Bad Boy Santa: A Second Chance Christmas Romance Read online

  Bad Boy Santa

  A Second Chance Christmas Romance

  Sophie Brooks

  Contents

  1. Jackson

  2. Olivia

  3. Jackson

  4. Olivia

  5. Jackson

  6. Jackson

  7. Olivia

  8. Olivia

  9. Jackson

  10. Olivia

  Epilogue

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  Also by Sophie Brooks

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  Copyright © 2017 by Sophie Brooks

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

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  Jackson

  “Jackson! You made it!”

  I mustered what might possibly count as a smile as I clapped my old friend on the back. We did that man half-hug thing guys do today. At least I thought they still did that. But the last six years, I’d been in another world so what the fuck did I know.

  “Chris, the married man. Looking good,” I said, and nodded at the other guys I recognized from high school. Doug. Eddie. Stiffy—though surely that wasn’t his real name? Hell if I knew what it was, though.

  “Let’s buy this man a drink,” Chris said, as I sat down on the bar stool next to him. I’d done very little except drink since I’d returned to Clarksville, but a drink with old friends was slightly less pathetic than drinking alone in that crap apartment I’d rented. Not because it was all I could afford—but because it was pretty much the best that Clarksville had to offer.

  “Hey man,” Eddie said. “Didn’t you win some kind of award? Best photograph from a war zone or some shit like that?”

  “Yeah,” I said, downing half the beer the bartender—another acquaintance from high school if I wasn’t mistaken—had put in front of me.

  “Fuck the photograph, didn’t you get shot?” Stiffy wanted to know.

  “Took some shrapnel in the leg. I can show you if you promise not to get stiff.”

  The others snorted and Stiffy looked offended. “People call me Stuart now.”

  Doug slung his arm around Stiffy/Stuart. “Yeah, he’s married now, too, so he doesn’t know how to get stiff anymore.”

  Chris punched him good-naturedly in the arm while Stiffy/Stuart continued to look pissed. Doug ignored them both. “Jackson, you gotta come out with us. The single studs. You’ve been in a fucking war zone, the ladies in this town are gonna be all over you.”

  “What’s the point in meeting a lady? Aim me toward the sluts,” I said, falling into the kind of douchebag style of speech we used to use in high school. Of course, it would have been tame among the troops I’d hung out with overseas.

  “Now you’re talking,” Eddie said. “Trouble is, we don’t have much of either. Even your old high school sweetheart, Big Tits Beatrice, is married now. Has two little rugrats and a husband who is always away on business. Bet she wishes she hadn’t turned me down after graduation now. She must be dying to get laid.”

  I laughed with the others, but it was bullshit. Beatrice hadn’t been my high school sweetheart. Far from it. There had been someone I liked, but I’d fucked it up and closed that door forever.

  Hours later, the empty beer glasses filled the counter in front of us. It was just me and Chris left although Stiffy had wandered over to a booth a half hour ago and fallen asleep. Crap, what was his name again? Not that I gave a fuck, but in the battlefield, forgetting a detail could be deadly. Even for a photographer.

  “I’ve got to stop drinking so much,” I said to Chris. He’d stopped a while back, probably not wanting to go home to Mrs. Chris smelling like a brewery.

  “You probably needed a night out.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been drinking on the nights in, too.” I’d moved back here a week ago and was already on a first name basis with the guy who owned the nearest liquor store.

  “Well, sounds like you’ve seen some heavy shit.”

  That was an understatement, so I just nodded. I’d seen enough heavy shit to last a lifetime, but this was supposed to be my fresh start. My return to the place where I’d last been a good guy. Less cynical. Less world weary. Less drunk. I tried to explain it to Chris. He was my oldest friend though I’d only seen him once in the last six years. But then again, he’d always been a good guy. Son of a prominent family here in town. Now he was an assistant manager at his dad’s store. He had a nice, normal life with a nice, normal wife. I was about as far from normal as you could get.

  “I need to get my shit together,” I told him. “I need to forget all that crap in Afghanistan and Iraq and do the small town America thing. Be normal. Wholesome. Decent.” Chris nodded but was eying me strangely. Even in high school, my strongest desire was to get the fuck out of Clarksville as soon as I could. “But instead, all I do is sit in that shitty apartment and drink.”

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner next week? You could meet Susan.”

  “Thanks, man. Guess that’s one evening of not drinking alone.”

  “Sounds like maybe you could use a few evenings of not drinking at all.”

  “Fucking right. But every time I go home, I start thinking. Remembering. And drinking’s easier. I should join a convent where they don’t allow alcohol.”

  Chris laughed. “I think you’re the wrong gender for a convent. Plus, if the nuns look at you the same way those ladies in the corner booth are, you’ll be responsible for a whole host of sins.”

  I snorted. Wouldn’t be the first time. “Okay, not a convent. Too much religion. But where else can I go where I won’t be tempted to drink all night?”

  It was a rhetorical question, but Chris was looking at me steadily, appearing to think something over. “If you really want to fill your evenings, we can use some help at the store.”

  “At Reynolds’ Department store? The number one—and only—department store in all of Clarksville? Should I start in Housewares or Junior Miss?”

  “Neither,” Chris said. “There’s something else we need help with.”

  Olivia

  “Olivia, is that you?”

  “Mom?” I set the pile of bills down on the table by the door and went to find her. Her voice was weak as it usually was nowadays.

  I searched in the kitchen but there was no forty-six-year-old woman amidst the laminate counters. Nor in the living room with the sagging, threadbare sofa. Finally, I found her on the landing halfway up the stairs. “Mom!”

  Taking the steps two at a time, I bounded up to where she sat leaning against the wall. Gently, I tugged her to her feet. “Come on, let’s get you downstairs.” I put her arm over my shoulder and turned her around, but she resisted.

  “But I was trying to go upstairs.”

  With effort, I managed not to release a sigh of frustration. She knew that she was only supposed to try the stairs twice a day, once in the morning after she got up and again in the evening before bed. And even that was becoming a struggle for her. She had an autoimmune disease that tired her out plus terrible arthritis. She’d had to stop working t
wo years ago because to it.

  “You’re not supposed to go up during the day. You know that.”

  “I know. But I needed to look up something on the computer.”

  “You could have used your pho—” I paused, mid-sentence. Most days, her fingers were too stiff to push the tiny buttons on the screen. “You could have called me. I could have looked it up on my lunch break.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you at school,” she said as we reached the bottom of the stairs and then made our way over to the sofa. “I know how busy you are with such a big class this year.”

  Twenty-three second graders did keep me hopping, but I’d always call her back as soon as I could if she needed me. I wish she’d remember that. But I tried to keep things light-hearted. “They were all so excited about having the rest of the week off. Though when I polled them on what they were most thankful for, most said the Black Friday sales, not Thanksgiving Dinner.”

  “About that,” Mom said, sinking painfully onto the couch. “You don’t have to make a big dinner this year. It’s just us, and I know we can’t really afford it.” We really couldn’t, but hearing her say that made me sad. When I was little, we’d have huge family dinners with my father, his sister, and my cousins. But now dad had passed away, and we hadn’t seen Aunt Jane and her kids since they moved to Texas.

  “Don’t be silly. We have to eat something, so why not do it right? Besides, starting Sunday, I’ll have an extra paycheck.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right.” She chuckled. “You were always so good at that—telling all those silly stories to keep the children entertained while they wait in line.”

  “That pretty much describes my teaching job, too. Keeping children calm and quiet.”

  Mom laughed. “When you’re with the little ones, you have the patience of a saint.”

  “I’d rather have the magic of an elf.”

  “At least you’ve got the costume,” Mom said, and then her face darkened. “I’m sorry I can’t iron it for you this year.”

  “It’s fine. I’ve got it all ready to go. Even a half dozen new pairs of red tights.” Pint-sized children inevitably grabbed my legs or whatever other part of me they could reach. That was why I had several backup costumes. “I’m going to make dinner. Why don’t you take a nap until then?”

  “Actually, I’d rather read the paper. Did you get it and the mail?”

  “Yep,” I said, handing her the Clarksville Chronicle. I left the mail where it was, not wanting her to know it consisted mostly of bills. A sense of relief passed through me when she took the paper without asking about the mail again. “Dinner will be ready in twenty.”

  Mom felt strong enough to eat nearly a full portion of the stew I’d had warming in the crockpot all day, which pleased me. But after dinner, she brought up a subject that killed that good feeling pretty quickly. “Did you see that article about your friend in the newspaper?”

  Hastily, I pushed back from the table and began taking plates to the sink. “None of my friends were in the paper today, Mom.”

  “Your friend from high school. That boy who became the photographer. He’s quite famous now. That one picture he took of those poor Afghan children won so many awards. Do you want to read the article?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You should. There’s a picture, too. He turned into a really handsome man. Broad shoulders and muscular, not wiry like he was in high school.”

  I slammed a cabinet door shut harder than I’d meant to. Jackson had been scrawny and awkward in high school. It annoyed me that a guy like him ended up looking like a male model. “Just leave the newspaper on the table and I’ll look at it later,” I said, though I had no intention of doing that.

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t keep up with him after high school. You were so close.”

  “He went overseas right after graduation.”

  “Yeah, but nowadays, with Facebook and everything, it’s so easy to keep in touch.” She lifted her salad bowl, and I quickly took it out of her trembling hand. “You know, I still don’t understand why you skipped the ceremony.”

  Oh great. The one topic I liked even less than talking about Jackson Young. “What was the point? To wait in the hot sun while the superintendent mispronounced everyone’s name, one by one?” And while Jackson took pictures for the school newspaper. Pictures of the crowd, the graduates. And of her. Beatrice Wright. No way I could face them after what happen after the prom.

  To my relief, Mom changed the subject. “When you start on Sunday, can you return a book to Daniel Reynolds? I borrowed it from him after church last month.”

  “Sure,” I said. “He’s not going to be Santa this year, but I’m sure I’ll see him.”

  “He’s not? But he does that every year.”

  “Says he’s getting too old for it. The bigger kids hurt his knees when they sit on his lap.”

  “Then who’s going to be Santa?”

  “I don’t know. They said they got someone new.”

  Jackson

  Sunday morning. Ten o'clock. Usually, I was still asleep at this time of the day. Or more likely passed out. Or hung over. Or sometimes all three. Instead, I was in a backroom at Reynolds’ Department store. Putting on a suit.

  Normally, I looked pretty damn good in a suit, but not this one. Bright red with white trim was not my style. “But the red matches your bloodshot eyes,” Chris pointed out helpfully. Asshole. Jokes were fine for afternoons. Or evenings. But not for mornings when any decent person was still asleep.

  “Your belly is still too flat,” Chris’s father said. He handed me more foam pieces to line the suit. “I wore this costume last year, and I have a bit more natural padding than you, son. We need to fatten you up.”

  “I think I’ve heard of a nursery rhyme about that. Fattening up the dorky little kids so the witch could eat them. It had a gruesome ending.”

  “And here you were afraid you wouldn’t have anything to talk to the kids about,” Chris said, helping me on with my jacket. “But stories about cannibalism are solid gold.”

  “God, morning people are annoying,” I growled. “Do I have to do anything besides sit there and look like I’m a year or two away from fully clogged arteries?”

  “Just listen to them. And let them sit on your lap.”

  “Isn’t that a bit creepy in this day and age?”

  “Not for Santa. Remember, this is a pure, wholesome thing. That’s why you’re doing this, right?” When his father wasn’t looking, Chris raised his hand as if taking a swig of liquor. “You’re trying to be a new man.”

  “A man whose belly shakes when he laughs like a bowl full of jelly,” I said ruefully, looking into the mirror. Mr. Reynolds came at me with white fluff in his hand, and I backed away.

  “Hold still, son. Gotta put the beard and the eyebrows on you.”

  “What’s that white gunk?” Whatever it was, I was damn sure I didn’t want it on my face.

  “It’s the glue. It’ll wear off by the end of the day.”

  End of the day? “How long do I have to do this?”

  “We close at six.”

  “For eight hours?” Eight hours among snot-nose little kids? Eight hours of smiling and faking holiday cheer? Eight hours without a drink? “I’ll never make it.”

  “Sure you will, son. You just have to sit there. You’ll have an assistant who’ll do all the work. She’ll keep the kids calm and in line, and then she’ll bring them up to you. She’ll tell you their names, too.”

  “An assistant? Santa has a secretary?”

  “Santa has an elf, son. You really should read 'The Night Before Christmas' or something. But she’s been doing this for three years. She’ll keep things running smoothly.”

  “Almost done,” Chris said, and I looked in the mirror again. Huge belly. Bright red fake velvet suit. A big beard and bushy eyebrows.

  “Could this be anymore humiliating?” I grumbled.

  Chris fitted a wig
of shoulder-length white hair onto my head and then plopped a Santa hat on top.

  “I guess that answers that question,” I said with one last glare in the mirror.

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting on a throne-like chair on a little stage in front of a two-story Christmas tree. A line of two dozen kids and their purchase-laden parents snaked its way toward the door. Where the hell was the goddamn elf?

  “Can we come up now?” said the father in the front, holding onto the hands of two grubby little kids. He was impatient. He looked like an accountant or lawyer or some other fucked up, anal type.

  “I’ll let you know when you can come up,” I growled, but at least I hadn’t used any four letter words. But I would if the elf didn’t get here.

  And then there was a flash of green and red and suddenly she was there. “I’m sorry,” she said. “So sorry. My mom is sick, and she needed—” she paused, out of breath. She must have run here from the parking lot. At least she was already in her costume, and it was a hell of a lot cooler than mine. Green felt formed pointed elf shoes that fit over the top of regular shoes. Then red tights over an extremely shapely pair of legs. Then a green tunic with a zigzag hemline that ended mid-thigh. Then a white button-down blouse underneath it. Then fiery red hair tucked behind prosthetic pointed ears. All topped with a pointed green cap with a bell.

  I was so busy looking at how well her curves looked under that costume that it was a while before I bothered to look at her face. But when I did, I almost fell off my throne. Olivia Sanders.

  Crap.

  “Have a Merry Christmas,” I said as a little blond kid clambered off my lap, narrowly avoiding kneeing me in the balls. He was only the tenth child so far today, but already I felt grimy. I’d never known how sticky little kids were. Did their parents roll them in taffy or something? Did it make them easier to keep track of if they stuck to things?