10 Things I Hate About Yule

By Lulu M. Sylvian

When you're thirsty and hot cocoa simply will not do.

Let this spicy holiday collection satisfy your need for a quickie.

 

• 10 Things I hate About Yule
• Christmas Knockout (the extended hot version)
• The Christmas Package
• Trimming His Tree
• Unwrapped

 

Five fast-read Christmas shorts to keep you in the holiday mood. You may have caught a few of these previously in limited edition anthologies, now they are all together in a single collection for your entertainment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moon Tan Press
• Release date: Nov 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201521035

Book preview

1

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YULE

Fiona’s heels made a click-clack-click sound in Anise’s head. She wiggled with a teetering walk that shouted high heels and tight skirt. Anise was pleased to see that Fi did not have her personal Golem in tow. The thing really wasn’t a goblin, but she wasn’t convinced that Fi’s precious Cupcake was actually a cat. At least somewhere between the bouncer and the loud music, Fiona clued in that Karaoke Monday was not the place to bring the animal.

A chara! she said as she slithered into the booth.

Anise had no idea if Fi pronounced it correctly or not, but she had been on an old Celtic kick since early summer. She dyed her hair red and had even joined a local pagan coven. For once her friend had done something on her own, and hadn’t followed the boyfriend of the moment. It seemed to be a good thing for her. Even if Anise had to learn new words to keep up.

Hey Fi. Whatcha drinking? Are you ready for Friday?

Friday was Black Friday, and Fi worked retail. She tended to drink in advance of shopping day hell.

The goal is to have the water in my body replaced with alcohol on a cellular level, so that I feel no pain for hours. Especially since I’m not allowed to drink on the job, she once explained.

I’m never ready for Friday. I don’t think it’s possible to be ready for Friday. So tonight, there is no Friday, only singing! She let her voice sing the last word, and the notes carried over the sound system.

While they waited for the karaoke host to set up, they ordered a couple of beers and a basket of fries.

So you remember that coven I joined? Fi started.

Anise scanned the bar looking for Micky. She made Fi repeat herself, having been distracted by a tall lion of a man. Definitely not Micky.

Yeah, but did you see that guy?

Fi craned her neck and looked around. Anise knew the moment her friend saw him—her eyes went wide and her mouth made a little O shape. He was that good looking. Fiona was ridiculously cute with her curled, now-red hair, and when she made faces like that men flocked. Not that Anise didn’t want the hot guy to swing by their booth, maybe sit down, buy a round, and completely ignore her. Because she didn’t. She wanted him to swing by, squish into her side of the booth for once and ignore Fiona. The best she could do was hope he ignored them both completely, no heart break that way.

He’s hot.

Anise nodded. Right?

But I thought we came here for Micky, you know the love of your life?

Micky was not the love of Anise’s life, he was just crush-of-the-month—for about five months running at this point—and he hosted Karaoke Mondays. He did the same every Thursday at her job, but here she could flirt. Management frowned upon flirting at work, something about harassing the man. The man in question had no complaints. She knew, because she asked him point blank if he minded if she stalked him to other bars. His reply was to hand over his phone number and schedule.

Micky doesn’t do anything but flirt, Anise complained.

He gave you his number.

So we could do exactly what we’re doing.

Fi raised her perfectly plucked brow in question.

He brings in more customers, they give him more money. I’m nothing more than a revenue stream for him, Anise explained.

Then why are we here? Why do you keep following him? It’s not like either of us are particularly good singers. She hated when Fiona pointed out the obvious.

Because he’s so cute, she sighed, defeated. And some attention is better than no attention. She didn’t say the last bit out loud. She was supposed to be living her best life. Strong independent woman who didn’t need a man. She may not need one, but she wanted one. Anise missed that giddy feeling of falling in like. Tentative first touches, the awkward first kiss, the hot and proficient one-thousandth kiss that rang all the bells the right way. Micky was cute, he was fun to hug, but that’s all that would ever happen with him. And he wasn’t there yet, so the hottie on the other side of the bar with the fabulous blond hair and big laugh was fair game.

I’m sorry, he was distracting. What were you saying about your coven?

They’re letting me handle the Yule Feast. This is huge. And overwhelming. That’s where you come in.

Fiona rattled on a mile a minute. Their fries disappeared, and the beers evaporated as she kept talking, and they kept eating and drinking. At some point the karaoke set up had begun, and Anise hadn’t even noticed it wasn’t Micky running the show.

This is the coven group you joined this summer? she asked.

I started with them at Summer Solstice, but I wasn’t officially accepted into the coven until Samhain. You know, Halloween. It’s the beginning of our New Year.

Fiona pronounced samhain as sowan, and made sure that Anise knew the difference.

Sorry, I’m still learning all your new holidays.

Ancient holidays, Anise, ancient.

Fiona was happy with her new coven, especially after a past boyfriend introduced her to paganism, and then dumped her. Since this was a religious gathering, and from what Anise remembered from summers with her church-going grandparents, members of the congregation usually took care of those things. They didn’t hire out.

It’s not just Christmas without Santa, and toss in a bonfire, Fiona said.

Bonfire? Anise swallowed hard and looked at her friend. She had the distinct feeling she should be taking notes.

You want me to do what exactly? I mean, isn’t there a guild or something that handles this? Anise swallowed a gulp of beer. Since when was beer hard edged going down?

I am the guild or something. It’s up to me, and I suck at putting together parties. You know what mine are like. A box of sodas, and a few open bags of chips. I need your cooking and organizational skills.

Anise tried to formulate an instant visual of what a Yule Feast might look like.

Don’t you love me bay-bee! cut through her cerebral cortex, loud and off key. Karaoke night had begun. She desperately hoped the guy running the show had Micky’s same rule of no Christmas songs until after Thanksgiving. She had been hearing nothing but carols and holiday tunes since November first. She was on a fast sled to hating Christmas because it was being shoved down her throat like a bad blow job. That’s not how she liked it, or wanted it—either of them, Christmas or blow jobs.

After three variations of Jingle Bell hell, Anise pushed herself up and out of the booth. That’s it. I’m going in.

Oh, you are not. Fiona waggled a finger at her.

I have to Fi. Don’t you see they are asking for it. Anise gestured to the crowded bar. It’s that or I’m gonna stab the next person who sings a damned Christmas song with a fork.

Fiona shrugged. True, true. Okay, go forth.

Anise cut through the crowd and up to the karaoke stand. She grabbed a note card from the basket, wrote her name, and then her song choice. She slid it over to the host.

He cracked a smile and laughed. Seriously? I’ve got four ahead of you.

Anise leaned in. I’ll make you a deal— she peeled a twenty dollar bill out of her pocket and waved it at him— I won’t sing if you can say no to anymore Christmas songs. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.

The guy reached out and snagged the twenty. Oh you’re singing, but for this I can only promise no Christmas Shoes.

Anise glared at him for a long moment. Deal.

Well? Fiona asked when she returned to the table.

We made a bargain. I’m doing it in four more numbers. Anise slid a blank card to Fiona for later and waved down their waitress to order another beer.

Three songs that were not holiday themed and one that was later, the host called Anise’s name. He completely mispronounced it, but she had expected that. And since it was a bar, he leaned heavily on the last syllable, Ann-ass.

She girded her mental loins and marched up there. This song was for him and everyone who sang a Christmas carol.

She took the mic and began stepping side to side in time to the music. A boo was heard from somewhere in the back of the bar. Keeping her gaze on the monitor in front of her, she started.

She didn’t look up until she hit the chorus. Never gonna give you up…

Her eyes locked with the hot guy with all the hair.

She stuttered for a second, but kept going as he sang along. She hadn’t noticed how impressively large he was before, or how he smiled. A blush burned her cheeks, and she forced herself to turn away from him. She tried to not make eye contact with anyone else, but failed. The glare from the karaoke host seemed to give her renewed energy. She finished Rick-rolling the bar with loud and enthusiastic, if not slightly off key, singing.

She slid into the booth needing to hide in a glass of beer. A man sat next to Fiona, and she giggled as he leaned in close.

You gonna sing tonight? Anise asked. She had no clue if Fiona wanted the attention from the guy or not.

She looked up and nodded. Yeah, will you put this in for me? Fiona slid the note card across the table.

Sure. Anise picked it up and looked at it. No hidden messages just Fi’s name and an old Britney Spears song. She dropped it off on her way to the restroom. By the time she returned the guy was gone.

When it was Fi’s turn, she sang like a pop star. A drunk, tuneless pop star. But the men in the bar didn’t seem to care. Every time she sang she had a small gaggle of admirers follow her back to the booth, trying to get her number.

Anise glared at one of the guys who tried to slide into the booth next to her to keep talking to Fiona. The space next to Fi already had an admirer in it. Anise shook her head. She wasn’t about to move, not for some half drunk, aged frat boy.

A delicious deep voice rolled over Anise. The words were familiar but the music was too slow, too smooth. She looked to see who was singing. The hot guy stood on the wrong side of the monitor showing off, he clearly didn’t need the word prompts for this.

He pulled the mic from the stand and walked through the crowd. If Fiona knew how to be a pop star, this guy had the moves of a lounge singer. He paused and made eye contact with women on all the meaningful words.

Anise’s stomach twisted into a knot and her heart raced as he came closer to their table. She momentarily closed her eyes and listened to the words. Eyes open, she clenched her jaw because she wanted him to look at her when he sang, but his attention was on Fi. He turned from Fi and looked at Anise just as she mouthed along to the words, I only want to be with you.

She was rewarded with a wink, and he continued making his way back up to the front. It wasn’t a long song, but he owned it, and worked the room like it was his own private Vegas nightclub.

The knot in her stomach turned into a hard rock.

Let’s go get some coffee, and you can tell me more about this Yule thing.

Anise had precisely four days to come up with more than a rough plan and a budget. She had discovered Yule was mere days before Christmas Eve, and frantically began the location search. Most locations had their December holiday party spaces booked up before October rolled around.

She needed to think outside the hotel-banquet-room box for this shin-dig. And she was going to have to put a deposit on whatever space she could find immediately.

Bonfire.

Fiona’s words ping ponged through her brain.

Bonfires meant outside. Outside meant cold and dark. She’d need a tent, with heaters. She hated party tents. What they really needed was an outside inside. Open air with closable doors. And heaters. With solstice falling on a Sunday, maybe she would have better luck finding a location.

With her focus still on their lack of location and not her driving, Anise slammed the breaks moments before shoving the heel of her palm into her steering wheel, blaring her pitiful little horn. But damned if she was going to let the jerk in the car in front of her get away with cutting her off like that.

A thickly muscled arm, covered in tattoos, shot out from the driver’s side window, middle finger extended and waving high in the air.

You’re the one who cut me off, asshole! Anise shouted. Not that the man in front would hear her. Not that she wanted him too. With the holidays cramming themselves down everyone’s throat, gag reflex be damned, stress was mounting, and tension was palpable. Especially with every party location she had spent the past few days calling.

If they were nice they would say, Sorry, but we’re booked. If you want, we can schedule you now for next year. If they weren’t, they would laugh and insinuate she couldn’t be dumber if she actively tried.

You want to book for when?

You do realize this is our most popular party season?

I bet you call to make Valentine’s reservations on the fourteenth of February too, don’t you?

Sure, we can fit you in. We have an opening for fifteen minutes between when Hell freezes over, and⁠—

Anise had hung up on that last one. There was no use in asking if they had any ideas, or could make a referral for a location.

She had no party location, and was running late to meet Fiona. Anise swung her bashed up little car into the parking lot. Maybe luck was with her. Right in front of the doors to the café a minivan was pulling out. She stopped, giving the van plenty of room to maneuver.

The van kept coming. Blocked with another car on her tail, Anise double bumped her horn signaling to the van. It didn’t stop until it ran into her.

She bounced back and forth between her seat belt and the seat. She bunched her face closed in anticipation of the airbag deploying. She squinted her eyes open when it did not.

Good, she sighed with relief.

She looked up from her steering wheel to the van, only to see them driving away, and another car swooping in to the empty parking space.

Anise sat, cursing a string of expletives, not caring if they weren’t being correctly used or not. She got out of her car, and ran around to look at her front bumper. Her car was more dents and dimples than anything else. But she did need to make sure her light hadn’t been broken, again.

She no longer harbored thoughts of road rage gone wrong. She harbored holiday shopping rage, completed with thoughts of taking a tire iron to the van’s rear window.

Saturday after Black Friday at the mall, and one good parking spot missed, it would be forever before she found another one. She eventually found a spot, but nowhere near the café. It started raining as she walked from her parked car to meet Fiona. The umbrella was still in her car.

They were out of creamy tomato soup. And bear claws!

It was entirely too late to cancel this meeting when she sat down with her lunch at the small table to wait. She could fall back on the fender bender as her excuse for glowering and not being so cheery at lunch.

Fiona tottered in, wearing heels that were too high, and an oversized bag on her arm.

Anise closed her eyes when she saw the bag with the mesh sides. The creature purse. That meant Cupcake was inside. Hopefully he would not start in with his crying. It was a pitiful, abused baby kind of a sound. And if he began crying, Fi would pull him out of the bag instead of taking him home.

Anise always felt so bad for the cat. He always looked panicked and miserable. He probably always looked miserable, the hairless ones just did. And it didn’t help that Fi dressed him in fluffy swears.

Fiona loved every aspect of the party details Anise presented. And didn’t seem particularly bothered that they didn’t have a location.

Don’t worry. It will work out. And now that we have a head count, that will make everything so much easier. We won’t need a big space, there’s only thirty of us.

Thirty? Thirty! That was a big chunk fewer than Fiona had hinted at the other day. But thirty was good. Thirty would reduce the cost of the catering by a whole bunch. And a smaller space might be easier to find.

I’m going to need a deposit so I can start booking everything, Anise said. Her stomach did a little flip of nerves. She hated asking for money, but she was going to treat this like a real job, and that meant getting a deposit.

Cupcake started yowling.

Oh baby what’s the matter? Fi asked the creature as she lifted him from the bag.

He didn’t look like a cat wearing a fuzzy rainbow sweater. He looked like the off spring of a geriatric gay puppet that had mated with a goblin.

He probably needs to pee. I know I do. Anise stood.

You’re probably right. I need to take my Cupcake for some walkies. Can I email that deposit to you? Fiona asked.

Sure, but I need it by midnight tonight. I can’t start booking services until I have the money.

I’ll send it as soon as I get home. I have to make sure my baby is okay. You understand?

Totally, I get it.

CHAPTER 2

Eric kicked back on the beat up old couch. Whatever color it had started off in life, it hadn’t been for years. One long leg was tossed over the arm of the couch, the other bent, and tucked up on the cushions, he leaned to the left, his entire body directing the game controller in his hand. He uprighted himself before leaning to the right. The car chase video game on the plasma TV in front of him responded.

Time to suit up, a deep voice said, just as a red velveteen wad hit Eric in the face.

Fuck, he complained as his car crashed. He pulled the wadded up costume down to his lap and looked at the man who had thrown it.

I thought I was off tonight, Eric grumbled. He stood and yawned, stretching his limbs.

Yeah, well we got a call in for a cop. Trent’s the only one who does the cop routine, so he can’t do Santa tonight. And Mike’s Santa sucks. So ho fucking ho, you’re Santa.

And you and Mike get to play human candy canes? Eric crossed his arms and stared down at Ricky. Standing just over four feet tall, Ricky was already dressed for this evening’s show as a Christmas elf. It was his thing: Christmas elves, Leprechauns, fantasy dwarves. Anything Ricky could manipulate and twist to his advantage as a little person he did. As the owner and brains behind R and D—pronounced Randy—Entertainment, he definitely took advantage of it. He made major bank when that dragon show was on cable, taking full advantage of the fact he actually resembled one of the main characters, and not only in stature. He grew his beard out, and even got a perm.

Ricky gave him a half smile and shrugged. If it’s offered, I’m taking.

You need to keep it in your pants, or we’re gonna get into serious trouble some day, Eric called out as he climbed the stairs up to his room.

The last guy who said that doesn’t work for me anymore, Ricky yelled back.

Eric let the door slam behind him. He didn’t get paid enough to put up with Ricky’s risky practices. Hell, he didn’t get paid much at all, but the job came with a place to live. He pulled his shirt over his head, and did a quick sniff check of his pits in the process. He didn’t stink. Good. He didn’t have time for a shower anyway.

He rummaged through the mess on his dresser and found a spray can of body deodorant. He gave it a shake. Satisfied that it had enough rattling around inside the can, he sprayed his armpits, down across his chest, and pulling open the front of his sweats, he gave his crotch a heavy dousing of scent.

Out of his room, across the hall, and into the bathroom; he sort of followed a pre-show routine. It mostly involved making sure his eyes weren’t too bloodshot; which they were, in went the Visine. He blinked the drops away and splashed water on his face. Next, he brushed his teeth.

He was Santa, that meant the white hair spray-on color for the beard. He found the can, pointed it at his face and pressed. Nothing. A fizzle sound, but no color. He shook the can, there was nothing to indicate any hair color was left. Good. He tossed it into the trash. He hated that shit. He had a good beard, which was great for the lumberjack routine, and meant he didn’t need to wear the fake one for Santa. Beard groomed, hair brushed and braided back, he returned to his room.

Somewhere in the piles of clothes on the floor there was a red g-string with a bell on the front. Finding it, he contemplated sniffing to see if it was clean. He changed his mind. It hadn’t been washed since the last Santa strip-o-gram. He tossed it into the corner before yanking open the top drawer to his dresser. It always stuck.

He sorted through a collection of g-strings: black, blue, plaid—always a hit with the lumberjack fans—ahh, green. That would work for Santa. He sat with a hard thump on his mattress and began snapping up the sides of the red rip-away