My Wife's Christmas Surprise (Cuckolding Shorts Book 5) by Ben Boswell Page A

next year.
    “Fuck it,” Roger virtually shouted. “No fucking way I’m not going to have my cake and eat it too.”
    “Um, Rog, that’s the whole point of that expression,” I noted. “You can’t.”
    “That’s loser talk. I’m not a loser. Are you Jack?”
    I laughed. A mistake. Roger doesn’t like people laughing at him. I downshifted in a more ambiguous, ironic chuckle. He seemed mollified.
    “I’m not, but I don’t see the play here.”
    “Fiscal year ends October 31. Up until that date, Transcom has us over the barrel, and they’re fucking us up the ass.” He thrust crudely to demonstrate the point. “Come November 1, we have no incentive to sign anything for months, which mean we get to flip it around and ream them.”
    “Right. I know that,” I noted. “So, we wait, book a good start to next year, and –“
    “The Great October Socialist Revolution began on November 7 th .”
    “Huh?”
    He glared at me like I was a particularly dim child.
    “Roger, I swear, I don’t get it. Sorry if I’m being dense.”
    He sighed. “Two calendars. Same day, different dates.”
    I finally got it. I let out a groan. “We can’t. That’s falsifying a contract.”
    He clapped me on the shoulder. “No, Jack, it isn’t. You’re just exercising your preference for dating things according to the Julian calendar.”
    I shook my head. He fixed me with his weirdly intense gaze and nodded. We must have looked like a couple of bobble-headed idiots, but it worked, and somehow, before I knew it I was nodding as well.
    He smiled. “That’s my guy. I knew I could count on you.”

TWO
     
    I’m not sure why he gets to me like that. It’s not as if he’s physically imposing. We’re both about average height. I may have a half-inch on him. He’s slimmer, fitter, has better hair. I think I could take him in a fight. Or at least I like to say that to myself, particular when I’m doing something dicey to please him.
    This one was bad, back-dating a contract. Intellectually, I knew it was wrong. Illegal and wrong. And probably stupid. But with him looking over my shoulder, I couldn't refuse. I changed the papers. We blew through our targets, and were in line for great, big bonuses. Still, I continued to lose sleep over it. Every day that passed got us closer to being in the clear. But if we were discovered, it would be grim. Fired. Sued. Maybe even facing criminal fraud charges.
    It made me want to drink. So I did. Not the most mature way to deal with stress, I admit. On the other hand, it did prep me for the Christmas party.
    Every year, our division has a big Christmas party. Roger is one of those guys who revere the 1950s, "when men were men, and getting drunk was no big fucking deal." He was Mad Men before the show ever aired. With him in charge, it is always a blowout -- open bar, rocking band, the works.
    He sends out an email saying, "what happens at the Christmas party stays at the Christmas party." He means it. Two years ago, he got into a shouting match with one of the account managers, Todd, and they ended up trading a couple of jabs before we managed to break them up. Todd was cleaning out his desk the next morning when Roger dropped by, poured two glasses of Scotch, and toasted, "no hard feelings." Todd still works with us.
    Attendance isn’t mandatory. But anyone who doesn’t show immediately ends up on “the list.” That’s the converse of the Todd situation. There isn’t actually a list. It is all in Roger’s head.
    “No better friend, no worse enemy,” he noted one time about himself.
    “You stole that from the Marines.”
    “And those assholes stole it from Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix. Felix, Jack, as in lucky, not the fucking cat.”
    So, in addition to be a pompous lunatic, he’s also smart and often funny. And yeah, lucky.
    None of those positive qualities seem to register with my wife. Julie hates Roger. Hates him. She thinks, and I guess she's right, that he brings out the