Chapter 5: Santa’s Baby: Chapter 4

Central Parade shopping centre, Santa, I type into Google.

The search results come up with some events days, and a mention of Santa’s Grotto in a recent news article, but nothing about Santa himself. I scroll down the feed, mention after mention, until finally, there he is.

Santa – minus the Santa outfit – is in one of the pictures, with his gorgeous dark eyes and his side parted silver fox hair. He’s standing behind one of those big, printed charity cheques, donating a chunk of money to a kids’ support centre in Dagenham. £40,000.

My stomach lurches like a motherfucker as I click the link to see more. I have to blink three times, zooming in on the photo. He’s way more gorgeous than the strobe lights did justice. In a suit, in daylight, he’s off the fucking charts.

Santa is Reuben Sinclair, owner of Central Parade and twenty-three other shopping centres around the country.

Wow!

“Reuben.” I speak his name aloud, and it sounds like dirty satin. I wonder how it would sound at squeal volume, while he’s slamming the shit out of me.

I need to find out.

A search for Reuben Sinclair himself hits a lot more results. There’s a chunk of interviews as part of his associations with various charities, with quotes on how he had to climb up the ladder from nothing himself, so he knows how hard it is for youngsters out there with nobody to rely on.

I can’t imagine him like that. A young boy, desperate. All I can see is the Reuben Sinclair of today. Powerful. Prestigious. Charitable. Loaded. And dirty as all fucking hell.

My stomach drops out with every article click, terrified I might come across either of the two fateful words. Husband or father. I feel ill at the thought of him being a cosy family man behind the scenes, with a beautiful Mrs and some sweet little kiddos. But no mentions turn up. Not in a single article.

A link to an old podcast appears on page seven, and my fingers are legit quaking as they click on it.

He’s talking about a particular charity that helps out single mothers.

I, myself, was from a struggling single parent family, and as much as my mother claimed in later years that it was stress talking, not her, she blamed her decision to have me at such a young age for her hardship. She’d throw her emotional outbursts in my direction, and I didn’t understand it then. My young mind couldn’t interpret her, and all I felt was pain. I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.

His tone has me entranced, even though it’s just a snippet. I replay it over and over, my head whirling. I can’t stop.

This is dangerous. It’s a familiar road up ahead.

I’ve been more in control of myself these past few years, ‘keeping my head screwed on’ as my nan would have said. I’ve kept my compulsive happy ever after fantasies at bay, confident enough to quit psychotherapy over six months ago. But my grip is slipping so fast by the second, I get tremors.

I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.

I give myself the excuse of ‘just a bit of fun’, but I’m staring at the picture of Reuben behind the cheque as his words sound out, and remember Ella’s enthusiasm at seeing him. He’s such an amazing guy, so kind and humble, and selfless… and just AMAZING.

I can’t stop.

I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.

There is another side to the man talking, though. One a podcast and some online news stories will never come close to. He’d have them closed down if they tried.

Reuben Sinclair is a sadistic, degrading, hardcore beast of utter filth. The things I’ve done with him, along with the other Agency founders would scale the heights of any naughty list there could be.

That’s one of the reasons it’s so fucked up exciting.

Yin and Yang swirl endlessly, the two sides of Reuben’s coin unfathomable, and it only makes the man more stunning.

I start chewing on my nail extensions.

Santa.

I need to see Santa.

I need to see him, and hear him, and touch him, and play for him.

I need to play for Reuben.

Yeah. I’m fucked.

I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.

Dawn is breaking through my apartment windows when I break myself out of the stupid spell. I’ve been obsessing for hours. For once in my career, I haven’t even checked out my review from earlier – my only known time of not giving a shit how I performed.

I drag myself to the bathroom and get ready for bed, giving my used pussy a good soaping, even though it makes me wince. I should have taken some time out between proposals, but oh well, fuck it. I’ve been in considerably worse states. Even with sore pussy syndrome, the inevitable happens when I get under the covers. My used pussy gets another round as I imagine all the things Reuben Sinclair could do to me, and remember all the things he has done to me. I wouldn’t want to be hooded… or anonymous. I want to look him right in the eye as he takes me however he wants to.

His voice is still on loop.

I had no idea how much pressure she was under to keep our heads above water. It was hard. Very, very hard. I have both huge empathy and sympathy for people battling with similar journeys. It’s not easy.

One orgasm about Reuben should be more than enough to send me right off to dreamland, but my head is too wound up. I drift in and out – my hand sliding down between my legs whenever I picture my perfect Santa. I must be on round three by the time afternoon hits, and I can’t stand it anymore. Sleep is lost to me. So is my fucking mind.

I know what I have to do. Call it wacko autopilot.

I go for basic makeup since my hands are too wired to work their magic on contouring. I do decent catflicks and slap on some heavy duty lashes, and freshen up the waves in my hair.

I don’t want to go hoodie and jeans today. I grab a purple dress with fishnets and lace up my trusty big spiky boots. I wrap myself up in a fluffy leopard print coat, like I’m Cruella de Creamgirl. Kind of suits me.

I look good in the mirror. Memorable.

As always.

I almost break and message Josh once I’m out in the open and about to hop on the tube. My fingers hover over the message icon, but I can’t do it. I know full well he’ll talk some sense into me, and I don’t want sense, I want the world of crazy. It’s screaming my name.

I’m a fucking idiot on a dangerous mission, stalking Santa, but I don’t care. It feels like destiny calling – but it’s just me, sky high in fantasy land.

Stalking Santa hardly sounds like a romcom with a cutesy happy ever after at the end of it, but Santa was the one who started it in the first place. He was the one in the club last night with a wine glass in his hand.

Central Parade is rammed, with kids everywhere, but my edginess around happily families hardly touches me as I head for the grotto. I take a seat at one of the indoor benches with a decent view of the grotto. I could join the queue myself, and the temptation calls, but it’s Reuben Sinclair I want to see today. Not just Santa.

The grotto closes at five, so I’ve got forty-five minutes of phone scrolling before I stand a chance of getting a glimpse of him. I barely look at the bullshit on my feed, because I’m too transfixed by the door at the grotto exit.

With only twenty minutes left to go, I give up pretending altogether. I let myself fantasise like a crazy.

Reuben could fuck me in the grotto and slap my ass for being a naughty girl, or he could drag me away and punish me for even daring to cross his path uninvited. He could keep me bound and out of view for a whole weekend straight, like the founders have done before. Hooded and at his mercy.

Or he could tell me to fuck off. Blank me like I’m a nobody, or give me a blasé wave and walk away.

Those thoughts hurt, like pokers in the ribs. The idea of being rejected nearly sends me running for the tube, and I kind of wish it would. I could rebook more sessions with my psychotherapist, and fess up to Josh, and avoid diving headfirst into a muddy pit of my own making.

Still, I can’t do it.

I’m already locked in.

The minutes count down, and my breaths get so shallow, I struggle to breathe, but I need to see Santa – Reuben. I need to see Reuben.

An assistant elf puts the closed barrier across the walkway with a few minutes left to go. I watch on until the last little boy in the queue heads on in with his mum. Five minutes later he’s jumping and clapping as they come out from the exit. The little guy really thinks he’s met Santa, the greatest man in the world, and I’m shuffling in my seat as they pass me, because shit, this is about to get serious.

The teenage photographer heads out first, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Then it’s one of the elf volunteers, a young looking blonde who waves at a man in one of the shop doorways and goes to join him.

Come on.

Another elf comes out – an older one this time – and a woman appears for the bucket of donation cash. Shit. I’m twitching with panic, hyped for the grand finale.

It’s like I’ve been hit by a cannonball, straight in the guts when he steps out from behind the grotto door. He’s still in his red Santa outfit, but there are no pillows stuffed inside his jacket. His hat is off, and so is his fake white beard. He’s the man I’ve stared at for hours online – Reuben Sinclair – and he’s nodding as the woman with the cash bucket talks to him. They smile, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. Friendly.

Fuck my fucking life, I’m actually doing this. I’m stalking Santa.

I’m stalking a multi-millionaire, charity donating, mall owner.

And oh fuck, when he turns in my direction and looks right at me, it’s obvious he knows it.

I wonder if I stand any chance of a last-minute dash for the exit while he finishes up talking to the bucket woman, but I’m stuck to the bench like glue. I hate it. I feel so fucking sick, like I’m in purgatory, my heart dependant on some insane judgement from a man I shouldn’t even know. I’m ready to hurl when he says goodbye to her and walks in my direction. He towers above me when he steps up to the bench.

“What are you doing here, Tiffany?”

I suck in a breath, dragging my character back in place.

“Shopping,” I say, trying to mirror his nonchalance from last night.

“Shopping?” He looks around me. I’ve got nothing but my pissing clutch, I haven’t even bought a takeout coffee. At least he’d had a glass of wine in his hand.

The walls of Creamgirl rise up so quickly I don’t stand a chance of stopping them. Her personality takes over mine like a safety blanket.

“I was just browsing. Nothing I fancied. Thought I’d take a seat. Chill out a bit.”

“You don’t seem very chilled.”

Crap, I’m twisting the rings on my fingers, my knee bouncing at about 120 bpm. Still, I keep my expression intact.

“I doubt I seemed all that chilled when you heard me getting done between the dumpsters last night.”

He looks around us, and I curse myself. There are still customers everywhere. His customers.

I’ve pissed him off, I can see it in the turn of his stare, but I like that. I’m a moth to a flame.

“Cut the bravado, Cream,” he says. “Yes, I could hear you between the dumpsters, and I could also see through the grotto door every time it opened. You’ve been staring over for nearly an hour straight, so I’m asking you again, Tiffany. What are you doing here?”

I have to goldfish it, mute. I recognise his voice more than ever now from being hooded. Bound. At his mercy. His power is so strong, it doesn’t need to be overstated. It’s level calm.

“Call me curious, alright?” I say, my walls cracking. “I came here because I wanted to see you. But you already knew that, Reuben. You’re hardly a dumb fuck.”

He flinches at the sound of his name. I should have called him Santa.

“I could be anything for all you know. A man can have many faces, and many secrets.”

I’m on dangerous turf here. I see the dance of the devil behind his eyes, and it calls me.

“I’m just glad I’ve managed to see one of your faces for real.” I shrug. “Kinda addictive. Been a long time coming.”

He scouts around us, smiling at the nearby shoppers.

“Tell me to fuck off, if you want,” I say. “I shouldn’t be here. Breach of The Agency rules, I know. Give me a disciplinary, if you like.”

“We’re both guilty of breaking procedures.”

“Good job you’re the boss then, isn’t it?”

His eyes are so fierce.

“Don’t be naïve, Creamgirl. Even those at the top of a hierarchy have rules to follow. The top of our hierarchy isn’t a one-man podium.”

I get an electric shudder at his words. Flashes of all of the men in the sessions… the founders…

“Were you breaking the rules last night?” I ask him. “At Revelier?”

“Yes, and I’m breaking them now, by speaking with you.”

My eyes are consumed by his. The mall blurs away.

“Why don’t you tell me to fuck off and stay away, then?”

He holds out a hand. His fingers are long. I’ve had them inside me so many times I’ve lost count. It feels eerie when I take them and let him help me to my feet.

“Call me curious,” he says. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here. This isn’t a place for conversation.”