A Naughty Santa Gram Read online

  "Yes, but not ‘til afternoon, so I doubt I'll see you. He likes to be here early every day to get a head start on things, and almost all the new hires start at like 6 for training. One word of advice?" she offers.

  "Sure, hit me with it."

  "Don't be late. He has a thing with tardiness and has the guys run laps for it. If you're going to be a Santa, I'm sure you're going to be treated the same, and those are long-ass laps from what I hear. Just keep your phone on loud and answer right away," she warns.

  "Will do. Thanks, Sarah. I'll be seeing you." Settling my glasses on the top of my head, I glide towards the front doors, giddy with relief at getting such a bomb-ass job. I knew I'd make the bossman my bitch.

  "Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz. Bzz Bzz Bzzz."

  "What the hell?" I screech, cobwebs from my sleep still firmly in my brain. I reach to the floor where my phone is connected to an extension cord and nab it from the fluff it has sunk into. Looking at the time, I swipe right.

  "It's fucking 4:30 in the morning. This better be good," I tell the unknown number.

  "Be at the office building in one hour. Bring workout clothes, a pair of heels over 3 inches, and something to change into after. Don't be late," Bossman growls out before promptly hanging up the phone.

  "Asshole," I grumble, adding "Bossman" to my list of contacts. I give myself just a few more minutes to stretch and relax in the bed. The satin sheets glide on my skin, and the comforter has wrapped me in a warm cocoon. However, I'm no butterfly, so when I emerge from the confines of this comforter, I'll still be a cranky bitch of a caterpillar, crawling out of bed to find something to wake my ass up.

  At least the rug feels good when I land on it. Sighing deeply and giving one last pat to the rug, I struggle to my feet and head for the kitchen.

  "What the hell? Why are you up so damned early? Are you sick? Dying? Did you catch something from those sexy Santas?" Jenna frets while walking at a fine clip on her treadmill.

  "No, my bossman from Hell called and told me to be to work in an hour, so I have to get up way too early. UGH. Please, just kill me now," I whine, moving around her living room gym and settling myself on a hightop metal chair at the island.

  "Well, you wanted this job, despite the hours and training, to prove that sexism is real and to make a stand against it. Or something like that. So you'd better get yourself some coffee and get fucking ready. Didn't you say he had a thing about being late?" Jenna reminds me, peeking through the posts on the half-wall.

  "Yes, Sarah the receptionist said something about it," I grumble, reaching for the coffee pot that is about a foot out of reach.

  "Umm. What are you doing?" Jenna asks, picking up her walking pace.

  "Trying to use Jedi mind force to get the coffee to me," I say, brows furrowed and hyper-focused on the coffee pot.

  "Because that's worked in the past. Why don't you not and say you did. I swear, I'll tell everyone that you used the force to get it to you. Just get off your lazy ass, get it, and get going. To go cups are in the top cupboard to the right of the sink," she points out, exasperated with me already. She's got that little tic by her right eye and is pounding a bit more on the treadmill than she had been.

  "Fine. But I'm adding flavor. I hate coffee, but I know I need the boost this morning. You don't happen to have any nectar of the gods, do you?" I ask, longingly looking at the fridge as I move towards the cupboard. The white cupboard. I roll my eyes a little.

  "If by nectar of the gods, you mean Dr. Pepper, then no, I do not. You'll have to pick some up if you need your fix."

  "See if I don't," I respond, opening the cupboard. Of course, she put it on the top shelf. Short hobbitses like me can't reach top shelves. Yes, my precious. We wants it!

  "What the hell are you doing now?" Jenna exclaims from her torture machine.

  "What? I'm getting a travel mug down. Not all of us are giraffes like you, some of us are pint-sized and have to use our resources," I say while kneeling on her countertops. "See, you should know that if you live with a short person, the only things that go on the top shelves are things you never use." I grunt, rising to my feet on her counter. "Things like fancy dishes, or flour sifters, or weird ass things like that. Aha! Got ya, you little devil," I say to the mug.

  "Get your feet off of my counter right this instant," Jenna shrieks in annoyance, stopping the treadmill and coming towards me.

  “Ok, ok, don't get your panties in a twist," I say, turning and crouching before leaping off the counter. I stick the landing, of course. After years of training for this, I'd win the freaking gold medal.

  "Seriously? Are you an animal?" She reaches into the cabinet below the sink and grabs some bleach and a rag.

  "Only a small one. A cute, spicy little cat," I reply, pouring some nasty black stuff into my mug.

  "More like a little demon cat that will claw off your face while you sleep, but whatever. Semantics," Jenna responds, scrubbing her precious counter.

  "Meh. I'll own it." I move to the fridge for some creamer to make this shit palatable. I pour in almost as much creamer as I did coffee, and even then I'm not sure I can stomach this stuff. I like my cream and sugar with a little coffee.

  I set my cream on the little antique white stand right by the door, ready and waiting for me when I walk out. I love this little stand; it's got that vintage feel, with spindle legs, claw feet, and a single simple drawer. Jenna and I found it at a flea market and painted it for her apartment. We added a jeweled handle, and boom. Pretty little pedestal for her apartment.

  "Alright, I have to get ready. Holler if you need anything." Yawning, I stretch as I head to the bathroom.

  "Yeah, I need the animal to leave my apartment and go to work already," she hollers, putting the bleach back and the paper towel in the trash before heading to her fold up treadmill. I just shake my head at her craziness. Everyone knows exercise sucks.

  Fifteen minutes later, I'm out the door. The reception dude in our lobby looks at me like I’m a ghost or something. I totally get it. He’s on duty until around six, so I'm sure he doesn't see many people leaving during his shift. Probably a few coming home drunk this time of the morning, but surely not many leaving this early.

  I walk quickly to Cherry, the morning chill still lingering as the sky is just starting to light up the eastern sky. Otherwise, it's still basically nighttime, though you can hear traffic on the roads, and in the distance there's a siren going off. Gotta love city life.

  I get to SHG, Inc, one minute late. One minute. Who knew that traffic would be that bad at five fucking o’clock in the morning? Seriously, all these people are fucking nuts if they’re up every day of the week like this.

  I grab my bag and phone, park the car, and dash out, heading to the front door. Shoving my phone in the bag, I pull on the door but am met with resistance.

  “What the actual fuck?” I shake the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.There’s no fucking way he stood me up.” I shiver in the early morning air and dig out my phone. I search for Bossman and hit call.

  “You’re late,” Bossman grumbles.

  “Are you serious right now? I’m legitimately,” I argue, pausing to pull my phone from my ear to see the time, “two minutes late. Traffic sucks this early in the morning. Just let me in.”

  “You know, I don’t think you’re cut out for this. If you’re going to keep being late every day, I’ll have to let you go. Consider this strike one. Any more, and you’ll get the first written warning.”

  “You’re fucking with me. I probably pulled up right on time. You’re being ridiculous and way too anal. Just let me in, it’s chilly out here.” I’m seriously getting to the point where I’m angry.

  “You’ll get in when you’ve apologized for keeping me waiting.”

  “Ok, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. Now open the door, Bossman.” I roll my eyes, completely over it.

  Silence meets me.

  “Hello, I said I’m sorry,” I say, rolling my eyes and tapping my phon
e with my nails.

  Still, silence. I sigh deeply.

  “Mr. Daniels, I am so sorry for my tardiness. I will make sure it doesn’t happen again. Will you please open the door?” I ask quietly and politely, grinding my teeth.

  A click is all I hear. Silence. I pull the phone from my ear and swear, looking at my home screen where there should be a phone call. "Motherfucking asshole!" I shout into the phone. I know it won't help, but it feels good. I turn around and head for Cherry.

  "Where are you going now?" a deep voice rumbles from behind me.

  "Home, since you hung up on me, asshole," I say, shaking my phone while pursing my lips.

  "I hung up to come let you in, Brat. Get in here so we can get started. Otherwise, I'll assume you just want to quit and give up?" A small satisfied grin fills his face at this.

  "Hell no." I stalk past him and enter, headed to the left. "Lead on, Bossman."

  A deep sigh sounds behind me, and after a small click of the door locking, a warm hand grabs my bare shoulder. His calluses are rough but smoothed down to where if he were to rub my skin, I know they would only leave goosebumps behind. Drake, as I'd never call him out loud, has warm, strong hands. His grip is firm, and I’m pretty sure he could keep me where he wanted me, and I’d never get out of his hold. Chills go down my spine, and I arch my back a little, pleased at his touch. And then that firm grip steers me from the left to the right.

  "Wrong direction, Brat. The gym is this way," Bossman snaps.

  "Wait, what? We have a gym?" I ask, flabbergasted at everything that fits in this building.

  "Yes, we have a full gym. I'll have Presley, the morning receptionist, show you around after we are done today. For now, we will start in the gym, then we will work in the small conference room for the rest of the morning," he explains, stepping ahead of me.

  Most of the lights are still off, but the ones that he has turned on really make his ass look great. He has that bubble butt effect, so firm and round. They remind me of two halves to the perfect melon. I bet they taste better than a melon. Mmm, I'd like to take a bite out of his ass any day. You can seriously tell this guy works out. Right now he has sweats and a hoodie on, but I bet once we get going, he'll strip that shit off and make me sit down and beg for a show.

  I finally get to see what is down the hallway on the right, an elevator and three doors. Boring. I stop in front of the elevator, but Bossman keeps going.

  "Umm, aren't we going to use the elevator?"

  He snorts. "We are going to go have a workout. So no, we aren't. In fact, none of the Santas or our other holiday ‘grammers are allowed to use the elevator unless they have a medical condition that requires them to. Steps are great for working the calves, gets them in great form. Does that answer your question?"

  "Stairs it is, gotcha. Lead on, Bossman," I quip, grinning as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening door number two. I wonder what's behind one and three? Later, Blake, later.

  "I'm going to have to insist you stop calling me that."

  "Calling you what, Bossman?" I smile back, ensnared by the view as his tight buns work their way up the stairs like the moon moving through the sky.

  "That. You can call me Mr. Daniels," he responds, looking back at the landing and catching me checking out his ass. "Really?" I’m blushing a little at getting caught staring but also not giving one shit.

  I just shrug, smiling. "You have a fine ass, a real piece of work. Like, Michelangelo should've put your ass on David, it's that fine. And why can't I call you Bossman? What do the guys all call you because I highly doubt it's Mr. Daniels."

  "No, but I think it would be best to keep our relationship less personal, more business," he responds, starting up the second set of stairs.

  "Is that really what you want, Mr. Daniels? You've touched my ass, I've memorized the shape of yours... it seems that we are more than professionally familiar with each other's asses. I think that makes our relationship less formal, don't ya think?" I ask, skin tightening, and my breathing becoming more labored.

  "Well, Brat, if that's the way you want it, I suppose we could be more familiar. Would you like me to treat you like one of the guys? Like another brother?" he asks, turning to grin at me.

  "Umm, eww, no. I'm not brother material."

  He chuckles before turning suddenly and grasping my chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't I know it," he whispers, staring at my mouth with a deep intensity.

  As suddenly as his hand is there, it's gone again, and he is hurrying up the stairs, leaving only a hint of the warmth from his hand on my chin.

  I shake my head, trying to understand what just happened. My clit is throbbing, all from a few whispered words and a barely-there touch. Forcing myself to focus, I follow Drake the rest of the way up the stairs in a hurry.

  Ahead of me, he uses those strong hands to pull open the door, holding it out for me as I hit the top of the stairs.

  "Some of the guys start showing up around six, six-thirty, so let's get you through machine orientation and get you going. Each employee is required to do a thirty-minute workout at least five days a week, here in our gym or on the outdoor track in the back. You can do anything you'd like, and go longer if you so desire, but you must do at least those thirty minutes. You may choose how and when to complete your training and maintenance, but remember to keep it all in order to remain an employee of SHG, Inc.”

  “Ok, but how do you know when I'm here and what I'm doing?"

  "You enter a passcode to enter the gym and on each machine. I'll show you; it's the first door in the hall."

  Exiting the stairs, we entered a cool hallway. There are windows that line the gray hallway on the outside wall, facing the front of the parking lot. The opposite wall is also partially glass, letting me see into the gym itself. A good way to let runners and such see the outdoors as they get their freaky workout on. The air here is cool, a good thing if you're going to be spending ten hours in the gym weekly. The first door is only a few feet away, and Bossman inputs numbers and uses his thumbprint to enter the gym.

  "Here is the storage area. Most guys leave their things in their lockers downstairs, but there are a few hooks and some storage if you bring anything up here."

  "Bossman, why do you have to use a thumbprint up here? Why not down below?" I ask, setting my bag down on the low bench and slipping out of my red jacket.

  "It's part of your time clock. You don't get paid for more than a thirty-minute work out, but if you meet the ten hour requirements, there are some extra perks.”

  “Perks?”

  “Correct,” Bossman answers. “Any employee who logs a minimum of ten hours a week at our gym receives incredible health insurance for the year, as long as you continue to come in for ten hours every week, you get the best insurance policies. One hundred dollar deductible, and a three hundred out of pocket max at seventy percent paid. After that, everything is one hundred percent covered through the year. Like I said, it’s beneficial to you. All I require is a paid thirty-minute session five times a week for health reasons. Any questions?"

  "You mean more than the best insurance coverage I've ever fucking heard of?" I exclaim, thoroughly shocked and overwhelmed by the generosity this man extends to his employees.

  "There are a few other things in there too that Sarah should have mentioned when you signed your release forms and received your informational packet yesterday. Did you not get that done after the meeting we had?" he asks, his voice tightening as he clenches his hands.

  "Hey, don't blame Sarah, she had a rough day. I mean, she dealt with your ass all day, then she dealt with my, how do I put it―"

  "Brattiness?"

  "Funny, but no. My unique personality and charm. I'm sure she was just relieved to see me go."

  "You do have that effect on people," he grumbles.

  "What, making them forget things?"

  "No, making them glad to see you leave."

  "Ha. Bossman's a funny guy, har ha
r," I reply, rolling my eyes and shaking my head at him. "So what does that mean for us today?" I inquire, pausing.

  "It means you can't actually get a full workout in. I can still show you and test you to see where you're at as a fully-licensed trainer, but beyond that, you'll have to wait until you sign some papers."

  "Well darn, that stinks so much," I say, way too chipper to be taken seriously.

  "I'm sure," he says. "Come on, leave your things and let's see what you've got.

  "Not too bad," Bossman rumbles at me when I've finished running around their inside track. "You managed a half mile in 4 minutes. Not great, but not bad."

  "Good," I huff, out of breath. "Next time," gasp, "will be," breath, "faster." I lean over, then sit next to my bag I brought up. Thank god I brought water with me. I guzzle that stuff down faster than a gazelle who's running from a lion.

  "I'd go slow, or you might bring it back up," Bossman warns.

  "Screw. You," I puff out between gulps of earth juice. It'd be so much better on the rocks.

  He chuckles, sending those hot tingles down to my core again. "Don't say I didn't warn you. And don't puke. You'll be the one who cleans it up. Now get up, and let's get to the conference room and get the paperwork done." Getting up, he heads out the door.

  I scramble to follow, and once we are outside in the hallway, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I glance at my phone, and yup, it's about six-thirty in the morning. Guys must be coming in before work.

  Heading down the glass hallway, I glance behind and see a sexy brunette with hair I envy. I start, then realize it's the one from the ad Jenna and I saw at the mall. How cool is that?

  "Umm, question?"

  "Answer," Daniels replies.

  "Will my face be used for advertising?"

  "Most definitely. You'll be the only female working here as a Santa, so you're going to be plastering Los Angeles soon. We will get to that with the paperwork," he says, moving swiftly down the hall. I hobble along behind him, grumbling. It's not like he was punished with every machine in the gym and then forced to sprint a mile. Ok, maybe sprint isn't the word I'm looking for, but still. I ran. I hurt. I cry internally.