It’s the night after Christmas and all Santa wants is a drink, a shower, and a long winter’s nap. When he stops into his favorite bar to unwind, one look at the live entertainment has him adding a little stress relief to his post-Christmas wish list. Luckily, lounge singer and drag queen extraordinaire Chimera is more than willing to get right to work on that!
Niklaus Kristofer Kringle was not a fat jolly old elf. Well, old, maybe. He’d stopped counting after the big five-oh-oh. But definitely not fat. Assuredly not jolly. He was also most emphatically not a Saint.
Where people got the idea he was fat and jolly was beyond him. Yeah, at one point he’d dressed in fur, which had, admittedly, made him look a bit…fluffy. Hell, for centuries it was the warmest garb available. But, shit. He’d been wearing polar fleece for decades. Nik scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away some of his fatigue.
Not fat. Not jolly. Not a fucking Saint.
What he was, was tired, jet-lagged and cranky. When he walked into the North Pole’s dirtiest dive, Santa’s Workshop, pretty much all he wanted in the world was a drink, a shower, and a long winter’s nap. Preferably with a good hard fuck thrown in there somewhere. Just to help him unwind.
The bar was the next thing to empty. Most of his minions, er, helpers, were either sleeping off nearly forty-eight hours straight of non-stop work—being an “elf” was a lot of hurry-up-wait-hurry-the-fuck-up-you-moron—or sleeping off a shot or ten celebrating the end of forty-eight hours of non-stop work.
Nik slumped at the bar and ordered whisky, neat. Forty-eight hours really wasn’t that bad. He remembered when it had taken a week and a couple favors from Father Time to get his shit all done on Christmas Eve. The advent of internet shopping had cut his workload nearly in half, thank the gods.
He looked up in surprise when the classic rock on the radio cut off and the lights dimmed. When the strains of jazzy string instruments replaced the growly vocals of the Boss, he shot an incredulous look toward the elf manning the bar.
Joe, the ubiquitous overweight, under-washed bartender, shrugged. “Owners wanted to class up the joint.” He gestured toward the small stage area on the other side of the small dance floor. “Chimera there’s our latest attraction.”
Nik noticed that the few people who’d clustered at the bar were drifting toward the stage, where a slender woman stood silhouetted against a gold spotlight. Brightly colored Christmas lights created a merry, twinkling frame and the over-all effect was dramatic.
Even more striking when the lighting changed and the singer was finally fully revealed.
Red hair, several shades darker than Nik’s own ginger spikes, tumbled to curl teasingly around pale, silky looking skin left bare by the off-the-shoulder ruby velvet dress. The contrast of ruby hair and ruby dress made her skin glow like a pearl.
She was tall for a woman. In her glittery red stilettos with silver metal heels, she was probably only a few inches less than his own six-five. And slim. Willowy, even. Her crimson dress clung from shoulders to mid-thigh, emphasizing the almost boyish lines of her body. Nik narrowed his eyes, looked closer at the rounded muscles of her shoulders, the nearly smooth line of her dress across her chest.
Not almost boyish. Chimera, The Workshop’s claim to class, was definitely male. Nik’s prick perked up.
Then he (She? Was that the proper pronoun while the performer was in drag?) began to sing, and all thoughts of male or female, classy or crass, fled his mind in a rush of goose-flesh.
That voice was, in a word, oh-holy-fuck.
Chimera made love to the microphone, the song, her (His? Did it even matter?) audience. Delicate hands cupped the mic. Long, graceful fingers tipped with long, scarlet nails traced sinuous lines over the mic stand.
Nik—and, undoubtedly every other elf in the room—was caught in the vision of those hands, those fingers, tracing something a lot warmer and thicker. Like his cock.