The Holidays Series Read online

  The Holiday Series

  Tara Sivec

  The Holidays Series

  Copyright © 2017 Tara Sivec

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Contents

  License Notice

  Disclaimer

  The Stocking was Hung

  1. Doctor Urinstein

  2. Amish and Porn

  3. Huge Package

  4. No Milk For You!

  5. Spill It, Leon

  6. Boner Killer

  7. I Like Socks

  8. Defiling Santa’s Workshop

  9. Embrace the Slut, Be the Slut

  10. Gingerbread Man Down!

  11. Sweater Squirrel

  12. Pink Bunny

  13. This is Dumb

  14. He’s On Drugs

  15. Limp Dick

  16. Hooker Clown

  Cupid Has a Heart-On

  1. Thirsty Thursday

  2. Bent Spoon

  3. It’s Hard Out There for a Pimp

  4. Limp Noodle

  5. Bullshit

  6. Hit It and Quit It

  7. Fake Canadia

  8. You’re a Pussy

  9. Pot Vagina

  10. Stray Stripper

  11. Front Butt

  12. Ballcicles

  13. Spank Me Here!

  14. Lawn Whacker

  15. Key Party

  The Firework Exploded

  Prologue

  1. Pissy McPisserson

  2. Spit the Spooge

  3. Mister Ed

  4. Lucifer’s Waterfall

  5. Two Girls, One Fist

  6. Chicks with Dicks

  7. Turd Ferguson

  8. Bring Out Your Dead

  9. Drunk in Love

  10. SheWee

  11. Country Crock

  12. Cumquats and Rice Krispy Treats

  13. Dial That Phone, Bitch!

  14. Fat Ralph

  15. Liquefying Labia

  16. Lenny and the Goat Fuckers

  17. Pay Attention to Me and My Dick Fire

  18. That’s Not Where Pee Goes

  The Bunny is Coming

  1. Nomar Viscount

  2. Drag Bunnies

  3. Plastic Wrap in Your Anus

  4. Killer Bunnies

  5. Penis Eggs

  6. Goo

  7. You All Need Jesus

  8. Elbow Butt

  9. Angry Bowels

  10. Butt Stuff

  11. Sperm Donor

  12. The Bunny is Coming

  A Note from Aunt Bobbie

  1. A Note from Aunt Bobby

  2. Roberta Alexandra Holiday (aka Robert Alexander Smith): A Memoir

  Excerpt from The Pumpkin Was Stuffed

  1. Everyone Loves Clowns

  Acknowledgments

  License Notice

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.

  The Stocking was Hung

  The Holidays #1

  1

  Doctor Urinstein

  Noel

  “Put him on the phone, Noel. I just want to say hello to my future son-in-law.”

  Rolling my eyes, I signal to the bartender, then point to my empty pilsner glass while my mother adds a little guilt to her demand.

  “My baby is stuck in an airport in a strange, dangerous city. Is it too much to ask that I speak to the man accompanying her, to make sure he’s keeping her safe?” she questions.

  “Mom, I’m in Chicago, not Afghanistan,” I remind her with a sigh as the waitress rushes over to me and quickly refills my glass with another draft beer. She can obviously see the distress on my face and knows I’m two seconds away from losing my shit all over the bar if I don’t get more booze in my system. I should’ve ignored my mother’s call and continued drinking away my problems, but after ten missed calls, six voicemails, and four text messages, if I continued to ignore her, she probably would’ve called the police.

  “Whatever,” she huffs. “Put him on the phone.”

  I cringe, lifting the delicious frosty beverage to my lips and downing half of it. I should’ve told her the truth two days ago when everything went to shit, instead of lying about it every time she called. I should just tell her the truth now and get it over with, instead of having to do it in person when I finally make it home and see the disappointment on her face.

  “And don’t even try to tell me he’s in the bathroom again. He’s been in the bathroom every time I call,” she complains.

  Her words bring the guilt, fear, and sadness rushing back, and the beer goes down the wrong pipe when I gasp, causing my eyes to fill with tears as I choke and cough and try to breathe.

  “Wait, does he have an incontinence problem? Is that why he’s in the bathroom so much?” Mom questions worriedly while I hold the mouthpiece away from my hacking coughs so she doesn’t think I’m dying and call 911. “You should call a doctor about that. It could be serious.”

  After I get my coughing under control, I stare around the small airport bar at all the other sad, lonely travelers stuck at O’Hare due to the snow. The multicolored twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling and the soft sounds of Christmas carols piped through the speakers should make me happy, but it just makes me feel even more emo and depressed. It’s Christmas and I’m unemployed, homeless, and too much of a chicken-shit to tell my mother that my boyfriend of twelve months got down on one knee to propose, and I freaked the fuck out, running away screaming because…commitment. How much worse could things possibly get?

  “I’ll give you the number to your father’s urologist. His name is Doctor Urinstein and he’s amazing,” my mother tells me, pulling me out of my self-pity party.

  “Dad’s urologist is seriously named Doctor Urinstein? Tell me that’s a joke,” I implore in an attempt to divert her attention away from speaking to the boyfriend traveling with me who is no longer my boyfriend nor is he traveling with me. Why didn’t I just tell her the truth yesterday when she called and asked if Logan preferred corn or green beans?

  Probably because she didn’t let me get a word in and talked for five minutes non-stop about how I’d broken her heart by not being able to come home last Christmas, and that the only thing that has kept her from crying herself to sleep every night is the knowledge that I’m finally able to make the trip and bringing a man with me.

  Welcome to Guilt Town, population: my mother.

  Don’t judge me. You try explaining to your mother that when your boyfriend got down on one knee with a velvet box in his hand, all you could think about was being barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, catering to his every need instead of being a strong, independent woman. I know it’s not the 1950’s anymore, and I’m pretty sure Logan wouldn’t have expected me to put on a dress and pearls to serve him a martini every night in an apron when he got home from work, but still. It’s not an easy thing to
do; let me tell you.

  “I once had a gynecologist named Dr. Pussyfoot,” my mother muses. “Lovely woman, very gentle hands.”

  Throwing my arm out in disgust, I forget all about the glass of beer in my hand and all of the amber liquid sloshes out behind me.

  “SON OF A BITCH!” an angry, deep voice shouts.

  I wince, realizing I just spilled beer all over someone and quickly cut my mother off before she can give me intimate details about her last pap test.

  “Mom, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you when I know the flight status,” I explain hurriedly, smacking my now-empty glass on top of the bar in front of me.

  “Great. Just great. Now it looks like I pissed myself,” the man behind me complains loudly.

  “Oh, dear,” my mother frets. “I’m hanging up and calling Doctor Urinstein right now. You can thank me later.”

  She disconnects the call before I can say anything else. With a sigh, I shove my phone into the purse resting on top of my lap and start rummaging around for the napkins I’d kept after my earlier lunch.

  “Hold on, I have some napkins in here somewhere,” I mutter, digging to the bottom of the cluttered bag, too frazzled to realize there’s a stack of bar napkins right in front of me.

  “Don’t bother. I think you’ve done enough,” the raspy voice mutters.

  His words make me forget all about the guilt of lying to my mother and the sadness of ruining yet another relationship because of my fear of marriage.

  “Look, buddy, it’s the holidays and everyone is miserable,” I spat out angrily while I continue to search. “It was an accident. I happen to be having the shittiest week of my life, which I’m sure you would know nothing about, so kindly remove the stick from your ass.”

  My hand finally finds the crumpled up wad of napkins, and as I pull them out, I shout with victory, swiveling my chair to face the jerk.

  “Eureka! Found the nap…kins…” I stammer as my ability to create a clear, logical thought dissipates when I come face-to-face with the man behind the pissed-off voice. Blue-grey eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. A chiseled face with dimples in both cheeks. And…oh shit, a military uniform.

  “So, about that whole ‘You wouldn’t know anything about having a shitty week’ thing,” I say with a bright smile as I thrust the napkins out to him. “Can I assume you’re on your way home from a Christmas costume party?”

  He snatches the crumpled ball of paper from my hand and starts swiping at the wet stain on the crotch of his camo pants, my hope dying when he speaks gruffly without looking up.

  “Sure, if you consider coming home from an eighteen month deployment in Kabul a party.”

  Just one thing. Is it too much to ask for just ONE THING to go right in my life?

  “Okay then, how about we just agree that you won this round for shittiest week? Or months,” I reply lamely as he tosses the used napkins on top of the bar next to me.

  He closes his eyes and sighs, running one hand through his short, dark brown hair. I take that as my cue he’s finished with this conversation and the crazy woman who just spilled half a glass of beer on his pants, so I turn my stool back around to face the bar. Out of the corner of my eye I see him quickly grab a camo backpack from down by my feet that he must have dropped when I showered him with booze. I listen to his boots angrily stomp away, then push the sad little confrontation out of my mind and think about happier things. Like being fired from my acquisitions job at a small publishing firm due to slow sales. And how when I return after the holidays, I’ll be forced to tell Logan the nauseating cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me,” while he awkwardly lingers around and watches me pack up my shit from the apartment I should never have moved into with him only a month after we started dating. I should’ve known he was a clinger when he willingly offered me a bathroom drawer and half of the closetPulling my phone back out of my purse, a distraction to keep me from wallowing in humiliation, I quickly regret that decision when I see a text from my mother confirming Logan’s urologist appointment for Wednesday at ten.

  “You need a refill, hon?”

  Glancing up from my phone, I open my mouth to answer her, but quickly stop when G.I. Joe returns and flops down on the stool next to me, speaking instead.

  “We’ll take two more of whatever the lady was drinking,” he announces without looking in my direction.

  “Two Goose IPA’s, coming right up,” she says with a smile before turning and walking away.

  Military Man finally turns his head toward me and raises a shocked eyebrow. “Goose IPA, huh? Nice choice.”

  He sounds impressed and I like it, even though I shouldn’t like anything about him since he acted like such an asshole about a little accident. The almost-smile on his face is much better than the pissy-frown from moments ago, though I realize I’m sitting here staring at him with my mouth open like an idiot.

  Tearing my eyes away from his, I look down and realize he’s no longer wearing his uniform. He’s changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt that matches the unique shade of his blue-grey eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible for anything to look better than a man in uniform, but this guy has done it. Even in jeans and t a cotton shirt, he’s absolutely mouth-watering. As he moves his backpack from his lap to the floor by his feet, I notice a pocket on the front flap of the bag with white stitching that reads “SOX.”

  “Is your name really Sox?” I question, pointing to the pocket when he gives me a questioning look.

  He glances down at it, and if the lighting in here wasn’t so dim, with only the sparkle of the Christmas lights above us to see by, I could swear I see a blush spreading across his cheeks.

  “Uh, no,” he replies quietly, allowing the bag drop to the ground before grabbing the beer the bartender just placed in front of him and taking a big sip.

  As I blindly reach for my own glass, I keep my eyes on his face while I take a drink, expecting for him to continue. He doesn’t elaborate at first, but that’s fine. I can wait him out. I have no idea why he sat down next to me after I spilled beer on him and then insulted him. I’m a little buzzed and feeling much less hatred toward the Christmas music echoing around me. Talking to a hot guy is a better way to spend the time while I wait for my connecting flight than wondering how disappointed my mother is going to be when I come clean about everything, what I’m going to do about finding another job, and where the hell I’m going to live when I go back home to Seattle after Christmas.

  I let the silence stretch just long enough for it to get creepy and uncomfortable while I sit and stare at him without saying a word. After a few minutes, my side-eye glance finally does the trick, and he shakes his head before turning his face back to mine.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you my name, but if you laugh, I’m tossing my beer at you this time,” he warns.

  I make an X across my heart, and then hold my hand up, palm out in a silent promise.

  “Stocking…Sam Stocking,” he mumbles, letting out another annoyed sigh.

  Slowly dropping my arm to my side, my jaw falls right along with it.

  “Stocking. As in…”

  Sam purses his lips and glares at me. “As in ‘hung by the chimney with care,’ yes. This is an especially fun time of year for me.”

  His statement doesn’t match the scowl on his face, and even though I promised, I really, really want to laugh, but not for the reason he might think.

  “Go ahead, take back your promise and laugh. I know you want to.”

  I have to bite down on my lips to stop the giggle from escaping. With a deep breath, I put the most serious expression on my face I can muster.

  “I’m not going to laugh. It’s not funny at all. I honestly pity you right now,” I tell him solemnly.

  “I think I’d prefer laughter,” he mutters.

  I can’t take the annoyed look on his face any longer and my laughter breaks free. Extending my hand in his direction, I give him a sincere smile.

  “It�
��s nice to meet you, Sam Stocking. The name’s Holiday. Noel Holiday, and this time of year can suck it.”

  A smile finally emerges on his grumpy face, lighting up his striking features, and I feel butterflies in my stomach when I catch a glimpse of his dimples again and hear the husky sound of his chuckle. Those damn butterflies start moving like a cyclone in my stomach when his large, warm hand engulfs my small, cold one and gives it a shake.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Noel Holiday.” Dropping my hand, he picks up his glass and tilts it toward me. “I’ll toast to sucking it.”

  He says that last part softly and his eyes move down to my lips. A sudden shot of lust flows through me as I wonder what it would feel like to have his mouth on mine.

  What in the actual hell am I doing? I’m supposed to be heart-broken and sad, dreading the moment when I knock on my parent’s door and have to explain my shitty life and how I’ve let them down yet again. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about some stranger I just met at an airport bar and will never see again.