Holly Garland on Santa's Lap [COMPLETE]

CHAPTER 3 ~Apocalypse Now~

It's midnight.

Happy freakin' birthday to me!

Yep, it's officially my birthday now. The grand opening of this hellish holiday marathon. The absolute worst day of the year, right after Christmas day and New Year's Eve.

Well, technically, it's just before, since I was born on the 23rd. But whatever, let's not dwell on that.

The last employees left about ten minutes ago, and after spending over three hours playing Santa's little helper, there's only one thing I want to do: go home and crash in my bed. No, scratch that. There's something even more urgent. I need to handle—getting these devil-made heels off my feet. I'm pretty sure at this point they've fused with my skin, and there's no way I'm getting them off without a firefighter rescue operation.

Barbara told me as she was leaving that Santa was waiting for all the kids to clear out before he came out of the dressing room. After begging her for a solid ten minutes, and then, well, threatening to fire her when that didn't work, she finally promised not to post the photos—though she wouldn't delete them either. Whatever, I'll try again tomorrow.

For now, I should just count my blessings that nothing worse happened tonight. Honestly, I'm kind of relieved. It all went down pretty smoothly, right? I've earned some rest.

But where the hell is Santa? He should've been out by now. Oh, duh! He probably needs help getting out of that fake belly harness! Poor guy, we totally left him hanging...

I quickly throw on my coat and hat, toss my bag over my shoulder, and grab my keys to lock up my office. I'll have to lock up Mr. Tate's office too once I free the poor guy with the jolly gut. I walk down the empty hallways toward the office and just as I'm about to knock on the door, I hear voices from the other side.

"Where did you hide it? Hand it over, and I might let you live!"

I freeze.

Wait, who the hell is that angry-sounding guy?

"You think I'm an idiot? I know you're gonna kill me no matter what happens."

I instantly recognize Santa's warm voice, now laced with a deadly serious tone.

The other guy inside the room just replies with a dark, sarcastic laugh.

Wait, what?! Is this some kind of sick joke?

I need to know what's going on for real in my company's office, so I swing the door open wide.

For the second time tonight, I'm completely stunned by what I walk into. And I'm not the only one. Some random guy with curly blond hair is pointing a gun at Santa, and he turns to face me, clearly shocked that I've barged in like this.

Instinct kicks in, and I do the only thing I can think of—I swing my purse at his gun, knocking it clear across the room. Then, in some weird survival mode I didn't even know I had, I go at him again, landing a couple more solid hits on his face with my trusty Armani bag.

He grabs the purse, trying to stop me from landing any more blows.

"Let go, you jerk!" I yell, yanking hard on the strap with everything I've got.

Before I can get another pull-up, Santa clocks the guy with a solid right hook, sending him sprawling to the floor—and taking my purse with him. The force from yanking on the bag sends me crashing down on my butt too.

The thug looks dazed but not completely out of it. He's groaning in pain, clutching his now-bloody nose.

Serves you right, you scumbag!