The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 4

“Who are you?” Serena rattles off between perfectly plump, glossy lips.

“Thatch, Serena,” Ruby introduces while stalking toward her daughter. “Is that any way to treat a guest of this house?” She scolds before pulling Serena in for a hug. “We told you about the young man who answered the want ad your father placed to help build the deck.”

“No, you didn’t,” Serena counters, her eyes on mine.

“That’s because you only hear what you want to,” Ruby mutters as Serena gives her a half-assed return hug, her eyes still zeroed in on me.

“Young man?” She mimics, clearly guestimating my age. This I consider a win because she’s doing it to satisfy her own curiosity.

Play it cool, O’Neal.

Shoving my hands into my jeans, I nod toward the open door where snow is still filtering in. “Aren’t you cold?”

Ruby grins, taking the scarf dangling in Serena’s idle hand before Serena snaps to, turning abruptly and closing the door behind her. As Ruby hangs her scarf on a nearby coat rack, Serena zeroes in on me. Tossing her shoulders back, she stalks toward me, openly sizing me up before stopping just next to me fireside. Palming the air to warm her hands, she fixes her gaze on the flames as she speaks. “So, if the deck is done, why are you here now?”

“Jesus, kid, you’re an asshole,” Ruby says through a sigh. I can’t help my grin at her point-blank delivery. It’s one of the things I love most about Ruby, and it seems her eldest daughter is no less subtle. “I’m sure your father and I have taught you that the art of conversation doesn’t start or need to include an insult.” Ruby turns to me. “Sorry, Thatch. Try to hold your own while I finish dinner. I’ll send Allen in to bail you out if I can replace him.” Ruby gifts me a departing wink before she disappears.

“Just asking a question,” Serena shrugs before turning toward the fire I still have my back to. Up close, she is fire, and I take notes as the flames lick along her profile. The first is that her lips are overly glossed.

“You get a lot of compliments on your lips?” I ask.

Said lips simper with a smile. “Maybe, why?”

“It’s obvious,” I mutter, and she frowns before she takes offense, eyes narrowing.

“Ah, so, my mom ducks out, and your true colors shine through. Not the nice boy she said you were. Figures.”

“Thought you said she didn’t tell you about me? And it’s just a question because from where I’m standing, you could signal and land a plane with the amount of high gloss you have going on there.” I imitate her flippant shrug. “Was wondering where Whitney picked up the habit.”

“Uh huh, well, I guess mystery solved. Nice to meet you, Thatch,” she shoots me a withering stare, and I widen my eyes in amusement.

“There are those well-embedded manners. A real pleasure, Serena,” I smirk as she glares back at me, full of piss and vinegar as she stalks off.

“Mom,” she glances back at me just as I flick my gaze up from her ass, “where’s Brenden and Whitney?”

Wedged into a tiny desk in Mrs. May’s classroom, I shoot my son a withering look as he shrinks beneath it. A freshly delivered paper full of sad faces, his report for today, further stoking my agenda.

“So again,” she relays, unable to fully disguise her scolding. “I ask that you give him a stern talking to about the language, the biting, and interrupting naps.”

Much to my dismay, it’s not Gracie’s school I got the call from today. No, this summons for today’s parenting lesson came thanks to my son.

“And what do you suggest I say?” I ask, knowing the clock is ticking out on picking up that check. It’s size enough to safely cover my employees’ Christmas bonuses as well as cushion our commercial account for any unexpected expenses over the holidays. A check I was prevented from collecting due to an urgent call regarding my son from Pre-K because Serena is at her OBGYN appointment.”

“Pardon?”

I shift my focus from the toy-littered classroom to the fresh-faced twenty-something subtly calling me out. “I asked what you would say, Mrs. May.”

“Ms. It’s Ms. May.”

“Ah, I see. Ms. May, my question remains the same.”

“Well, you tell him to use his words, of course, but not profanity. Never to bite. And to take his naps when the teacher says so without disturbing the other children.”

“I see.”

“You don’t agree? She asks, furrowing her brows.

“I pay twenty-six thousand dollars a year for my child to learn his A, B, C’s and 1, 2, 3’s at this institution. For his teacher to help shape his mind and assist in molding him and correcting his behavior.”

“You don’t pay me,” she counters, her tone testy.

“True, and vice versa. I don’t believe you sign my checks, either.”

Her expression hardens. “What is your point, Mr. O’Neal?”

“The accusation in your voice. It’s just as unappreciated as my insinuation you aren’t doing your job, either.” I glance up at her daffodil-handed clock as precious seconds tick by. “This is the fourth time you’ve called me here in two months. Do you not think during the ride home each time that I haven’t spoken those exact words to my son? Words you’ve given me?”

“Well, no,” she frowns, “I’m sure you have.”

“Do you know what a lick is, Ms. May?”

“A lick, like a lollipop?”

“Just the opposite, a lick, is what you got for bad behavior when I was in school, which is slang for spanking. Some teachers got creative. In fact, I had a teacher by the name of Mr. Duncan who drilled holes into his two-foot wooden paddle for added suction and used duct tape around the handle to make sure he had a good grip,” I widen my eyes as hers bulge. “So when we misbehaved in junior high and high school, we were called outside and got what’s known as ‘licks.’ Fun part is, this would take place during class, and we had to count them aloud while everyone outside the door listened.”

“Wow, that’s—”

“Seems pretty brutal, right? Can’t say I was a fan. Can’t spank a kid now because it’s now being viewed by some as corporal punishment,” I tick off, “which I’m not even arguing about. Last I heard, time out has been deemed ineffective. So now, we’re encouraged to reason, promote word usage, and discuss feelings. Fine. I’ll take your advice and theirs on this. You’re the experts. I’m sure you have a degree in child development, right?”

She nods.

“I’ve read a half dozen parenting books over the years, but a scholar I’m not. So, we can continue this tango, and you can tell me exactly what to say and how to say it, but here’s the thing—I have Ms. May. I’ve had this very talk with my kid repeatedly. Yet, here we are, chatting about his behavior again. So, unless you have any new material that works, I’ll be passing on any more of these conversations. Because Peyton is the one who needs discipline, not me. So please start disciplining him as you see fit in your time with him and not me.”

“Mr. O’Neal—” she starts.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, moving to get out of the desk, which is making my knees ache because of its height, only to replace myself lodged—fucking perfect.

“See, I wake up on time,” I begin to struggle to dislodge myself from the tiny human’s chair, twisting my hips furiously, “brush my teeth, go to work,” I grit out with the struggle as she gapes at me. “I do my chores and my absolute best to correct the behavior of my children on my time.” Neck heating, I frantically start to twist my body as my aggravation builds that this is the only fucking seat she offered. “I’m polite enough to strangers, say please and thank you, and team play as best I can.” I grip the desktop and begin to twist it along with my hips to no avail, my grunts filling the room as I continue my rant. “I even pay . . . my t-taxes on time. . .” I sputter breathlessly while thumping the metal legs furiously against the hardwood. “So.” Thump. “If.” Thump. Thump. Thump. “You want to kick my kid out . . . Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. “For being an asshole, you have that luxury.”

“Daddy!” Peyton admonishes. “You can’t say a bad word to Ms. May!”

“See there!” I shout like a crazed lunatic, standing abruptly, the desk coming with me. “Right, there! He does know better!”

Her jaw hangs as I jerk at the desktop one last time, and the metal finally frees me just enough to rip it from my body before I slam it back on the floor with a defiant thwack. “He. Knows. Better,” I finish with a flustered flourish. Turning, I see Peyton standing stock still, his own eyes bulging. “Get your coat, Son. This instant. We’re leaving right now.”

Peyton immediately shoots over to the wall of colorful built-ins adorned with hooks before grabbing his jacket.

“Mr. O’Neal,” Ms. May coaxes softly as if trying to reason with another four-year-old. “Please know I wasn’t trying to insinuate you aren’t a good parent.”

“It’s fine, I,” I hang my head. “Sad thing is, my child is showcasing that truth on his own,” I run my hand through my hair as I level with her once more. “Look, I have an insanely healthy respect for the fact that you went to school to learn how to educate my child and others. Also, for the fact that in these dangerous times, you put yourself at risk daily to do so, and I’m sorry I got cross with you, but here’s the thing . . . my kid isn’t going to shape up with a stern talking to. Not at this point in time, but I’m working on it. That’s the best I can offer you today. That, and I’m sorry for his behavior and mine. Peyton, let’s go.”

At the door, I turn back to Peyton’s teacher, who stares after us, looking a little bit lost and slightly traumatized.

“His mother and I really are doing the best we can,” I offer once more, and she nods, a touch of pity in her return stare. “Merry Christmas, Ms. May,” I grumble, feeling every bit the jackass I look like.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. O’Neal,” she offers just as feebly before I palm Peyton’s back to guide him out.

“Mewery Christmas,” Peyton echoes in parting before I guide him down the hall and out of the school.

Silent minutes in the truck follow until Peyton finally starts to brave a conversation. That’s the thing about kids. They can sense a parent’s mood and the seriousness of all situations. Only blind to it when they’re truly at play. But they know. The truth of that irks me as he speaks up.

“Am I in big trouble, Daddy?”

I bite my tongue, absolutely refusing to entertain this shit again because I meant every word I said. We’ve had these useless talks. One too many times.

“Daddy, I asked you a question!” Peyton shouts as I ease to a stop and lock eyes with my son. As the seconds tick by, he laughs nervously, and I keep my expression grim. Normally, this is where I would chime in and put him at ease because I hated that feeling when I was a kid. The tense seconds before my father’s explosions always got my nerves so frazzled I was a jittering fucking mess. Something I wanted to spare my own children from, but mine seem to be utterly lacking any healthy amount of fear as of late. The image that’s been haunting me nonstop for days slams into me as I stare at him. The cold sweat the memory induces covering me as I rattle from within. It’s then I know it’s not just their behavior that has me taking these measures. It’s more. Much more, and it’s my fear that’s part of the catalyst.

“Daddy, why are you not talking to me?” Peyton asks, his eyes dimming slightly as he tries to figure me out. Ignoring the sting in my chest, I keep at our stare off until the light turns green.

“Wiggles,” he demands, dismissing me and what just transpired. Programmed, I immediately thumb the station button on the steering wheel to obey and stop myself. I don’t take orders anymore.

Grinning, I flip through the stations until I hit classic rock, specifically a song I’m all too familiar with. In hearing the opening, I’m granted a nostalgia kick and take it as a sign I’m on the right path. Cranking it up to deafening, I ignore my son’s roaring protest the whole ride to pick up the check. Exhausted from the day already, the second we hit the garage, my cell rings, and I frown when I read the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Daddy, you didn’t play Wiggles!” Peyton shouts as I exit the truck and slam the door on his berating.

“Is this Thatcher O’Neal?”

“Yes, how can I help you?” I ask, stepping back and opening Peyton’s door to see he’s already unbuckled himself, arms raised for me to get him down as he continues to air his grievances.

“Sir, this is security at Tree Hill Mall,” the man says as my stomach drops. I pause, hoisting Peyton, whose shoes hang in the air between the garage floor and the cab of my F150.

“Daddy, let me down!” Peyton orders.

I cut my eyes toward my son, and he quiets enough to let me catch the ass end of what’s being relayed over the line. “—caught your daughter shoplifting at Victoria’s Secret and have detained her here at the mall.”

“She . . . was stealing?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Feeling kicked, I stand utterly stunned while mixed emotions start to war for dominance as crimson threatens my vision.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I manage to reply, utterly gutted as I re-load Peyton into his seat, shutting the door on his newly barked order as blood starts to whoosh in my ears. Idle in the garage, I lean back against my truck for long seconds while absorbing the latest blow. I’ve had moments as a parent that have leveled me over the years. Downright debilitating moments. One of which I had last week—the worst one to date. This one coming a close second. After calming myself enough to get behind the wheel, I bend, pressing my forehead to it as I give myself a few more needed seconds. I don’t want to drive this upset with Peyton behind me.

“Daddy . . . why did you buckle me? Are you crying?”

“Peyton,” I rasp out hoarsely. “I need you to be quiet right now.”

Ignoring his backtalk, I restart my truck, and just as we start to pull out, Serena pulls into the driveway. Pressing the brakes, dread fills me at what I’m about to have to relay to her. While at the same time thankful for the sight of her. For the reminder that we’re in this together as we both roll down our windows.

“Hey,” she greets before reading my expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Mommy! Mommy, come get me!” Peyton shouts.

“I saw I missed a call,” she sighs. “Ms. May?”

I nod, and she winces as Peyton roars behind me.

“Want me to get him?” Serena asks.

“Yes, but we don’t take orders anymore, and it might do him some good to see his sister in handcuffs.”

Serena’s eyes bulge. “What?”

“Yeah, our tween has decided to make her shoplifting debut at Victoria’s Secret,” I manage to push out.

This is karma, Thatch. Pure and simple. This is also the chaos that comes with the girl.

“No, Thatch,” Serena’s eyes search me frantically with concern. “Oh, my God.”

You wanted the girl. You got the girl. You got the life you asked for. You made a promise.

“Baby, look at me,” I coax as she exits her SUV and Peyton screams for her in a way that neither of us can hear one another. I grip my wheel, knuckles whitening as I resist the urge to lash out, knowing the easier thing to do would be to pass him off to her. But I’m done with easy, if that even fucking exists. God knows that everything, when it comes to them lately, seems so damned hard-won.

“Quiet, Son,” she snaps at him. “Your daddy and I are talking.”

“But Mommy—”

“Peyton,” she uses in her sharpest tone, “one more word, and you’re in big trouble.” Turning back, her eyes soften on me. “What did Ms. May say?”

“The usual, but I told her we’re working on it. Left the game plan out. How did it go at the OB?”

She bites her lip, and I tense at her hesitation before she speaks. “I-it’s okay, I got a boob smash.”

“Ouch, want me to kiss and make them better?”

She ignores my blatant attempt to keep things light. “Thatch, are you okay?”

“No,” I admit honestly. “Not. At. All.”

“What are we going to—”

“What we’re doing,” I cut her short. “I’ve got to go get her.”

“Okay,” her eyes shine with concern for me.

“I’ll deal, just . . . give me a shot of those lips,” I demand. “Give me a reason to come back.” She grins at the arrival of the same line I used when we were kids. Stepping up on my running board, she leans in through the window and kisses me chastely.

“Nope,” I pop the P, and she shakes her head.

“Thatch, you’re acting a little crazy.”

“I’m going a little fucking crazy,” I admit, keeping my voice low enough so Peyton can’t hear me curse. Though I curse a lot, I try to muffle myself as often as possible—even though they know better. “Want to come with me to no fucks given land? I hear the weather is nice there.”

“Already packed my bags,” she promises. “Before we go, did you deposit the check?”

I tense, eyeing the clock. Due to my aggravation with Peyton and, just after, reminiscing because of the song, I’d steered home to Serena, failing to run the one fucking errand that mattered today.

“Jesus,” I glance at my dash clock, “twelve minutes.”

“Give it to me, babe. I can make it to the bank in five.”

When I hand it over, she steps down.

“Nope, get back here,” I insist.

“What?” she searches the cab for something obvious, “is there another?”

“It’s a matter of incentive,” I drawl.

“Thatch, we don’t have time.”

“I think that is what got us into this mess,” I murmur. “We’re going to make that time, steal it if we have to, and babe, I need it,” I declare a breath before she steps back up on my running board and lays one on me. I deepen it briefly before releasing her. As she steps down, I’m rewarded with the same dazed expression I got this morning.

“Good enough?” She taunts, catching on.

“You can do better,” I shrug. “Don’t race there, okay? We’ve probably got enough in our account to cover it.”

“Just go on, Handy Man, I’ve got this.”

“See you in a bit, Brat,” I wink as the use of our ancient nicknames melts some of the ice threatening to form around my heart.

In a matter of seconds, she shoots away in her SUV as I follow her out of our neighborhood and click my signal in the opposite direction . . . to go bail out my twelve-year-old daughter.