Author's Note: This story is a continuation of my Christmas contest entry, St. Nicole's Christmas Miracle, which you can read if you want the history between the character's first meeting. Thanks to everyone for all the positive feedback on that story—I hope you like this one…
*
My Valentine's Day was quite eventful this year. I'll tell you all about it, but I suppose I should start first with my strange Christmas. Strange, but good. In throwing a neighborhood party for the kids, I sort of fell for the guy I hired to play Santa. His name is Rick. And no, he isn't fat.
We didn't plan it. Both of us were having a terrible year. Rick's wife left him and he lost his job, and my Duane died in a car crash a little over a year ago. We were both lonesome, emotionally damaged goods, so I suppose it was natural that it went from comforting each other to something else rather quickly. It probably wouldn't have happened under other circumstances. But I'm glad it did.
My girls took to Rick easily. I was happy for them; they needed a father figure around. I didn't share it with Rick, but it made me deeply sad how easily their young hearts made room for Rick by pushing their father's memories aside, without guilt or mourning. If only I could heal that simply. Rick did bring joy back into my life, and he was respectful for my loss, but every time I saw Marcy's eyes or Kayle's smile, I thought about Duane.
Thankfully, it didn't seem to even enter their young minds that he was white. I longed for the blissfully simple child's view, untainted by the strain of living. I claim that I don't have a problem with Rick being white, and he claims he doesn't have a problem with me being black. It's hard though when your whole life has been filled with friends and strangers pointing out our differences. When you're taught that
we're
not like
them
. Rick and I want it to work so badly that we overlook any unconscious slights. We're so unlikely that it
has
to work. It's us against the world. I think that the race thing almost makes it easier because we're just that much more sensitive to each other. We almost never argue, and so far we've never fought.
He's been so kind to me, and to the girls: it's embarrassing. I'm his brown sugar princess, so he says. He got me a little white Pontiac for Christmas, and he'd piled a mountain of presents on the girls. He'd known me for maybe two weeks, and he got me a car. I knew he'd fallen for me, but I guess I didn't realize how hard. I
almost
didn't believe it, and I
almost
had him take it back. Almost. I felt kinda shitty because I can't afford anything extravagant like that. Instead, my present for him in return was to fuck his brains out. He said that he liked his present way more, which made me smile, a sly dirty-girl smile. God, did I need a new car.
I couldn't afford the mortgage after Duane passed, so I'd taken a seamy, but better paying job as a cocktail waitress at a club called the Landing Strip, out by Metro airport. It was a topless club if you couldn't have guessed from the name, a standalone building in a blue-collar town, with a gaudy pink neon sign. It wasn't a bad place as those places go, and the money was pretty good. Far better than my secretary job. The money would have been better if I was willing to take my clothes completely off. I wasn't a dancer, but they tried to talk me into it. "Come on Nikki, you'd make a killing!" No thanks: not for me. My momma had raised me with at least a little self-respect.
Momma had been watching the girls on my work nights, but now that Rick was in the picture, he'd taken over that job. Rick won a lot of points when I first introduced them. He was respectful and courteous, listening intently to her stories, and calling her "Mrs. Gregson" all the time. She might not have picked a white man to date her daughter if I'd asked her, but I didn't, and she seemed to take it in stride.
She only embarrassed me a couple times. Once, when she found out Rick was out of work, I could tell she almost called him a dead-beat. She stopped herself short, but I knew her too well. But she did admonish him: "you better take care of my Nicole, you hear!" He replied in all seriousness, "I don't buy cars for just any girl I date, Mrs. Gregson." She cracked up after that pretty good. Yeah, I think she likes him.
Rick was staying over almost constantly these days, and I was grateful. He had a little dump of a bachelor's pad out in Redford he'd rented after his divorce. He took me there once—it was sad and lifeless, unpacked boxes all around, nothing of comfort or beauty, no environment. He said he liked staying at my place. I like having a man in the house, and I know the girls do too. He's always trying to help me fix it up. Not that I couldn't do household things, but like every good man he has an innate skill and patience with handyman tasks, combined with a little extra height, a little extra strength, and a little extra know how. With Rick around, our home seems warmer, more alive, and more safe. We live in downtown Detroit. Although there are worse neighborhoods, there are plenty better—I liked knowing he is there to protect us, just in case.
It was nice to have the house buzzing again. Over the dinner dishes, I'd hear shrieks of delight filtering in from the family room as Rick would play with my Marcy and Kayle, picking them up and tossing them in the air, or rolling around on the floor with them. Once they had gotten sufficiently tired out, he'd tuck them in and read them bedtime stories. I know why they first fell for him; they believed he was Santa. My oldest had recognized Rick even without the big white beard he'd worn at the party—must've been his eyes—and it was their little secret that Rick kept up. Eventually she'd find out, but why spoil it now?
On nights that I wasn't working, after the girls were put down, Rick and I would sneak off to my room and we'd go at each other like teenagers. I loved to feel his hands roam my body, manly calloused hands, gently exploring my soft curves as if he was afraid I would break. He loved to play with my curly hair, nestling his fingers in it while I lay against his chest. I'd slide my head down his chest, over his stomach, and pop his cock into my mouth, nursing on him and massaging his balls while he'd stroke my hair. He liked to go down on me too, which was a wicked new pleasure for me. Not too many men I'd dated did that, but I eagerly spread myself and he would devour me greedily. He'd get me nice and wet, begging to feel him inside me, bumping up back against him while he massaged my tits and stroked my back. God it felt good to get regularly laid again.
On nights I did work, I'd come home late, around 4AM. The first few times he tried to stay awake for me. I didn't expect him to stay up, and after a while he'd always have fallen asleep when I came home. Hell, I'd be sleeping if I could too. I loved to come home then, knowing he was there watching over my girls, not having to worry about picking them up from Momma's house in the morning. I'd open the front door quiet as a mouse, pull off my cold, sloshy boots, hang up my coat, and tiptoe to the bedroom. Once I'd taken a quick shower to cut away the smoke, I'd slide under the sheets next to him, naked and clean, cuddling up against his sleeping body.
He asked about coming to see me work. I didn't want him to. I wasn't embarrassed about him, not at all. He was the one worried about our slight age difference, not me. I just didn't want him seeing me there. It was one thing to be a private slut for him. It was another to have him see me there, watching other men leering at me, barely covered by my skimpy blue dress. He begged and begged, saying how he thought I was so sexy, he wanted to see my outfit, see where I worked, see the friends I talked about. Eventually I relented.
The night he was coming to my job, we dropped off the girls at Momma's, each of us carrying one of their bundled sleeping forms. I insisted that we drive separately, just in case he didn't want to stay my whole shift. He didn't want to, but he let me have my way, thankfully as it turned out.
We came in the back, and I quickly got undressed in front of him, and started to put on my costume. Rick smiled, and looked at me with eager loving eyes as I was fitting myself into the black leotard and the skimpy little blueberry dress with it's built-in push-up bra. I'm not very big on top, and Rick insists he likes them small. After stuffing myself into the cups and the appropriate tugging and yanking into place, even Rick had to admit that they looked bigger and quite sexy. I spritzed my hair and gave myself a generous splash of Kai on my wrists and neck, ready for the night.
"Okay hon, time for you to go out front," I told him.
"Alright. You look gorgeous," he said. Rick looked at me, his eyes wide and wet with a strange mix of lust, concern, and care.
"Don't worry; I do this every night."
"That's exactly what I'm worried about. I'll see you out there," he said, giving me a soft kiss and walking out the back door, back around to the normal customer entrance.
Jasmine, one of the dancers saw us part. "Boyfriends are trouble here, sweetie. The green-eyed monster inside can't take it," she said, tapping her heart with her finger.
"Yeah, but I thought maybe since I'm not naked it'd be okay."
