn to slide across the buttery leather seats, gently placing my white shoes on the caramel surface. Swinging my legs in, I start up my old girl. The perfect roar of the V8 engine comes to life, and the low rumble she breathes out sends thrills through me. I put her in gear, and off we go.
The half hour drive is scenic ‘til I get closer to the city, but we make it, old Cherry and me. I have seven minutes until my interview, time to make it count.
The original sun visors on Cherry were restored as well, and I love them, I do, but they have such a tiny-ass mirrors. Luckily, I carry a large compact in my glove compartment. Holding the mirror in one hand, I use a pinky to hold the mascara and open with the other hand. Swapping, I swipe on one last coat. Next is a little more lipstick, and I'm very ready to go.
Five minutes. Better early than late. I slip the keys from the ignition, the flats from my feet, and slide into the heels. Opening the door, I put my shades back on and grab the little clutch that holds my resume. Feeling like an absolute fake, I close and lock the door, then head inside to take this place by the balls.
Logically, I know it's only 70 degrees out, but I swear I feel the burning rays of the sun scorching every inch of me. My heels scrape gently across the blacktop, and sweat begins to collect in the center of my back as I pick up the pace. I’m determined that I will not sweat in this white shirt because it is definitely not a wet shirt contest, and that's exactly what I would turn into.
The building before me is on the smaller side for a business, but still two stories high. It's all glass and steel, a very modern look. The logo for SHG, Inc, is right up front and tall in the center above the doors. Said doors are also steel and glass, tinted and reflective. I sashay my way up to the doors, trying to be quick enough to avoid the heat but slow enough not to work up a sweat. The smell of hot metal fills my nose as soon as I get to the doors.
Giving myself a small mental shake, I pull on the heavy frames to get inside. Sweet, cool air brushes against my skin, caressing it. There’s even some sweat on my thighs, and I don't have much of a chub rub. Guess I must be a little more nervous than I thought.
I waltz my way up to the shiny chrome front desk and wait on the receptionist, a pretty blonde who's working the phone. Taking off my sunglasses, I tuck them into my clutch, waiting for her to finish her call.
"We look forward to seeing you then, goodbye," Sarah, as her name tag suggests, says as she replaces the phone into the receiver. "Hello there, welcome to Sexy Holiday Grams where it’s our pleasure to serve you your holiday fantasy. How may I help you?" she says, sweet thing.
"Yes, I have a seven o'clock appointment with a Mr. Daniels. Can you please let him know I'm here?" I ask, tapping my fingers on my skirt covered thigh.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, there must be some mistake. Mr. Daniels already has an appointment at seven. I'd be happy to schedule you in, though we aren't hiring for receptionists at the moment," she says, a smirk beginning to form on her lips. Not so sweet after all, huh? We'll see.
"And I'm sorry, but I am his seven. It's for a Blake Jameson, correct? For the position of Santa?" I dispute, shoulders back and arms crossed, pushing up what little bit of the girls I've got.
"That can't be correct. I'm going to need to see some ID, ma'am." Again with the ma'am shit. Oh, I'm going to enjoy showing this little girl what a ma'am I am.
"Oh, of course," I reply, whipping my license out for the little brat.
She takes it, then types a few things at her computer. Pretty soon her face starts to lose color, and she types a bit faster, clicking here and there nearly frantically. She starts to shuffle some papers and says, "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I have a matter that Mr. Daniels needs to attend to."
She walks from behind the desk, her little black stilettos clacking against the black marble floor as she hurries to the big doors on the right. Once she knocks, I hear a low rumble, and she enters. Since this is going to be a good, long conversation, I'm sure. I take a few minutes to look around where I may be working. Once I came in the door, the desk was located straight ahead. To the left is another door that says ‘staff only’ and a small seating area. Just to the right of the desk and behind it is a short hallway that I'm guessing leads to the bathrooms and a way to go upstairs. Everything is chrome, and the chairs are a sexy black leather.
Suddenly, the rumbles get a bit louder, so I move a bit closer to see what all the uproar is about. Not that I don't know, because I do, but I'd love to hear about it myself.
"You screened them," the deep voice growls, sending sparks shooting through my body. Woah. That's a voice. "How did you miss this?"
Light pleading tones respond, and I move back from the door. I want to know what's happening, but nobody wants a stranger to overhear when they’re getting chastised by the boss. I can respect that. I go lounge on the high desk, resting my back against it and leaning my elbows onto its surface, and I wait to see what happens.
Finally the door creaks open, and Sarah comes back to her desk. Her eyes look a little red and puffy, and she shuffles a few things around before speaking to me.
"I'm sorry, but something has come up. Mr. Daniels asks that you please reschedule, and he will try to see you another time. What day would you like to come in?" she asks, eyes begging me to not make this a thing.
The flames of equality and estrogen kick up in my veins, and I know this is most definitely going to be a thing. "And I'm sorry as well, but I was asked, on very short notice, to come in for an interview. I spent way too much time to get to this look, and I'm not about to leave without seeing Mr. Daniels. Now, are you going to show me into his office, or am I showing myself in?" I ask, way too pissed to just be polite and walk away. I want this job. I want it for me, and I want to show myself that men don't own me or control me, and if they say no, then I'm going to make that a yes.
"Please, Ms. Jameson, you can't go in there. Mr. Daniels is very busy," Sarah pleads, rising from her desk.
I run my hands down my skirt, give my hair a little fluff, and grin. "Stop me, then," I say as I power walk to his door and grab the handle. A tall, lithe body slams into it.
"Please don't," she whispers, "he's not an easy man, and you won't like what he says."
"I have to," I say.
"Quit the racket and get in here." The low voice that growls from within sends shivers through me.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Sarah trails off, moving back to her desk.
I open the door and walk right in, letting it close however it will. Sadly, it isn't a slam like I wanted, but oh well. And then I glance up.
And before me is the sexiest sight I've had the pleasure of putting my eyes on in quite a while.
The man sitting behind the desk is a fine specimen, and even sitting, I can tell he would tower over me despite my heels. He wears a silver collared dress shirt, the first button undone, his black and silver herringbone tie loosened, and the shirt sleeves rolled up.
His dark hair is liberally sprinkled with silver, and his beard more so. He has a traditional barber’s cut, short on the sides with the longer lengths on top styled into a sexy pompadour combed to his right.
His tattoos peek out from under his collar, and with both shirt sleeves rolled up, I catch a glimpse of the stark black ink covering his forearms and his knuckles. His arms are sturdy, and as he writes notes, not even looking up at me, the muscles move like fluid steel. I shiver, a spike of warmth shooting down my belly.
Standing there, I wait for him to look up. After a minute, my patience has worn thin, and I decide to get his attention. Cocking a hip, I cross my arms and give a little “A-hem”, just for his benefit.
When he looks up, I am trapped in his gaze, those blue pools of ice hypnotizing me. I watch his sexy lips move, lost in the pure masculinity in front of me. Then it hits me that he’d said something.
“What?” I ask.
“I said, you may go. I won’t be hiring someone of your type for a Santa position
, and our receptionist positions are full. Good day,” he states, totally matter of fact, no change in his expression as he looks back down to his paper and begins to work again.
“Excuse me? Nuh uh, nope. You do not get to just sit there after inviting me in for an interview and tell me, ‘We won’t be hiring someone of your fucking type’ today. What does that even mean? Is it my bitchiness, my hair color? Or is it perhaps because you’re being a sexist prick and won’t hire a woman who could do a man’s job just as fast and twice as well as a man?”
He pauses. Still working through his papers, he responds, "It means I'm not hiring today."
"Well, fuck me sideways. Looks like I'll be back tomorrow, doesn't it? And the next, and the next, barging into your office and bringing my own personal brand of chaos every. Single. Day. And eventually, one day, you'll give up, give in, and hire my ass, so you might as well make it today," I insist, stepping around one of the big leather chairs in his office and making myself comfortable in its buttery soft black leather. "What's it going to be, Bossman?"
Setting down his pen, Mr. Daniels clasps his hands together, leans back in his chair with elbows resting on the arms, and looks at me. Just looks. Hopefully, what he sees is a confident-as-fuck woman ready to do what she says she is going to do, who could take his balls in a vise and shove them down his throat. Or he sees the nerves that are crashing through me underneath it all.
"You're trouble, aren't you?" he rumbles, sending chills down my spine from the depth in his voice.
"If by trouble you mean determined, then yes, yes, I am."
"Hmm." He moves his steepled fingers beneath his chin and appraises me again. "Tell me, why I should hire you, a woman, when I run a lucrative business with all male Santas? What makes you so special and so appealing?"
I know a challenge when I hear one, and I’m ready to throw down. "First, I have tits. Do your men have tits? No. At least they’d better not. They are only appealing to about half the population. Sure, women want to get ripped and sexy Santas to deliver them a gift from a friend or loved one, but what about men? Don't you think they'd like a hot set of tits to walk into their job, dolled up and fierce as fuck? I think men would brag about getting a sexy Santa Gram in the form of legs and tits." Sitting back in the chair and crossing my legs at the ankles, I try to appear cool and collected even as my hands sweat and my nerves run through me like a hot wire.
"Perhaps. But would a woman be able to keep her emotions in check, to stay calm in the face of grabby men? Because my men get some grabby old women and know how to deal with them without complaining they were harassed at work. Can you do that? Do you know how to avoid that?" he asks, still relaxed comfortably in his big leather chair, behind his big desk.
"And you assume women get one touch and they scream it? That we don’t know how to handle it? Please. As long as no one grabs a tit or my pussy, I'm pretty sure I can handle it. And if they do, they’ll end up in the hospital, and you’ll be bailing me out of jail. Besides, I'm sure a man in your line of work requires training for his employees on how to diffuse such situations and how to keep that from happening further. Or am I incorrect, Bossman?" I challenge, teasing him with just a hint of cleavage as I lean forward.
A deep chuckle runs from his gut to his throat, spilling out like rocks into water. "You are trouble. But you are also correct. My employees go through training on delivery, how to address their clients, what to wear, say, and do. They are also required to work out and stay in fit condition and to dress impeccably whether at work or eating at fast food restaurants. They are the face of this business, and without them, there is no Sexy Holiday Grams."
"And do your receptionists also go through this training? Or is this another area where you differentiate between men and women?" I ask, once more leaning back in my chair and moving my legs. A dampness has started between my thighs from the back and forth with this man.
"My receptionists go through a less vigorous training, but they still complete the harassment training and learn how to deal with clients who aren't the nicest. Or prospective employees, as it seems." His look is so pointed that were it wood, it would pierce me through my heart and strike me dead. Too many vampire movies, what can I say?
"Well, if employers were for equal rights, their prospective employees wouldn't have to force their way in and convince their potential bossman to hire them. So I think that one is cancelled out," I push back, a flushed feeling overcoming me.
"Hmm,” he hums again, tipping the chair back and moving it side to side. "What to do. Hire the little brat that needs a job and a lesson, or let her go find some other menial labor." He pauses and stares, assessing me once more. "Stand back up," he demands.
I do as he bids and stand before my chair.
"Now move between the chairs and hold still," he says, moving from his relaxed pose.
As he stands, I get the full view of him. Arms and chest with well-defined muscles, scrolling Latin, the flag, stars, fire, and so much more in his sleeves. His shirt is still tucked into a slim waist, and I mentally undress him. I can just imagine his dark hair leading from his chest to his waist and below. Licking my lips, I worry that the dampness that has been building has leaked through my skirt.
Mr. Daniels moves around the desk, and every stride is molten gold flowing over glass, smooth and unhurried. As he rounds it, his perfectly-tailored charcoal pants hug his thighs, caressing them. Soon he towers over my five feet two inches. He has to be at least six-two.
"Hmmm." I'm honestly tired of that sound coming from his mouth. "Nice facial features, a strong jawline, hair is a bit bright, but we can run with that. Chest even, good waist, and nicely-tapered legs. Spin please." His words bring a blush to my cheeks, part anger and part arousal.
I spin slowly, being careful not to trip on the rug. If I get this job, I'll likely be wearing more heels, so I need to show that I’m competent in them. No matter how untrue that really is.
"Alright, you may sit again," he states when my ass is towards him. As I hear him walk away, I feel the faintest of touches on my ass, barely glancing off of it. Immediately, my thighs clench. This man has me wanting him even though I also want to punch him in his sexist face.
I move to the leather chair again and notice the tiniest of wet spots before I sit. Heat rises to my face, but I'm going to go with it. So what if Mr. Daniels knows I desire him? Maybe I was just sweaty.
I relax back once more as he does the same, only this time he folds his arms loosely.
"If you really think you can handle this―"
"I do."
"―then you've got the job. But," he stops my interjection, "you will do the same training and classes that all my employees have. You will have a locker in the changing room, same as them. You will also be required to put in the same hours of fitness protocol as them. Your trainer will set you up with your regimen of diet and exercise."
Understanding begins to dawn on me regarding the undertaking I'm about to embark on, and I feel some hesitance. Then I glance at Mr. Daniels and see the smirk on his face, and I know, I just know that saying no now would forever prove to him that women are lesser than men, and that men will always be superior.
I raise my chin and put my shoulders back. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Daniels." His smirk grows, and I wait for it to fall. "I'd be glad to call you Bossman. So, Bossman, when do I start?" And just as I predicted, a little bit of the smugness falls off his bastard of a face.
"Good. As your personal trainer, I will see you tomorrow morning for the first day of training. Prepare for a workout, as well as classes in protocol, speech, and etiquette."
At that, my smirk for getting the job dims down just a little bit more. "No problem, Bossman. But first I have one question."
"Yes?"
"Where are the rules about bosses caressing their employees’ asses?" I ask, the bratty me coming out to play.
"Probably on the same page as employees lusting after their bosses. Any more questions for to
day?" he asks, grinning with a heat searing from his eyes.
"I'm good now, thanks, Bossman," I reply, knowing my own eyes are just as heated.
"Then I will call you in the morning with our start time, Ms. Jameson. Please get a good night of rest. You'll need it in the morning," he says, dismissing me and returning back to his paperwork.
"Until then, Bossman," I snark, noting the small tic at the use of that nickname. Well, that settles it. He's stuck with it forever now. I rise, carefully holding my clutch and walking out without a backwards look.
As the door closes behind me, the receptionist, Sarah was her name, looks at me with question marks in her eyes. I make my way to the front desk and lean on it, letting out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding in.
"What did he say? What did he do?" she asks, her tone filled with awe. Probably because I didn't come out a crying hot mess.
"Well unfortunately, I'm not taking your job. But I will see you every day. You're looking at the first female Santa in the history of SHG, Inc."
"Holy shit, no way?" she whisper yells, glancing at Bossman's door.
"Way."
"How the hell did you convince him? He rules this place with an iron fist, everything going his way or else. Seriously, I don't know how you convinced him of anything. The guys asked him to put in a vending machine, and it took months and papers and a whole presentation before he would budge on that. And there still isn't anything unhealthy allowed in there. Man's a fucking mule," she rants, startling me with this new personality. Huh. I guess becoming coworkers opened up the real Sarah.
"Tits, a great argument, and some fairy dust, darling. Plus, I'm charming as fuck, so there's that," I respond, shrugging my shoulders as I pull my sunglasses from my clutch. "You working tomorrow?"
A Naughty Santa Gram Page 4