“Good morning, Scooter!” came a cheery voice as someone shoved a glass into his hand.
He stared down at the orange liquid. “Is this juice?”
“See, he’s sober enough to recognize orange juice. I don’t think he needs the drunk tank treatment,” another woman remarked.
“You didn’t watch him eat the glued-on gumdrops off the gingerbread house. Don’t you worry! This naughty lister will thank me for this.”
“Naughty what?” he mumbled, but before anyone could answer, a snowball hit him square in the forehead.
Forgetting the juice in his hand, he flung his arms up to protect his face. The liquid splashed across his cheeks—another rude wake-up call. Sticky and wet, he blinked and assessed his surroundings.
A group of white-bearded, red-cheeked, slightly pot-bellied older men stood alongside women donning frilly aprons and warm grins while several other very Santa-like couples sat nearby, drinking from steaming mugs and reading the newspaper.
“Now that’s one way to make an orange smoothie,” a shorter Santa remarked to a taller Mrs. Claus doppelgänger.
“Here, dear, let’s try a nice glass of milk this time,” another apron-clad, sweet little grandma-looking lady offered with a smile.
He handed over his empty cup to whoever the hell this drinks lady was, then accepted the tall glass of milk. He swallowed it down in two big gulps, grateful to get the taste of gingerbread, glue, and hard alcohol off his tongue.
“Look who finally decided to join the living.”
Soren perked up. He recognized this voice and saw the judge coming toward him with a dish towel in hand.
“Here, Scooter, clean yourself up.”
Soren patted his face. “I figured you went back to the mountain house, Judge.”
The man took a seat next to him. “No, I told you somewhere between your ninth or tenth shot of whiskey that the people at Kringle Acres had offered to put us up for the night due to the late hour. They had two spare rooms, but it appears you never made it to yours.”
The aftermath of his life blowing up had been almost as surreal as walking into a cozy Christmas mountain house teeming with strippers. The judge had driven him to Kringle Acres. The man had made several friends there over the last few days, and the kind residents had assured him that they could put him up for the night. He’d wanted to go straight to the airport and get the hell out of town, but the roads were terrible. The truck had slipped and skidded down the icy, snow-packed street that led from the mountain house to the village.
He rubbed his hands across his scruffy cheeks. He had to look like a Christmas zombie.
“Let me get cleaned up a bit, and then I’ll call for a cab.”
“No, you won’t be doing that. Not yet,” the judge answered in his firm judge voice.
Soren propped his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his tangled, sticky hair. “Why is that?”
The Santa and Mrs. Claus crew pulled some chairs over and sat down, observing him closely.
A burly Santa cleared his throat. “You’re on the naughty list, son. And we’re here to help.”
“There’s a naughty list for adults? What do you do? Check people’s web browsers and see who’s been watching porn?” he joked.
A petite Mrs. Claus raised an eyebrow. “Do you look at naughty pictures on the computer, young man?”
He sat up, ramrod straight. “No, ma’am.”
The woman narrowed her gaze.
He glanced around, wishing like hell the drinks lady would bring him another glass of milk so he could slowly sip it and buy some time to figure out how to extricate himself from this Christmas catastrophe.
He shifted on the couch. “Maybe I’ve accidentally seen a few naughty things on the internet. But not a lot. A normal amount. A normal adult man amount.”
Fuck.
You’ve never known shame until three Santa couples stared you down like the deviant you were.
“Scooter, last night, while we were kicking your ass at poker, you shared a few things with us,” the burly Santa continued.
Why were they calling him Scooter? That life was over.
He rubbed his temples as the events of last night came back to him. They’d entered Kringle Acres, and the bearded men had waved them over, then dealt himself and the judge into the game before he’d had a chance to decline the offer to play. To his surprise, it had been the perfect surreal escape. The Santas didn’t say much, and as one drink became five, it gave him the opportunity to confess his transgressions.