The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 1

Present Day

“STOP IT PEYTON!” Gracie screams an octave above her normal ear-splitting volume as the woman formerly known as my wife fumes in front of me. Hair full of suds, her glaring left eye starts to involuntarily twitch. Not long ago, I’d be racking my brain for a clue as to why. Though my wife is vocal enough about her grievances, she sometimes keeps them bottled for long stints. That’s when things tend to get scary.

Though I’ve never been a man of many words, less than a handful of years back, we found ourselves unable to speak to one another without offense or resentment setting in. Those run-ins followed by days of tense silence. Been there, done that, and since our blow-up that Christmas, I’ve started communicating a bit better, which had us getting somewhat back in sync—just like the good old days. So, as I gaze upon my gorgeous, simmering, soap-covered wife, I silently commend us both on our ability to communicate better. Even as I physically see her decision to verbally berate me.

“Love you,” I shoot out preemptively just as she opens her mouth to deliver my ass to me. My sentiment has her pausing a millisecond, her eyes losing a smidge of their terrorize him sheen. A small win.

“Repeat after me, Thatchalamewl,” she draws out one of my more ridiculous pet names. At the arrival of it, I take it as a sign my strategy wasn’t completely ignored. Though, I used to replace this name far more endearing when it wasn’t the equivalent of middle name serious. Ah, these little games we play.

The trash bag I’m holding grows heavier in my hand as I tense due to the sudden silence upstairs. Too quiet. Something’s afoot. If I had to guess the culprit—Peyton. His accomplice—our baby girl, Gracie. Though far from a baby now. So far, that I shield my eyes from her wardrobe choices—daily—to try to keep the memory alive.

It’s the growing confrontation in my wife’s rich brown eyes that has me flitting my focus back to her as I soak in her state. I see it the second her demeanor shifts to middle name serious. The tiny lines around her mouth deepening with her frown. Disappointment. Words of said emotion forming on her tongue as a handful of suds from her head slide down her slender neck and disappear into her robe.

“I, Thatch,” she drones on as I debate on Smart Pop and soft-core porn in our newly finished basement after everyone is lights out. . . or a quick, stress-relieving tug in a hot shower. As selfish as the thought of sex may be in this moment, I’ve been unsuccessfully attempting to shift from our cozy pajama setup—me bottoms, her tops, and TV reruns—to the action arena starring the two of us sans the flannel sometime before the morning whistle blows. And by whistle, I mean the symphony of our children’s mixed screams.

Lately, I miss touching her intimately and that touch being welcome.

I miss her sounds, her skin, her moans, and connection. Her full attention. In some form other than “honey do, did you, will you?” and “why did you, do you?” It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the “do that, so good, do it again” area.

One I’m getting desperate to get back to. As far as typical men think in the number of sexual thoughts a day, I feel like I’m below par in the depravity department. But the last time we got truly intimate, the leaves hadn’t fully turned. There wasn’t a hint of snow on the ground. Now that our driveway is salted and the foliage is dusted white, I can feel myself coiling up due to pent-up frustration.

“I, Thatch,” I mumble in feeble attempt to get somewhere between the two territories at some point in the next week.

“Do solemnly swear,” she prompts, her command sounding like the growl of a small dog. Like a terrier or maybe a Jack Russell. I’ve always wanted a Jack Russell, but they’re known to be a hyper breed, and we’re all stocked up on hy—

“Thatch,” Serena snaps, bringing me back.

“Do solemnly swear,” I continue, as sweat starts to bead at my temple—not from fear but because I can feel her slipping further away. Marriage has its phases, and after two decades and counting with Serena, I know this truth all too well. I live it and very intentionally endure it because the hard-earned sweet spots are so fucking worth it. Tonight, that shift seems to be getting further out of reach, and I know there are two distinct reasons why. Two eerily quiet reasons upstairs. Too quiet.

“To never again bother my wife while she’s bathing,” Serena finishes, her hair still dripping rapidly where she stands in our kitchen. Which is ironic since it was she, herself, who interrupted the rest of her own bath to bitch me out. They say it’s always the ones you love most that you take aggravation with life out on, right? Well, from what I can tell at this moment, my wife loves me more than anyone in the history of fucking ever. Which would be flattering if affection truly played a factor in any part of this bullshit.

No, this, what’s happening right here, is part of the buildup that started just after Thanksgiving. The animosity rolling off her in thanks to the stressful weeks leading up to the main event. The pressure cooker state of mind that all spouses experience during the period coined the holidays. Days my ass. I prefer to think of them as hell on earth—weeks. Weeks in which peace is anywhere but on planet Earth for any ringed man equipped with a cock. The proof evident in the task list I get bombarded with annually that no male, even in his prime, can undertake successfully. A list I swear is meant to purposely set up this cock wielding, peaceless man for failure. Hellacious weeks in which the tiny woman in front of me—who I would and often do walk through hellfire for—evolves into my own personal terrorist. That is, until the blinking lights disappear, the scent of pine goes back to its designated cleaner bottle, and the last shred of tinsel is sucked up by our Dyson.

Maybe I shouldn’t discriminate and include the single but attached guys. It’s been a while for me, but I bet they’re just as battered down during this time by their would-be wives. I bet a few of those ringless guys are reconsidering the diamond they bought right now due to the state of their significant others. Though in truth, it’s not their fault, it’s the pressure—

“Thatch!” Serena summons, knowing how squirrel my thoughts get when I’m knee-deep in my wife’s disappointment.

“Jesus, baby, okay. Get it over with.”

“To never again bother my wife while she’s bathing,” she repeats, as the image of the first time I laid eyes on her shutters in. The vision having helped greatly in recent weeks. A reminder of the girl I first laid eyes on and fell for as quickly as the snow surrounded her in those life-changing seconds. Surprising myself when I stuck. Even all these years later.

“Unless someone is bleeding or nuclear war breaks out,” she continues as the trash bag grows heavier in my hands.

“Unless . . .” I quirk a brow with my suspense-filled pause. “You know what,” I shake my head. “I’m calling bullshit, babe. I think we should turn this into a negotiation.”

“Now’s not the time,” Serena dismisses.

“Actually, it’s the perfect time. When do I get a dad moment? When do I get bath time?”

See? Communication.

“You get time,” she counters unconvincingly.

“Yeah?” I lift my chin. “When?”

“When you . . . go out with the guys.”

“October fifth, last year,” I clap back. She frowns as I straighten my spine, knowing I’ve got her somewhere in the vicinity of where I want her.

“Fine,” she sighs, giving up easily—too easily—as the suds in her hair start to sink into her scalp. “We could both use a private moment. Peyton turns eighteen in thirteen and a half years,” she delivers like a sentence. “I guess we can get our time then.”

“Jesus, it’s that long?” I ask, to which she nods, her eyes lowering. Seeing her surrender so quickly starts an uneasy gnawing inside my chest. Serena rarely, if ever, backs down.

“Babe,” I retract, tossing the bullshit aside. “I’m sorry, I really tried to wait until you—”

“No, it’s,” she shakes her head in frustration. “It’s okay, God, never mind. You work so hard, Thatch. You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry, I love you.”

Alarm bells start going off as I study her closely. Dark circles lay like stains under her eyes. She’s paler than usual, and from the way her robe is cinched . . . thinner? The most gutting part is that her return stare is lacking all signs of life. Our typical borderline playful tit-for-tat I was up for, but this? Something’s most definitely wrong.

“Go, I’ll take—” A tell-tale thud sounds upstairs, and both of us instantly snap to, heads tilting, ears perking. The long, loaded silence that follows has us both hauling ass up the stairs. Heart thumping wildly in my chest, I make it to the door a split second after Serena and stop behind her at the threshold. The blood in my ears roars as I take note of our boy child just as he grips the rope . . . hanging from his bedroom ceiling fan.

“Daddy, look!” Peyton orders before sailing through the air as Serena and I simultaneously sound nuclear warnings, a stunted second too late. Peyton instantly drops from the rope, landing in an impressive dismount on his mattress. Stunned silence passes as I make the decision to go parent in lieu of awed spectator—especially after seeing the state of his ceiling fan, which now hangs by nothing but wires.

“Son,” I sigh as Serena uncharacteristically ambles into Peyton’s room before calmly perching herself on the edge of his bed. Staring up at the fan, I mentally try to work out how in the hell our four-and-a-half-year-old kid managed to secure a rope to his— “Gracie!” I shout, summoning our twelve-year-old nightmare into the circus tent.

“I’m on the phone!” She barks from her room.

“Good thing it’s not attached to a wall,” I holler back.

“What!?” She counters in evident confusion.

Feeling aged by the fact she probably has never seen a rotary phone, let alone a beige, wall-mounted classic, I clip out my order. “End your call and get in here, now!”

The overexaggerated stomping of feet fills the hall as Serena stares through our son, looking utterly clueless as to who he is.

“What, Dad, what?” Gracie snaps.

A second after I glance toward Gracie, I’m palming my eyes, an entire body flinch following as I toss words blindly in her direction. “Put some damned clothes on, Jesus . . . never mind. Want to tell me how your brother manipulated you into hanging a damned rope from his ceiling fan?”

“I thought it would hold,” she offers. Glancing in a safe direction, I watch as Serena scrutinizes her cuticles, which gives me pause. The sight of her like watching a firework fuse fizz out just as it’s supposed to go off.

“Thought it would . . . hold,” I repeat. “He’s four, Gracie. Four.”

“One, two, tharee, four,” Peyton sounds before waiting for the applause that isn’t coming. Clearly slighted, he continues his count as Gracie sounds up again.

“I can’t watch him all the time,” she huffs.

“I asked you for ten minutes so I could take out the trash. Ten minutes. Could you maybe not have set him up for irreparable brain damage during that time?”

I brave a glance in her direction as Serena sits idly by as if this conversation is nothing out of the norm. Staring at her for long seconds, I realize it isn’t. In fact, this is the exact type of situation we’ve been dealing with hourly for months, hell, more likely years now on end.

“I told him it wasn’t a good idea,” Gracie defends.

“Ah, so, you weren’t able to reason with a four-year-old? Noted. Next time we can talk about a more reasonable argument you can have with someone whose most recent accomplishment was not smearing poop on the potty.”

“I didn’t smear poop, Daddy,” Peyton defends.

“I’m aware, Son.” I look down to my wife, who’s completely checked out. “Serena, want to weigh in here?”

“I’m not here,” Serena relays on exhale. “I’m in the Florida Keys, having a sippy cup full of champagne delivered by a cabana boy.”

“You can’t say that anymore, Mom,” Gracie snaps. “It’s hospitality worker.”

“Thanks for clearing that up, Gracie.” I cross my arms. “Tell me, while you’re so busy correcting us on proper verbiage for those in the service industry, did you maybe once think that helping your brother turn his twelve-foot room into a jungle gym might not be the right move?”

“Mom, I need twenty dollars,” Gracie counters as Serena’s face draws up and her chest starts to heave. I glare at the side of her head, knowing she’s doing a lot more than tipping the cabana boy in her alternate reality. She’s been reading a lot of books lately. Come to think of it, that’s all she’s done in recent months. From the covers, most of them starring half-naked hockey players. Only once have I benefited, and it backfired. I can still feel the sting of grapefruit juice in a place where no man should ever experience grapefruit juice. From then on, our room has been a no-fly zone consisting of Frasier reruns.

“Serena,” I snap, jarring her out of oiling her fantasy man down.

“I give up,” she utters, and in her posture, I see every single word she just spoke as truth as her hair starts to harden from the residual shampoo. “I can’t handle any more of this, Thatch.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to do tonight,” I counter. “Babe, we made these together,” I point between them, “and must deal with them together. There’s no holiday in parenting.”

“Sign me up,” she says, as if it was an offer, while rising from the bed, tilting her head up at the ceiling fan as if it’s nothing out of the norm. Just next to her stands our smiling son, his eyes on it as well, his expression morphing into one of . . . gloating? It’s then I flit my focus to our tween-aged daughter, who’s composing a text, utterly unaffected.

Serena turns back to me, her eyes vacant, depleted, utterly void of life. It’s then that the image of her standing in the doorway of her parent’s house resurfaces. The side-by-side mental comparison jarring. Next to the shell that was once my wife stands a gorgeous nineteen-year-old, the setting sun glinting off her hair as she shouts out to her parents from the open door.

Now, seeing both the girl and woman side by side, I realize what’s so painful about the two of them. The utter loss of confidence in her posture. As well as the life in her eyes. A sudden surge of protectiveness thrums through me at the idea that I’ve somehow let this happen. That I’ve missed something vital.

“Baby, go,” I immediately coax, palming her back and ushering her toward the door and away from the two threats. “Finish your bath. I’ve got this.”

With a nod, she wordlessly drifts down the hall, her shoulders slumped as I snatch Gracie’s phone and usher her inside Peyton’s room before snapping the door shut.

“What in the hell?” I ask between the two of them.

“Dad, I was—” Gracie’s protest is cut short by my glare before I share it between both our children. “No, not just tonight. What has gotten into you two? You went from somewhat mannered and reasonable to utterly out of control.”

“I not out of control,” Peyton shouts. “I was just playing!”

“Peyton O’Neal, yelling at your father after you wreck your room is absolutely not okay.” I scrutinize the two of them and see my words have zero effect. None. “This, whatever this is, is over,” I spout. “In the last two weeks, I’ve had to patch drywall, twice,” I stare down at Peyton before shifting to Gracie, “and pick you up from school three times for gossiping in class, over the teacher, and being an all-around jerk.”

“Jerk,” Peyton points at Gracie.

“Pot, kettle,” I counter. “You get sad faces every single day, Peyton. Every single day!”

“I’m trying, Daddy!” Peyton hollers, taking Gracie’s lead.

“No, you’re not. You’re not even trying to do your chores. You’re both being the worst version of yourselves when you know better. Neither of you are doing anything to make us proud. Your mother . . .” I stare in the direction she left, or rather fled. “Can’t you see how sad she is?”

Both talk over me in shit excuse, neither hearing a word I’ve said.

“Hush!” I boom, and the room instantly goes silent as Peyton’s eyes widen. The daddy tone I haven’t used in far too long coming into play as I nod toward Gracie. “I’m at my wit’s end, Gracie. You don’t care about what’s going on in this family, and I get it. I was young too—”

“A hundred years ago,” Gracie spouts snidely.

“A hundred years ago,” Peyton parrots as the blood vessels in my body tighten to the point I think my head might pop off. It’s then I feel the snap, the hold I’ve been gripping tightly onto since I carved the turkey dissolving in my hands. As I free fall, resignation sets in, and my mouth starts to move of its own volition.

“You two don’t appreciate anything. Not what we do for you on the daily, not the rules for this house or outside of it. You don’t do anything at all that we ask of you. You’re spoiled, disrespectful, ungrateful, and just plain defiant. So, guess what? Starting now, Rudolph is crossing some things off your lists,” I declare as both their defiant smiles drop. Rudolph, because despite our best attempts, even at four and a half years old, Peyton still considers Santa his nemesis. “Which means, Gracie, you aren’t getting that Mac.”

“What!?” she shouts.

“An octave higher, and I won’t even think to stop Rudolph from delivering the ridiculous amount of makeup.”

“Dad!” Gracie immediately disobeys.

“Now the makeup is gone, too,” I cross my arms, feeling lighter with every blow I deliver.

She palms her mouth as if it will actually silence her as I turn to Peyton. “You can forget about your Rail Ride tickets. Gone. That fan will cost a few hundred dollars to replace.”

“Daddy, no!” Peyton’s face twists, and I flinch inside as his eyes threaten to well with tears.

“I love you both more than life, but that woman . . .” I point in the direction Serena fled. “I don’t recognize her anymore. And do you know why?” I wait a good minute until their collective whines quiet. “Because she spends ninety percent of her time taking care of you and begging you to take care of yourselves and each other.”

It’s then a notion strikes me, and without thinking it through, I start speaking it. “As of right now, you’re both about to learn the hard way that no one is coming to save you from yourselves.”

“What’s that mean?” Gracie asks, a hint of fear in her voice, but not enough.

“That means we leave for Grammy and Gramp’s in two days. If I get one more call to pick you up from school,” I declare to Gracie before I flit my gaze to Peyton, “or I trip over one more toy or have to patch more drywall, you get nothing, and I mean nothing for Christmas.”

“Daddy, Rudolph won’t come?” Peyton asks, aghast, everything in his expression as if he should have a hand to his chest.

Gracie immediately opens her mouth, eyes glinting with the damage she intends to do. “God, Peyton. Don’t you know? Rudolph isn’t—”

“Finish that sentence,” I warn, “and I swear to God, you will hate your life more than you’re showing me you do, Gracie O’Neal. You know what? I’m taking off Christmas list items six and ten just for thinking of doing that to your brother.”

“You can’t do that!” Gracie screeches.

“I just did. You’re going to learn to speak, not scream, even if I have to strip you of everything. Do you hear me? You’ve been screaming for three damned years, you’re done.”

“Daddy, no Rail Ride?” Peyton questions again, lips trembling.

I take a knee in front of my son and command his eyes. “Peyton, did you know you shouldn’t swing from your ceiling fan?”

“Yes,” he answers instantly, and I replace myself missing the days when ‘mep’ was his standard answer. Where his innocence and youth could stifle some of my disappointment in his behavior. But he does know better. Both do, which only reinforces my decision.

“Why did you?” I prompt.

“I dunno.”

“Did you know it was wrong and you would get hurt or in trouble?” I continue.

“Yes.” Another instant reply that has me sinking in my skin.

“And you did it anyway?” I barely get the words out because it’s obvious there’s so little remorse in him.

“Yes.”

“That’s why, Peyton. That’s why,” I sigh.

I turn to my oldest and shake my head. “And you. You want to be a grown-up and not have your parents looking over your shoulder? Well then, you have to grow up. I can’t trust you with your brother for ten damned minutes. So, guess what? Like your mom, I’m done, too. I’m done giving you what you want other than a lack of a parent.”

“Dad, I need twenty dollars for the Friendsmas basket swap.”

She didn’t hear a word. Not one. “Guess you’ll be the only friend who doesn’t have one.”

“That’s not fair!” She shouts.

“Scream one more time, Gracie, and the whole list disappears, the whole damned thing.”

“I’m sorry,” she retorts, barely above a whisper.

“Ah, so you are capable of talking,” I say. Opening the door to free myself, I pull the plug on Peyton’s TV with my order. “Bed, now.”

“I have to brush my teeth,” he protests.

“Why? You don’t do it anyway. You mess around in there and paint the walls with the paste. Bed. Now.”

Peyton marches toward his twin and barricades himself under the covers. “Fine, stupid Daddy.”

“You just lost your Mega Legos.”

“Daddy!” He shouts, pulling the covers down to glare at me. Who would have thought the cutest kid to ever exist would be such a shit. I do. That’s who. In fact, that’s all I think when I look at him now. No more lingering on the baby who stole my beating heart the first time he looked up at me, but a kid who thinks I’m no one to regard for any reason. Just someone to boss around and take orders. Can a four-year-old have so much power over any human? Am I that much of a chump? Why am I so hurt? Am I thinking reasonably? Do I need therapy? Do I even fucking care right now? Serena’s forlorn expression flits through my mind, and I instantly make her my priority. This war I’m declaring for her. Any version of her but the absent woman who fled this room.

“Daddy, you’re not being nice,” Peyton states.

“Pot kettle,” I snap. “You’re not acting anything like the son I taught to know better, so why should I be?”

“I don’t know what kettle is, but you’re not the daddy I want, too.”

“That’s either, Son. Not the daddy I want, either, and want to go for number two on your list?”

“I dunno what number two is,” he snorts.

“The number of days you better learn how not to backtalk your daddy. But,” I improvise on a whim. “I think I’ll put you both on probation until Christmas.”

“What’s that?” Peyton asks.

“Your future after prints and handcuffs if you don’t replace some act right,” I sigh, ushering Gracie out and turning off the light before closing the door.

“What’s act right?” Peyton inquires through the closed door as I stand just outside of it, gripping Gracie’s forearm to stop her from stomping away.

“Your baby brother screams at me instead of talking to me and orders me around like I’m an employee.” No reaction. None. “Wonder where he learned that behavior?” I drawl out, and her mask of indifference doesn’t shift as she eyes the phone in my hand. “He could have really hurt himself,” I try to reason with her, even as she bristles with contempt. “Jesus, kid, do you even care?”

“I was watching him,” she offers. But it’s so clear she doesn’t.

“No, you weren’t, and I was taking out the trash for you while your mom was in the bath because it’s your chore. I was covering for you, but you don’t appreciate that, so you can get down there and do it now.”

“If I do, can I have my phone back?”

“No, and don’t ask me when,” I add. She opens her mouth, but something in my expression has her clamping it shut. “I’m done, Gracie. If I thought your mom and I had done a horrible job conveying what human decency is, then I would be a lot less pissed, but we have. Daily. For years, and you know better. I’m fed up.”

“Whatever.”

“You just lost your Visa Gift card, want to go for your damned Bum Bum cream?”

“Daddy, please no,” she whines.

“Then I suggest you shut your mouth and get to the trash.”

“Dad,” her voice wobbles, and I shake my head adamantly.

“It’s over. I won’t be manipulated by your tears, your pleas, by anything, Gracie. By absolutely anything you try, so you might want to think long and hard about any moves you make in the coming days. And if your brother so much as has a hair out of place or in any way harms himself before Christmas Eve, I swear on all I am, you get nothing for Christmas. Not even coal.”

“What?” She utters in confusion.

“God, I am old. Go,” I order.

Minutes later, after securing the house and setting the alarm, I’m stopped at our bedroom door by the sight of my wife. Her hair now soap-hardened, she sits on the edge of the bed in an utter stupor.

“Baby,” I coax as she turns to me with watery eyes. “Take a deep breath.”

“Why? What happened now?”

Stepping inside our bedroom, I shut the door and lean against it. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“It’s time to admit what no parent wants to admit,” I cross my arms.

“What?”

I shoot her a pointed look, and she reads it effortlessly and nods. At least we’ve still got silent communication.

“We’ve failed, haven’t we? We’re failing,” she sighs, a thin tear trailing down her cheek. I stalk over and whisk it away with my thumb before firmly shaking my head.

“I don’t think you fail at parenting,” I tell her honestly. “Not if you try every day. Not if you give it all you have, and Serena, we have. We do, every day we try so hard, so hard that it’s all we do. No life other than that, and that’s no life for us at all. I know parenting means sacrifice, but enough is enough.”

I pull her shaking hand from her lap and press a kiss to it before noticing the bite mark on her arm. I lift my eyes in question.

“Peyton bit me when I asked him to pick up his toys earlier. Just walked over and bit me like a dog. And hard, like he wanted to hurt me, Thatch.”

“Jesus Christ,” I stare at the dents in my wife’s arm as the resignation becomes a stronghold. “It’s time to admit what no parent is supposed to think or admit out loud.”

“No, Thatch,” she tries to pull her hand away, “we can’t.”

“The fuck we can’t. And once we do, what I want to do about it is going to make you just as uncomfortable, but first things first. We have to say it. We’ve voiced it before, and for the most part, we were joking, but it’s not fucking funny anymore, is it?”

A pregnant pause before she shakes her head.

“Say it,” I order as her eyes spill over. The sight of her tears solidifying every threat I made upstairs to the tiny terrorists torturing my wife.

“Our kids are assholes,” she releases on a breath.

“Yeah, baby, they are. Total assholes, and we’re not fucking going out like this.”