Page 43 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Astounding logic, jackass, and Erin has custody of the diapered one tonight,” I report. “So that’s two and two. We’re even.”

“I’ll go,” Eli offers, shaking his head as we both ignore him because he has no idea what he’s offering, and we’re trying to keep him alive.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” I ask Brenden. He nods, and three taps later, his paper is covering my rock as I look over to Eli.

“If I’m not back in ten minutes, Peyton did it.” He grins as I palm his shoulder. “It was a good run, bro, but mark my words, either they know or theysuspect. These girls are playing us for fools, so don’t let your pride bust you.”

“Come on,Lie,” Brenden jokes of Peyton’s old nickname for him. The use of my son’s ancient verbiage motivating me to go see what he’s up to.

“Let’s go find Mommy’s eggnog,” Brenden states to his newest and most impressionable brother. Though buzzed, I know Eli can hold his own.

“I can smell it’s close,” Brenden flashes him a wolfish grin. “Our party doesn’t have to be over.”

“Give it up already, man,” Eli says, trailing him into the kitchen. “You’re never going to find it.”

Their voices fade as I pry open the window just in time to hear Erin’s report.

“Ah, they left, just saw them go into the kitchen,” she says, as I curse the fact that I have to go check on the kids, knowing something juicy is afoot. Just before I close the window, I hear the only thing I need to.

“Y’all, I know this might be fucked up to say, but I’m lusting after my husband lately.”

“Really?” Erin says.

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Whitney says. “Just like the old days when y’all first started dating. I felt that static, sis. Good on ya.”

“I miss that,” Erin says.

“Well, good news is, it comes and goes in waves, so you appreciate it more, and yeah,” she sighs, “I’m totally jonesing for him lately, and he’s making it hot.”

Shutting the window with the intent of making it even better due to her praise tonight, I head up the stairs and am stopped just short of the large media room by my son’s voice.

“No, we are not cweaning up the toys till I say.”

“Why not?” Wyatt asks. “My daddy said to clean them up.”

“Yeah,” Conner says, “we were supposed to a long time ago.”

“This is my cwub, so I say when we cwean. We’re playing now.”

Walking up to the door, I see Peyton hovering over Wyatt and Conner, who are staring back at him like the little devilhe is. Conner—who is over twice his age—looks intimidated and swallows as my baby leans in.

“What’s going on up here?” I ask, frowning when I see Gracie isn’t in the room. “Where’s Gracie?”

Conner opens her mouth to answer as I swear to God, my four-year-old son holds up a hand and silences her before fixing his narrowing eyes on me. “Uh, no, no,” Peyton says, charging toward me to stop me from entering. “No, this is my cwub, and we don’t have mean daddies in our cwub.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, affronted as I attempt to straighten to my full height. I really shouldn’t have drank that fifth beer.

“Yes, you are excusetd,Thatcher,” Peyton draws out the enunciation, his full-on bully in effect as visions of red and blue sirens dance in my head. He pushes at my stomach, full-on kicking me out and shutting the door slowly as he does this, spewing his verdict. “No mean daddies allowded.”

Utterly stupefied my son has taken the bully route and is straight up rejecting me, I immediately stoop to his level just as he slams the door in my face.

“I don’t want to be in your stupid club,” I snap through the door, now closed an inch from my nose.

“Good, Daddy, ‘cause you aren’t in it!” Peyton boasts. The fucker. Rejection stinging, I press my middle finger to the wood and enthusiastically flip my four-year-old son off as I spout my rebuttal.

“It’s probably boring anyway!” I shout.

“We’re having so much fun!” Peyton shouts back. “We have pizza!”

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