Sunday, December 20, 2020
Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: Santa's Naughty Boy by Wendy Rathbone
A young man discovers Santa has many secrets.
Working at an out of the way gay bar in Alaska is all Angel knows. The daily grind is getting boring, until one evening a handsome older man walks in wearing a red parka and a Santa hat.
Now Angel can't stop thinking about this Santa daddy. But this guy plays hard to get. As if he's hiding something. Something big.
Soon Angel will discover that Santa daddy has many secrets, not the least of which is an ice castle at the North Pole complete with hidden room full of more than toys for kids.
A fantasy holiday romance where Santa's Village is real. Includes: two lonely guys, a magical daddy, a young man who wants to believe, toys for Christmas, tender care and holiday miracles.
Chapter One
Angel
Sleet falls in the black slippery streets, on the front walk, and against the window panes. It leaves behind white slush on the outside sills, stark against the deep onyx of the cold Alaskan night.
People are used to such weather here, especially in November, but this evening seems extra cold and dismal, the kind of night you stay home and slither under a pile of blankets in front of the fireplace, share warmth with your dog or, if you are lucky enough to have one, a lover or a spouse.
From behind the bar, Royal watches me wipe down the two back booths, his gaze hard and unmoving like always. As if he’s waiting for me to fuck up and not do it right. Like always.
He’s been picking on me more today because it’s slow. We’re all on edge. I and the other cocktail waiters aren’t making much in tips, and Royal’s cash register is too empty for his liking. He’s all about the money, a no-nonsense sort of guy who keeps a very expensive and spoiled boyfriend on the side.
Prancer’s is Royal’s pride and joy and has made him pretty well-off, but days like these make him more than grumpy. He’s already sent Joeybear home, but he refuses to close the bar early. He’ll make the rest of us stay until one or two a.m. finding more make-work for us to do like wash invisible spots off glassware, wipe down already sparkling countertops, or clean and re-clean the glass windows of the outer and inner doors of the entrance, and sweep away ice dragged in on the shoes of customers from the enclosed, entry-way alcove.
I always hate that alcove job. It’s cold in that little area, and my waiter uniform consists of only black boots, tight leather pants, and a bow tie. It’s the holidays, so for the next six weeks the bow tie is red instead of black, and we wear more glitter in our hair than usual, along with metal bracelets of red and green bells.
My bare, flat titties turn to stone nubbins in that alcove, and Royal won’t let us wear jackets even while cleaning out there.
“The customers want to see skin, so we’ll give them skin,” he always says.
Of course he’s right. That’s the only entryway, and the first thing customers view of this little gay bar in the big woods. They’re going to want to see young, toned men with gleaming tans even in the dead of winter, so that’s what we give them.
“Angelbaby, don’t forget to wipe under the cushions, too,” Royal says from across the bar.
When he snaps orders at me in public like that, it makes me feel like nothing. Like I’m meat and a tool, fit only for being ordered around to deliver drinks, flirt, and clean. In truth, it is kind of the job description. And Royal is a fair and just boss. But still!
If I didn’t make so much money from tips, especially in spring and summer, I wouldn’t be here. But this job pays for my BMW, and a rather nice condo I don’t have to share with any sloppy roommates.
There are only two customers in the bar right now. The music is playing a low and sexy background beat to accompany the drunken, lazy way they are leaning into each other as they speak in low voices probably about past hookups, or future ones, or hooking up with each other right now.
They aren’t paying any attention to Royal. Or me. But I still feel as if Royal is broadcasting criticism. I feel like he picks on me the most. Probably because I’m the youngest at twenty-two. And, damn it I’ll just say it, I’m the fucking cutest waiter here. Because of that, I swear I just play right into the role of Royal’s kinky all-the-time need for control.
When I finish bussing the tables, I carry the tub of dirty dishes and rags to the kitchen. Royal stops me at the swinging double doors.
“You spilled crumbs all over. Get the broom and do the job right!”
I nod, holding back a heavy sigh.
“Angelbaby, don’t give me that look. Just do the job right and I’ll stop having to micromanage you all the time.”
I ignore him. He likes to act big. But he’s not really all that mean. He gave us all these cute nicknames to go with the job. Joeybear. Bobbykitten. Hennydoll for Henry. Oh how Henry hates it! And me, well, my real name is Angelo. I don’t look like an Angelo. Never did. I actually do look like an Angelbaby. And this Angelbaby gets the best tips, so I don’t mind it at all.
After I rinse the dishrags and put the glassware and appetizer dishes in the dishwasher, which is barely half full—that’s how slow it’s been around here today—I return to the main bar with the sweeper. It’s not really a vacuum cleaner. It runs on wheels, which make the brushes spin, and is great for getting crumbs up from flat, all-weather carpet.
As I walk toward the back booths, the sweeper makes a soft raspy noise as I push it. I do a little dance, balancing the handle and circling it like it’s my grind partner, thrusting toward the handle’s shaft as I sweep up the crumbs. Out the corner of my eye, I see Royal shake his head and turn away, but not before I note the barest curve of a smile on his lips.
If I do nothing else right tonight, well, at least I’ve done this to the boss’s satisfaction.
Just as I’m bending and gyrating to get the sweeper under the table, I hear the outer alcove door slam shut in the wind and the inner door’s bell jangle over the canned beat of the music. A brand new customer enters.
I glance up to see a somewhat burly guy in a red parka lined with white fur enter our gay and friendly establishment. He has on a red knit cap with a long tail that dangles over his shoulder. A cute pom-pom on the end of that cap bounces against his broad chest.
As he walks toward the booth I’ve just cleaned—hella spotless now, I’m proud to say—he tugs off the parka and underneath reveals a dark red velvet shirt over black trousers, and knee-high black boots that are folded down at the tops. Those are what I call Santa-boots, and immediately I love them on him. And the red velvet? That color brings out a glow in the cheeks.
He pulls off his cap and down tumble brilliant waves of light brown hair streaked with flashes of gold. I sorta want to ask who his stylist is, but we haven’t even met yet, and that’s kind of a personal question.
Instead, I shove the sweeper toward the back wall, stick out my flat, naked chest, flex my arms a bit, and approach.
“Hi, I’m Angelbaby. It’s pretty damn cold out. Can I get you anything to warm you up, Daddy?”
Of course I put in all the inflections in all the right places. I tilt my head so my smile comes off as sarcastic but still cutely enticing.
He looks up at me with eyes the color of a moonlit sea, dark with just a hint of blue.
“Hmm,” he says. His gaze twinkles. I mean, actually twinkles! “I’m not cold but I’ve been craving a rum and Coke all day.”
I sashay off, hoping he’s staring at my ass because these leathers hug my slim hips perfectly, and I credit them for at least half of my generous tips.
Royal hands me the drink which I put on a tray. He says, “You know him?”
“No.”
Royal purses his lips. “Haven’t seen him around before.”
“Me, either. But he’s cute.”
Royal raises an eyebrow. “If you like the burly, older type.”
I shrug. “Who doesn’t?”
But the guy isn’t all that old. Or burly. Broad, yes, with muscle, but trim, like a man who’s seen a few battles or a long walk through the ice fighting White Walkers. I’m a Game of Thrones fan, so my brain automatically measures guys up by that standard. It’s not fair of me, I know, but it’s the maze my mind walks.
I set down a round, cardboard coaster with the Prancer’s logo on it of a reindeer hopping over a full, yellow moon. I start to place the drink on top but the guy grabs the coaster and stares at it.
He mumbles something that sounds like: “He’s a lot thicker in the haunches than this, and the face is too short.”
“What?” I set the drink on the bare wood tabletop.
The guy shakes his bronze-brown hair. “Nothing.” He takes out a hundred dollar bill and hands it to me.
It’s been so slow I wonder if Royal will even have the change in anything but fives and tens.
“You’re new around here.”
He stirs his drink. “I’ve been around and about these parts for a long time.”
“New to Prancer’s, then?”
“Yes.”
“Well, enjoy!” We were trained as cocktail waiters to be friendly, but not to the point of bugging the patrons. If they start responding with one word answers, I take that as a cue to ring them up and bring back change.
But then the guy says, waving his hand, “Keep the change.”
I stare at the hundred in my hand not quite believing what he’s just said. Sometimes tips are big, but this is rare.
“You realize you gave me a hundred for a ten dollar drink.”
“Yes.”
I stare at him. His smile makes something inside my chest tug. Hard. Well, he is really handsome. And so far he hasn’t been forward like some patrons who pant lasciviously or check me out with their gazes going up and down my body. In fact, he hasn’t checked me out at all. It’s kind of a turn-on. Make me work for it, I think. Make me beg.
“Thank you,” I say aloud, and tuck the bill in the tip cup on my tray.
I return to the bar. The guys sitting there have already been waited on. I have no other customers, so I keep checking the cute daddy out the corner of my eye.
He’s taking little sips through the two skinny red straws I’d put in the drink, but the level on the drink doesn’t go down. I don’t have an excuse to go back over until I see that maybe he needs a refill.
He’s not checking out the bar. He’s not looking hungry for a hook-up, but what do I know? Maybe he has a strategy I haven’t noticed yet. He does check his phone once in a while, but that’s about it.
Now he’s got me wondering. Is he lonely? Was he just thirsty and so he stepped in? Is he even gay?
At the moment I ponder that last thought, he glances up. Straight toward me. Our gazes meet and he does not flinch.
Just then, Royal comes up to where I’m half-standing, half-sitting, having hitched my left buttock on the bar stool.
“Angelbaby, pay the till. Ten bucks for that drink.” Royal gestures at my tray.
“Oh. Yeah!”
I grab ten bucks in change from my tip cup and walk around the bar to the register. I set my tray down and ring up the drink. The hundred I keep nice and folded inside the other bills, mostly fives, in my cup.
With that one tip, my night doesn’t feel so much like wasted time now.
I grab my tray and go back out front. Waiting for more customers. Trying not to yawn.
I glance again at the velvet-clad daddy. I don’t know why I’m calling him that nickname. He doesn’t really look old. But he does look like someone who’s been around the block, someone who is in charge. Maybe he runs a big company. Maybe he bosses guys around all day. Or maybe he is a loner but a control freak.
And there I go again speculating on him when I don’t even know his name.
Just then, I see him wave at me, that beautiful smile of his crawling into my heart.
I walk over to him slowly; if he wants to check me out I’ve got no problem with that.
When I get to his booth, a little shiver runs down my spine. It’s not fear or anything; it’s more of a thrill. This guy has my attention, that’s for sure. Usually, I leave work at work. I don’t go home with too many from this bar. I’m no virgin, but I’m not into casual, either. I flirt for the job and then I clock out.
What am I waiting for? Like anyone, the perfect hero to sweep me off my feet. I know better. It’s stupid. But I’m young. I’ve got time to play. And wait.
“Need a refill?” I ask. I blink a bit because I’d swear his hair just got a tad shinier and the tan on his cheeks has started to glow even more than when he came in from the cold. His eyes look like there are little blue lights shining from deep within.
His hand, which is resting on the side of his glass, is big but tapered and long, perfect, and a wide silver band decorates his middle left finger. It catches the light overhead, blinding me for a moment like someone far off holding a mirror to the sun and flashing it as a signal.
“Are you allowed to sit and talk while on duty?” the daddy asks.
I shrug. “It’s a slow night.” Royal won’t care unless the place starts to get busy.
He gestures for me to sit, and in that moment I smell Christmas so strong in the air. Peppermint and pumpkin spice. Pine and sugar cookies.
“My name is Nic,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Nic.”
“Is your name really Angelbaby? I heard your boss call you that.”
“It’s Angelo, actually, but outside of work everyone calls me Angel.”
His lips curve up at that statement.
I lean one elbow on the edge of the table and drum my fingers on the smooth surface.
“So, how long have you lived in Alaska?” I ask.
Nic’s eyes squint a bit. His smile goes flat, then up-curved again. “I don’t actually live here. But I travel through often.”
“So you’re from the lower states? Or Canada?” I’m trying to place an accent, but his intonation is pretty flat.
“Hmm. I live pretty far north. Near the Canadian territory of Nunavut.”
I’m not stupid, but I’m not up on my geography, either. The only area close to Nunavut, if my memory is serving me correctly, is the North Pole. But he can’t mean that literally. It’s just too funny. His hat, his boots, the red velvet. I called him Santa in my mind, but for fun, not because I believe it.
A chuckle escapes me before I can hold it back. I laugh when I’m nervous sometimes and I hate that about myself. I already look younger than twenty-two and I hate that I’m often seen as a silly teen, a kid who is immature. I’m well read and damn smart, but no one’s ever going to find that out about me if I keep working jobs that require no shirt and I giggle after every sentence I utter.
But why am I nervous? This is simply a high-tipping customer. I have nothing to worry about, I tell myself. But wow, he’s so handsome. Totally to my taste. Alluring, in fact. My flirting here in Prancer’s is mainly a game, but it doesn’t feel like that at the moment.
“It’s pretty damn cold up there year round.” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat.
“It is.” Nic nods. His eyebrows rise. “It’s pretty cold here, too.”
“Yeah, a holiday in Hawaii sounds good about now.”
“I’ve been to Hawaii. But I prefer the cold,” Nic says. “The snow. And the stars in the endless nights of the north.”
I blink. “Yes, it is beautiful. So, you sound like a guy who can live anywhere he wants but you choose ice and snow.”
He shrugs. “I have commitments in the northern territories.”
“Ah. Yes. Work. A company man.”
“In a manner of speaking.” He does not elaborate, which only makes him more mysterious. And, to my lonely heart, enticing.
Most guys brag about their jobs, especially if they are wealthy. He strikes me as the wealthy sort, but so far not pompous about it. Definitely a charmer, this one, but not overt like he’s coming onto me or anything. Which, of course, tallies even more points for me to favor him.
Again, the scent of Christmas wafts over me. I inhale with a sigh. It smells so good.
He has taken the two red straws I’d added to his drink and set them neatly on a Prancer’s napkin. Now he sips his rum and Coke and it’s halfway gone.
“Can I get you another?”
“In a moment.” His gaze encompasses me and my skin goes warm. “Tell me about yourself, Angel. Like, for example, if you had a wish, what would it be?”
“A wish? You mean like world peace or something?”
“No. Not what you think is a right and proper wish. A selfish wish. Something for you and you alone.”
It’s weird to have a Santa daddy asking me this. I mean, seriously? Fuck, should I be sitting on his lap or something? My cheeks heat at the thought.
I suppress another chuckle; my lips press together until my front teeth dig into them.
“Anything?”
He nods.
“Like materialistic?”
Another nod. “Anything.”
“Well, there are some very private ones.” I lower my chin, playing a little coy. “But other than finding true love, I would say I wish for, um, well, I don’t know. When I was a kid I asked for a green Schwinn bicycle with metallic handles. I never got it. It was too expensive. But I wanted it so bad. Is that the kind of wish you mean?”
So weird. Here I am telling him about a childhood wish as if he really is Santa.
“You would need an all terrain bike around here,” he comments.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Mostly, I’m not the outdoorsy type. Not anymore. I go to the gym a couple times a week. That’s it.”
I rest my hand on my chin as I watch Nic drain the rest of his drink. I hop up, grabbing the empty glass. “Another?”
Nic shakes his head. “What I’d really like this time is a glass of milk.”
“Uh, I don’t think we have that. I can check.” I don’t say it aloud, but I’m thinking: Milk and cookies would really go with your Santa coat.
He waves his hand. “Not a problem.” He stands. “I need to get going anyway.”
I take two steps back, sorry to lose him so soon after we just met. I watch as he fastens his fur-lined red parka and puts on his fluffy Santa cap.
He’s so tall and broad, just like I like ‘em. And I like the creases in his face, like dimples that have deepened with time. I adore the gold-pink color of his cheeks, and the way his dark blue eyes dance in the lights of the bar. And his hair has a crinkly shine, both dark and light at the same time.
I always love the tall ones, brawny enough to hold me tight, or even lift me up if they are so inclined. Most are not so inclined. Most don’t like to play the way I do. From the straightest to the gayest, they are more burly Alaskan types, the mountain men I fantasize about, yes, but their personalities are too straight-laced. And most are hunters, and more on the wild side. I don’t like hunting, never did. It’s a deal-breaker for me if someone isn’t nice to animals.
Maybe I’m just not cut out for living in Alaska despite being born here.
I watch as Nic strides toward the front door. For a second, he stops as if he’s about to turn back to me. But then his hand reaches for the inner door and opens it.
After he is outside, I walk to the front window to see him strolling into the steady sleet, sure-footed, shoulders back and head up as if he doesn’t feel the ice and cold at all.
He goes to the street and starts down the walkway on foot. He has no car. Nothing. Which surprises me. I watch him, a flash of red under an occasional streetlight, until he is gone.
My demeanor slumps. Even though I don’t date customers, I had liked the guy. Maybe a little too much too fast.
I go back to his table and start to clean it.
The napkin sits to the side and I pick it up. Then I see below the Prancer’s logo is something handwritten. I start to read.
Angel, I’d like to see you again some time. If you have such a wish, call this number.
The number is smeared a little, but I can read it. I had had my eye on him this whole time and I never saw him write that note. Very strange. And the way he uses the word wish again.
I think I’ve already fallen in love.
Chapter Two
Nic
The cold clings to this climate. The very air defines it. Ice shooting around me like little stars. Sludge at my feet, the frozen currents causing tiny tsunamis at the edges of my boots.
I feel none of it. Yet, I love it. The pattering of crystal shards, the wind trying to decide which way to turn, how the light catches the edges of ice and turns it into rainbows. Everything has a beautiful side if you look closely enough. But people, they are another matter. Some are nice. Some are not.
This is a hard world. This is a strange Earth. But with the exception of one night a year, mostly I stay away from humans. It is my personal choice. But sometimes a man, even one from an immortal race of elves, gets lonely.
The elves who work for me, and those who live in the hidden City of the North, are not of the same race as I. They are mortal, though very long-lived. They view me as their king.
I didn’t ask for the job, but my magic created the hierarchy. I am their king, and I will not abuse that responsibility. So I live alone but for my servants. And though I have heard the rumors the elves spread about me once having had a wife, it isn’t true. Even back on our dying native home world, before our escape through the portal to this Earth, I had lived alone. I had been younger then, and still thought I had all the time in the universe to find a lover among my people and make a family.
But here, in this realm, I am the only one of my kind. The only one who wields magic, which I always try to use for good.
I feel uneasy mixing personal with professional. Elves are my profession. I care for them, but I also rule them. I am their boss.
So when I get too lonely, I go into the human world for company.
It’s rare. I’ve had three human lovers in two hundred years. Two of the relationships did not last past the second date. I never told them my secrets. But one I did confess my nature to after I felt our love had grown. He ran away and never contacted me again.
After that, I resigned myself to a fate of being alone.
So why did I walk into Prancer’s tonight of all nights? Why did I even glance at the waiter who brought me my drink?
A loneliness I can no longer control rules me.
Angel. Angelbaby. I can’t stop thinking about him. Sleek and young. Probably too young for me. But something about him quickened me, made my icicle blood flow and the ache in my chest swell.
Look at me. The first cute boy I meet on a lonely walk and an innocent dalliance in a gay bar and I’m already wanting. Leaving my number on a used napkin. Behaving like a dirty lonely old man in my thoughts.
But his skin was smooth like light, his body sleek where the lean muscles rippled. And his voice came over me like a low hum when he’d asked me for my order. Pretty boy with pretty hair and slim arms and a lean waist, the kind I like to wrap my large hands around.
This is getting me nowhere. I can’t keep a human lover. I have proven this to myself. I don’t need a lover anyway. My life is full of love. My elves love me. My reindeer are like my children.
I have a room full of fantasies behind a locked door, a room I rarely enter, but it’s there just in case. My toys grow dusty in there, my adult toys, but I can dream and imagine quite well. I don’t need the reality of this Earth where humans are struggling to find their way, and war and politics rule the day.
I’m fine in my own little world.
I tell myself this as I walk through a storm I don’t feel, pressing myself into the beautiful shadows of darkness patched only by brave dim streetlights fighting to push back the night.
My vacation away from Santa’s Village is something I do for myself every late November. For two weeks I leave the North Pole and rent a cabin with a fireplace and live away from the hectic elf mayhem that accompanies the approach of Christmas. Sure, I have my own castle, but every day there is full of messages and requests and my servants bustling about.
Every year, for two weeks, I take this time to be alone.
I had not planned on stepping one boot into Prancer’s until I saw the lights of the establishment from the road.
I had not planned on meeting anyone, let alone a boy as compelling as Angel.
No, none of this had been on my agenda.
As I walk through the ripples of icy air, I decide if he does call I will ignore it. I will watch the call on my cell phone go to voicemail. I will never listen to the recording.
No one walks in the chill of an Alaskan night—or even day—in late November. No one is even out driving in this neck of the woods. I have the road to myself as I trek the two hour walk back to my cabin. I love to walk. I have energy to spare all the time, my magic flowing through me more and more every year.
The night encases me. I feel a part of it. I hadn’t lied to Angel when I told him I’d been to Hawaii. I’ve been all over this strange and interesting world. I prefer the darker corners and shadows, not because I’m skulking, but because I am made of shadow more than light. My heart is full and loving and kind, but light is not where I am from. I am a strain of immortal elf from an ancient line.
Even back on our home world, we were rare, of a breed from a darker time, a shadow-breed of elf that subsisted more on the dark ions of winter than the light of summer. We love the stars and the fires that can only burn brighter on colder, darker nights. We are the intrinsic fairy essence of the yang side which beams under moonlight and the lace of cloud.
I’ve never lost that nature after centuries of life. I love my paradise of the north.
As I approach my cabin, scents of evergreen and peppermint fill the air. I’ve put a Christmas spell around the cabin, like a cloak of protection from that most popular book and movie series: Harry Potter.
The scent it gives off is from my essence, my Santa brand. My brand is associated with Christmas scents of this Earth, holiday meals and desserts, sweets, smoke curlicues from chimneys, pine and berry, gingerbread and sugar cookies. I was born with this essence and I will carry it with me into the Forever on the day I decide to fade into the immortal realms.
Inside the cabin, I’ve used my magic to transform it for the two weeks I’m here.
Holly and evergreen decorate the hearth and every shelf and bookcase. Electric candles weave in and out of the greenery. The cabin came furnished but I refurbished, of course. The couch before the hearth is a large, plush red velvet—red is my favorite color. Christmas pillows are piled upon it—one shaped like a snowman.
A big screen TV hangs on one wall. The kitchen counter, which is an island dividing the kitchen and living room, is piled high with my favorite treats. My constitution is sugar-based, so most of the food is sweets and desserts. Pies, cakes, cookies, bowls of chocolate covered nuts and candy.
For humans, this much sugar is toxic. Too many rich foods cause them to gain weight, or even die. But I’m not human. My weight never fluctuates despite much of mythology and legend that depicts me as fat and round-cheeked.
In the bedroom, I have re-done the bed to be a king-sized mattress with full padding nestled in a frame shaped like a red sleigh. It’s a bit much, but I love playing with my magic like its art, like sculpture. My creative mind is endless. Even my ice castle back in Santa’s Village is piled high with too much decoration, but I love it. For me, it feels like safety. It’s the nesting place of my fairy soul.
Tonight I’m tired.
In the bedroom, I set my phone by the nightstand, take off all my clothes and crawl beneath the red and green comforters. I don’t need them for warmth, I simply like them. The cozy, secure feel of them surrounding me. The softest pillow cushions my head.
I fall into a dreamy sleep with visions of Angel dancing in my head.
******
My phone wakes me.
Only my servant staff have this number. The elves in the stables and workshop must email me if they need something, or go through my servants.
I push myself up, the heavy covers falling away from my shoulders, and pick up my phone.
I don’t recognize the number calling. I could let it go to voicemail, but instead, I swipe the answer button and say, “Hello.”
“Is it too early? Did I wake you?”
The voice is unfamiliar. Young.
“Who is this?”
“Is this Nic? It’s Angel. From last night?”
I rub my eyes, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. Then my memory returns. I had gone into a gay bar called Prancer’s, a gay bar with a cartoon logo of my beautiful reindeer jumping over the moon like some cow from a childhood Earth poem.
“Angel?” The beautiful boy who waited on me and sat down to tell me his wishes? Angelbaby, they called him. So sweet-faced. Body glowing with youth.
“Yeah. Uh. You left your number on your napkin. The little note was addressed to me. So. Here I am. Calling.”
He sounds almost reticent, shy.
My body tingles in pleasure at his voice. “Yes. I’m glad you did.”
“Your note said you might want to, um, get together? I think I’d like that. Uh, that is unless you’ve changed your mind.” He starts talking faster. “Normally, I don’t go out with patrons from Prancer’s. It’s work, you know? But, well, I, um--”
“I see. I am flattered, then.”
Already, I am breaking my promise to myself to let this one go. There is something that pushes me for more with him—maybe the sound of his voice, or maybe the memory of his sweet body standing before me. I’m over three hundred years old. Normally not so shallow. But this boy’s sweetness for the short time we talked lingers in my mind.
He makes a sound like a half-laugh. “I’m the one who’s flattered. I mean, I get that a lot at work, but you were different. Something felt, um, just nicer.”
Naughty. Nice. Either way works for me on this level.
I sit up, my back against more pillows, my knees bent. I’m naked in bed, talking to a pretty boy. This hasn’t happened to me in far too long. He’s of the generation on this world that is big on what they call hookups. I don’t know if that’s what Angel wants but I’m a little more formal despite my fantasies and my secret room back at my castle. I like to lead into my so-called hookups.
Wendy Rathbone has had dozens of stories published in anthologies such as: Hot Blood, Writers of the Future (second place,) Bending the Landscape, Mutation Nation, A Darke Phantastique, and more. The book "Dreams of Decadence Presents: Wendy Rathbone and Tippi Blevins" contains a large collection of her vampire stories and poems. Over 500 of her poems have been published in various anthologies and magazines. She won first place in the Anamnesis Press poetry chapbook contest with her book "Scrying the River Styx." Her poems have been nominated for the Science Fiction Poetry Association's Rhysling award at least a dozen times.
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