Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire Read Free

appealing in a Mae West kind of way as the bustier pushes everything up instead makes me look like a can of Pillsbury biscuits.
    One that someone pulled the string on.
    And twisted.
    The green, shimmery stockings are two sizes too small, and the crotch threatens constantly to pull down about six inches lower, which would make me look like I am wearing harem pants…except I’m wearing the closest thing to a g-string anyone can imagine, a tiny little red taffeta skirt circling my crushed hips like a bad case of eczema. 
    The costume design department for Blades of Glory is weeping with jealousy right now for not coming up with this.
    Or maybe they did…
    “Nice outfit,” Mommy Masochist says. “I need to speak with your manager,” she adds slowly. Her eyes cut away. “And tuck in your nip.” 
    I look down. Yep—headlight escaped, pointed right at the security guard by the service desk, who starts to stroke his billy club suggestively.
    “Thanks,” I mutter, because one good turn deserves—
    “Manager,” she snaps. “You’re useless. And slow.” Her face softens a little. “Are you—do you have a helper? An aide who works with you? I think it’s great you have a job and all. Is there a program manager I can—STOP IT, TYCHO! DO NOT SIT ON THAT BENCH! CREASE! CREASE!”
    A cold rage replaces the scent of peppermint and pine that the mall is piping through the heat registers. I’m breathing ice and frost and I wish I had Elsa’s power, because I could freeze a bitch right now. Turn her into a mall Han Solo. 
    “I am not developmentally disabled,” I say, searching for Santa, er…Greg. He’s gone, and the line of moms, a few dads, and tons of kids is getting longer. 
    “Then you’re just stupid and useless. Why is there a wait? We paid the exclusive premium for Santa’s Special Delivery, and—”
    “Ho, ho, ho!” Greg busts out, materializing from the direction of the bathrooms. Either he’s pretending to be Santa or he’s reading my breasts.
    In full Santa costume, he’s pretty amazing. Breathtaking, really. His belly fills out the costume perfectly, his eyes twinkle in a warm, inviting way with the skin wrinkling around them in a calm, compassionate manner, and his beard is fake but so realistic I want to tug it, just to make sure he didn’t magically grow it overnight.
    “Your elf is ruining Christmas!” Mommy Masochist announces in a voice loud enough to make several children, and one dad, start to cry. I suspect the dad is her husband, Daddy Doormat, because Tycho runs over to him and buries his face in the man’s knees.
    “Crease, Thomas! Crease!” Thomas the Daddy Doormat is wearing white jeans (those are a thing? For men?) and a white turtleneck, with a red wool sweater the exact color of Mommy Masochist’s shoes.
    “I’ve never had an elf ruin Christmas,” Greg booms, his voice so Santa-like that shoppers slow down from their fast clip through the mall, pull phones away from ears to gawk, and come to complete halts at the baritone that fuels old dreams tucked away long ago.
    He’s kind of magical.
    “In fact, Shannon the Elf here has come to our rescue to help make sure every good little boy and girl gets their turn.” It’s working—she’s thawing and smiling now, her eyes a bit frozen in place as she realizes she’s the center of attention but not in control of it. All those years of Greg playing Santa at the community center are paying off. 
    “Thank you,” she says softly, giving him a look that says she could just as soon hug him as sever his limbs and hide them in the Verizon kiosk. “But the app says we’re supposed to be here on time.” 
    “App, Santa?” I ask helplessly.
    Greg pulls me aside. “There’s this new app the owners rolled out. For $79 you can sign up in advance and come at your appointed time and jump the line. No waiting.”
    “So the rich get to buy their way to no lines but the people who can’t afford it have to wait for eternity?