Christmas Kisses

1. Angel

1

ANGEL

T he box on my hip feels heavier when Christmas carolers burst out of the side alley of my building, scaring the living daylights out of me. They’re wearing scarves, gloves, and sweaters covered with Christmas paraphernalia no one over four should wear.

Did they not get the memo? It doesn’t snow in Florida, and even if it did, you should do everything you can not to be caught in that outfit. They look like they escaped the movie set of Elf , and it makes me more frustrated than festive.

Christmas is for wimps, and I’ve had it rammed down my throat enough this year. It is on every channel and in every window of the buildings surrounding mine. I can’t escape it.

“Bah humbug,” I grumble to the front runner of the carolers when he impedes my wish to sidestep him.

He wants a donation, unaware he has more in his tin than my bank account has held all year.

If he’s looking for charity, he’s found it.

I’m one wrong step from homelessness.

Curly blonde locks slap my face when I attempt to mimic Presley Carlton’s magic sidestep. I swerve to the right as the scrooge wanting to pilfer the last of my funds dips to the left. I don’t have time to dillydally. Leaving my post was already stupid. I have no time to waste.

My sixty-niner move is successful. I am almost free of the vultures… until I collide with the person responsible for my impressive bypass.

Presley “Elvis” Carlton, the number-one quarterback in the country, knocks me on my ass better than any linebacker he’s faced during his illustrious two-decade-long career.

Instead of appearing sorry for his part in my tumble, he looks humored.

What the?

“E!” shouts a voice from the side.

The femininity of her tone announces who she is long before the uniqueness of her accent. Presley’s fiancée is showcased as often on TMZ as her superstar husband-to-be. It is one downfall of being a choreographer for the stars.

“I’m so sorry,” Willow apologizes as she helps me back to my feet. “He gets altitude sickness when he stands for too long.” She flashes Presley a cheeky grin before whispering. “He’s also not getting any younger.” Her eyes are back on her fiancé, hot and heavy. “Are you, old man?”

He groans something about showing her how old he is when they reach the penthouse, before he gathers my belongings scattered over the sidewalk. Even when he is crouched, he still has a height advantage over Willow and me, who are now standing.

“What… Is that… Oh …”

I gulp, splatter, and grimace when the cause of Presley’s inability to form a legible sentence smacks into me. His gigantic shoulders, pecs bigger than my breasts, and ten-pack didn’t solely send me sprawling backward. His barge also exposed the contents of my box—my extremely X-rated box.

“They’re not all mine.” I snatch the box out of his hand and slap down the flap. “I’m… They are… Um…” Come on, Angel, you’re smarter than this. “It’s a new business venture I’m endeavoring to get off the ground.” I fan my hand through the air, highlighting an imaginary billboard for my business. “Sex toys for the less advantaged. Women are expected to cook a feast, buy presents for people we only see once a year, and spew Christmassy cheer for all to hear, so why shouldn’t we end the farce with a fat, juicy orgasm?”

I need to cut back on the eggnog. I get a little generous with my servings since it is the only thing decent about this time of year.

I stop seeking a hole to hide in when Willow asks, “You’re selling… these ?”

Presley pays as much attention to the highness at the end of her tone as I do. She seems genuinely interested in the products I’m attempting to peddle to middle-aged women with husbands lacking in bedroom suave. Which, if I am honest, is shocking.

I’ve seen what Presley is working with. You couldn’t miss the python in his pants in the numerous YouTube videos fans put up after Willow’s recital two years ago. He doesn’t need the “help” I’m striving to give the single women of Ravenshoe this Christmas, though I wouldn’t say no to an early sale. I’m as broke as a nine-month-pregnant hooker. This box of goodies took the last of my cash.

When Willow remains gawking, I stammer out, “Yeah. I’m hoping they will help fund a legal fight.”

The dip in my confidence doesn’t linger for long. I read an article not long ago that featured Presley’s older sister, Syndi. It stated how she used to strip to pay Presley’s college fees, so I don’t see her little brother being overly judgmental regarding unique ways to make a living.

My theory is proven accurate when Presley locks his eyes with mine and asks, “How much?”

“Um.” I need a moment to think. I snuck out to purchase batteries only an hour ago when my prehistoric battery-operated boyfriend couldn’t last one round of self-pleasing. I had planned to gift myself a rechargeable battery pack with the money my aunt Rebecca sent me for my birthday, but the closure of a sex store two towns over conjured a money-making scheme my broke ass couldn’t deny.

I got one hundred mixed sex toys for a hundred dollars.

That’s a bargain not even Saint Nick could ignore when seeking gifts for his older clientele.

I check that the coast is clear of the Wicked Witch of my building before giving Presley the figures he’s seeking. “Thirty for the clitoral stimulators. But if you want the Hulk, you’re looking around double that.”

“The Hulk?” Presley asks, his cheeks suddenly inflamed.

I take a second to admire a man who blushes before rummaging through my box. “Yeah. It’s the beast of dildos.” The heat on Presley’s cheeks jumps to mine when I pull out a realistic-looking ten-inch dildo. In its packet, it looks closer to fourteen inches. “I think it’s more a gimmick than useable.” I wave it around, confident it is double the length of any man I’ve ever been with, and don’t get me started on its girth. “I don’t see anyone eager to take on this beast.”

“You’d be surprised. Just expect a hundred comments about it coming out of her ears—” Presley’s sentence is cut short by Willow ribbing him.

As he breathes through a deflated lung, Willow moves closer to inspect the merchandise. She drinks in my box of goodies like her politeness has nothing to do with her fiancé knocking me over. I’m not surprised. They seem like genuinely nice people, even with us just meeting.

I feel like I missed the punch line when Willow murmurs a short time later, “Look, E. This Hulk has a warning label.” I realize the coloring of Presley’s cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment when he stands tall and proud, fanning imaginary peacock feathers. “Risk of asphyxiation.” She cranks her neck back to her fiancé. “I told you I wasn’t exaggerating.” She relishes his flaming face with me before she shifts her focus back to me. “Cash or check?”

I’m so stunned that I stumble like an idiot. “Um. Oh. Cash will be great. Thanks.”

I just sold a dildo to a celebrity. This will make marketing a dream. However, I should probably check if Willow is okay with my plan. The number of times Presley gets flashed when he runs onto the field would make the most confident girl’s shoulders wilt. She doesn’t need more knocks.

When Willow hands me a wad of cash, I stare at her, lost.

She answers my confusion after flashing me the cheekiest grin. “We need all the hulks. I’ve got enough to contend with, but it’ll be ten times worse if news that a replica of E’s dick is circulating the buy, swap, sell pages of his hometown makes it to print.”

A replica of his dick?

Shamefully, my eyes rocket to Presley’s face a mere second before they lower to his crotch.

I snap my eyes away, horrified, when Willow murmurs, “Evidence submitted. Case closed.”

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize, genuinely remorseful. “I thought they made dildos that size to embarrass brides at hen parties. I had no clue there are men with more than five inches.”

Her laugh rumbles down the side alley, alerting more than the security guard of my building that a celebrity has graced our shores for the umpteenth time this week.

Paparazzi flood the side alley quicker than I can snap my fingers, and they take a trillion pictures of Presley and Willow in under a nanosecond.

The lights are so blinding that before I can protect my eyes from permanent damage, Presley and Willow are hustled through the side entrance of my building by the building’s private security team.

“I’ll find a way to get these to you,” I shout, not wanting them to think I’ve duped them out of their hard-earned funds.

Willow’s Australian accent ensures I can’t mistake who replies. “You know where to find us.” She waves her hand around the inside of the elaborate building she is being forcefully walked into. “I’ll put your name on the approved list for our Christmas party later this week.”

“You’d have to know her name to put her on the list, Will.”

“Angel!” I shout in reply to Presley’s mumble. “My name is Angel.”

With rock stars, famous actors, New York Times best-selling authors, and mafia royalty forever visiting Ravenshoe during the festive season, my shouted greeting is gobbled up by the paparazzi who swarm my hometown throughout November and December.

They continue badgering the couple until they’re shoved into the elevator of my building and whisked away.

As quickly as the commotion began, it ends.

Although it shouldn’t, the lack of attention from the media sinks my shoulders. Only three years ago, I was hounded as relentlessly as the superstars who call Ravenshoe home. It might have been from the more sophisticated journalists who love Broadway as much as I do, but the light they shone on me was bright enough to feel its warmth.

Now it’s as cold as the wind whipping off the coast.

After a big exhale to slacken the heaviness on my chest, I adjust my box from my stomach to my hip before breaking through the guarded door Willow and Presley were forced through moments ago.

The elevator takes longer to return to the foyer since it had to go to the penthouse floor to drop off its last riders. I don’t mind the delay. It gives me plenty of time to think. Should I put the funds of my latest money-making scheme toward my alleged rental arrears or the legal debt threatening to snowball me at any moment?

Mrs. Richler’s scurry for her office when I spot her entering the foyer should answer my question on my behalf; however, life isn’t that simple.

I’m only behind on rent because the building supervisor is refusing to uphold the rental agreement my parents had in place for decades before their untimely deaths. I’m being railroaded out of the only place I’ve ever called home because while studying at Juilliard, a businessman threw a ton of money into Ravenshoe. It surged house prices to astronomical highs and turned once honest landlords into underworld peddlers.

I’ve faced every trick in the book over the past three years. It is lucky I know my rights, or I would have been homeless by now.

I’m snapped from my thoughts when a deep yet somewhat feminine voice says, “Ladies first.”

A man with blonde hair and way too much style to be straight waves his hand in front of his body, signaling me to enter the idling elevator before him.

“Thank you,” I murmur before accepting his offer, which seems more expected than natural.

I groan when an annoying Christmas jingle trickles into my ears upon entry. We’re only days out from the big day, but still, they’ve been playing this track on repeat since late October. Pumpkin spice hadn’t even gone on sale when this blasted song began torturing me.

My co-rider keeps his chuckles low, but I don’t need to hear them to know of their arrival.

I can’t miss the rumblings they cause his chest.

“N. O. Say it isn’t so. How are you not a fan of Christmas?” After selecting the floor that my fumble with the box didn’t allow me to pick, he spins to face me. “Christmas is?—”

“A sham like every other holiday festivity or celebration? You were born on this day twenty-five years ago? Whoopee. Who cares? If anyone should get a gift for that, it should be your mother. It was her hoo-ha that got destroyed by pushing out your fat head.”

The blonde doesn’t take my I-hate-life rant as seriously as everyone else subjected to it does. After fanning his hand across his chest, his mouth falls open. “You think I’m only twenty-five?” He steals my chance to answer. “ Girl , you just got yourself a new best friend.” He bands his arm around my back, his hold doing little to lessen the weight of the box on my hip. “Lucky. Elvis, Willow, and I come as a package deal. You can’t have them without me.” He checks the vanish on his nails. “Just don’t tell E that. He still hasn’t forgiven me for the note in the pharmacy bag. How was I to know that he didn’t want it included in the package? There were thirteen Willows on the dorm register alone.”

I’m completely lost and out of time to seek answers.

The elevator has arrived at my floor.

After another eye roll announcing he hates being forced to act gentlemanly, the unnamed man signals for me to exit first.

As we begin a slow trek down the hallway, he asks, “Have you lived here long?”

“You could say that.” I am not eager to dig those bones out of the closet so soon into our forming friendship, so I ask, “You?”

“I’m a newbie. Not from a lack of trying. I’ve been endeavoring to purchase an apartment here since Elvis moved Syndi and Emerick into the penthouse a few years ago. The procurement took forever . I thought it was because E wasn’t eager for me to interrupt Movie Marathon Sundays.” He shrugs off the idea. “But then I remembered they’d still have their heads stuck in vomit buckets if it weren’t for me.” He snaps his fingers together and does a sassy head move I’ve never witnessed before. “So I dug a little deeper.” He twists to face me, somehow still walking straight. “Turns out, not all the apartments in the building are owner-occupied. The handful of tenants left are digging their heels into the carpet.” He misses my O-formed mouth since he is too busy drinking in the expensive interior of the hallways. “Can’t say I blame them.” He tilts in close to a painting near my head. “Is that a Monet?” He loses interest as quickly as I do when I’m forced to attend an art show. “Anyhoo, supposedly the tenant helming the campaign is a witch with a pointy nose, a heart as black as Satan, and a wobbly chin hair. She lives in apartment 17B,” he announces just as we stop at apartment 17B. “Oh…” He drops his eyes to my chin as fast as I lowered mine to Presley’s crotch. Disappointment crosses his face when there isn’t a thick black hair for him to pluck, but he doesn’t seem the type to let the chance to be sassy fly by. “Must have wiggled its way to your brows.” He brushes away my bangs. “You’ve heard of tweezers, right?”

I pull back from him before taking a moment to relish his dramatic scoff. “Bushy brows are all the rage.”

“Since when?” he asks through a gag. “Were closet gays still a thing back then?”

“Don’t act like you wouldn’t have been interested if they were.”

His cheeks whiten. “Been there. Done that.” His clicky fingers and bobbing head thingy are back. “Would rather remain single.” After nudging me like he knew all along that I was his neighbor, he hands me a business card, exposing his name. Danny. “Willow is hosting a costume Christmas party on the twenty-third. Send your deets to me, and I’ll ensure you’re on the list.”

I’m super excited to be invited to a celebrity event, but forgetting my disgust for Christmas takes a lot. “Did you say a costume Christmas party?” When he nods, I groan. “That’s two celebrations that should never be merged.”

“I said the same thing.” He lowers his high-pitched tone to manageable before admitting, “But surprisingly, they’re a lot of fun.” He acts like he knows me better than he does. “You’ll find out.”

He wiggles his fingers before continuing his journey down the long hallway.