Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
When a familiar jingle rings through the air, I impatiently wait for a break between the “Ho, ho, hos” and “Merry Christmas” before answering with a highly exuberant “Yes!”
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
1
ANGEL
The 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.