The Sleight Before Christmas (Holiday Hijinx Series Book 2)
The Sleight Before Christmas: Chapter 9

“I think Eli is afraid to ask for a finger in the ass,” Whitney booms so loud in announcement that I duck for cover as Brenden immediately dry heaves. Eli’s eyes bulge out of his head before he shakes it like he just took a punch to the throat and is scrambling for recovery.

“Why do you think that?” Erin asks, concern in her voice as if it’s everyday conversation, just as Eli furiously swats at us while Brenden and me chuckle like hyenas.

“Shut the fuck up,” Eli whisper-yells. “I didn’t tell you guys this year to get myself busted in minute one. And she’s full of shit, I’ve never talked about anal—”

“I have a vibrating butt plug,” Whitney interjects, cutting off his objection. “He drank tequila tonight. It makes him crazy. So, I’m going to lube him up and use it on him.”

“The. Fuck. She. Is,” Eli shakes his head adamantly, even as the tequila buzz crazes his icy eyes in a pretty damned distinguishable way.

“Do guys . . . really like that?” Erin asks. “I mean . . . really?”

“Millions of gay men can’t be wrong,” Whitney says.

“Side’s,” hiccup, “that’s where their G-spot is,” my wife slurs. “I’ll give Thatch a pinky now and then. A little wiggle here and there, and he fucking blows.”

Brenden full-on gurgle gags as Eli palms his mouth to stifle his laugh, and I whisper a pointed “fuck you” to each of them. Mortified of what’s coming next, yet intrigued at their openness—especially Erin’s surprising curiosity—I take my spot next to Brenden and tune in.

“Well, I’m determined to find out,” Whitney states as Eli pales and shakes his head, his ramblings coming out scattered due to his terror.

“I have n-no idea where’s she ge-etting dis,” he swears, his words barely audible as he white-knuckles his beer. “I’ve never even broached the subject,” he points straight up into the air as if in a great debate, “or shoved my ass anywhere near her in suggestion during sex.”

“Hockey books,” I deliver point blank, palming his shoulder. “Look for hockey books on her Kindle. And whatever you do,” I look between them, “do not let them fuck you with a grapefruit. No matter what they say.”

Both of their eyes bulge as I give what explanation I can.

“It’s a very short story with a very, very painful fucking ending. That’s all you need to truly know. Bros don’t let bros grapefruit. That’s love I’m giving you.”

I hold out my beer, and they tentatively tap their heads to it. Though I’ve stuck to brew, the two of them started strong with back-to-back tequila shots before starting on their own beers. Both of them taking full advantage of bro night—a first for us since the girls started their tradition.

“Anal play isn’t that out there,” my wife states. “Tell Eli not to be a prude.”

Brenden shakes his head, his expression looking queasy. “These are my sisters. I can’t un-hear this. I’m out.” When he goes to stand, Eli yanks him back down, pointing a finger very close to his face in warning.

“You wanted to come, so sit your ass down. You’re not fucking this intel up for me.”

“Let’s talk size,” Erin blurts, and Brenden immediately lifts, sealing the window closed before turning to us.

“We’ve heard enough,” Brenden declares, “we need to respect their privacy.”

“Convenient,” Eli snaps. “It’s cool, bro. We know you have some confidence issues in the winky department.” Eli winks. “It’s clear your wife loves you for you,” he chides further as raucous laughter bellows outside the house.

“Will you two shut the hell up. We’re missing it!” I say.

Brenden leans in, clearly affronted, as he issues his threat to us. “I will knock both of you off this damn cliff with my glorious fucking stiffy.”

“Glorious?” I chuckle. “Whatever keeps you confident, bro,” I jibe and pat him with a consoling hand. “Now man up,” I snap. “Eli, go ahead and crack that bitch back open.”

“I knew it was a bad idea to let you two in on this,” he shakes his head.

“I’m good,” Brenden says. “Good,” he takes a long swig of beer.

“We have gotten some priceless advice and gift tips over the years,” I relay to Brenden as the girls break into more laughter, “and we’re thankful, aren’t we, B?” I nod toward Eli, who scowls at us, trust broken.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead, we’ll be good,” Brenden promises, crossing his heart with a finger while holding out an obvious pair of crossed fingers at the same time.

“I’ve been at this four Christmases running, and you two are not going to fuck this up for me,” Eli instructs as he covertly lifts his hand, pinching the window just so and opening it while flashing a warning glare between us.

“—husband’s got perfect girth,” Whitney says of Eli’s junk, which has him perking with pride. “I mean perfect. He’s blessed and shares it with me—often.”

“Brag away, but my man has the perfect dick,” my wife announces as I swell with pride. “If I could hand-pick a dick, I would order Thatch’s every time,” Serena boasts as my junk weeps with happiness. “God, I swear the first time I saw it, the angels sang.”

“Yeah, this is getting weird. That’s my best friend,” Whitney says. “Like, I’ve known him since I was still in an A cup fighting for B. Let’s move onto a safer topic.”

“Thank Christ,” Brenden says.

“. . . but before we do,” Whitney cuts back in, “how are your men on hang time? Like . . . is five minutes short to you—”

Eli immediately shuts the window, and Brenden and I share twin shit-eating grins.

“What’s wrong, bro?” Brenden quips. “Not fun when you’re on the wrong side of it?”

“It’s been a stressful year, okay? Once,” Eli spouts, his scowl for his oblivious wife, “maybe twice this year I didn’t go long game. She’s fucking exaggerating,” he excuses in exasperation. “Besides, it shouldn’t matter how long if you get the job done for her, right?”

Brenden and I nod because it’s the brotherly thing to do. Blowing out a breath, clear fear in his expression, he cracks the window again.

“—Brenden’s balls are weird, y’all,” Erin delivers, and Brenden’s jaw immediately unhinges. “Like, I know balls aren’t attractive to begin with, but his just look . . . weird. Like two little old men. Like little bald men with pointy noses.”

Shoving my beer between my thighs, I palm my mouth with both hands to stifle my laughter as Brenden cups his junk in indignation.

“I don’t go there,” Erin continues, “you know, tend to them. Ever.”

On his knees, a now seething Brenden maneuvers himself to blast his venom through the screen. “You sit on a throne of lies, my treacherous wife.”

Just after he releases it, Eli tackles him to the carpet, and I dodge them both, leaping for and closing the window as pained grunts follow.

“Co-vert. . . You. . . Stupid. Ass,” Eli grits out before Brenden takes the bait, and the two roll around on the floor, mostly ruining the integrity of the other’s sweaters with a touch of chin slapping between.

“Get the hell off me, minute man,” Brenden goes for the jugular as they begin a death roll for dominance, and Eli claps back.

“Fuck you and your Voldemort balls,” Eli fires. It’s as I watch them wrestle—mostly each other’s sweaters—that my Spidey husband sense goes off.

“Fellas, stop. We’re turning on each other, and I think this ploy was intentional.” Acting on my hunch as they go at it, I slowly, so slowly, lift enough to peek out of the window and, at that exact moment, manage to catch Serena glancing in the direction of the window I’m peering through.

Bingo.

Sinking down and turning my back against the wall, I can’t help the smile blooming on my face as my grown-ass brothers continue to exchange love taps and low blows.

“You smell delicious,” Brenden says, pulling at Eli’s V-neck, “too bad your one squirt won’t last.”

“Well, at least,” Eli manages through a triple chin tap from Brenden, “I get my balls sucked!”

“That’s my sister, you sick bastard!” Brenden quips before Eli hooks the side of his mouth with a finger. “Take it bwack.”

“This is why I don’t drink tequila,” I state as Eli—AKA the sane fucking brother—practically backhands Brenden and laughs maniacally.

“We’re so fucking busted,” I conclude, allowing them to get whatever alcohol-driven testosterone is fueling them out of their collective systems. Sometimes I guess guys just need to have a sweater slash bitch slap fight. Thankful those years are behind me, I decide to let them in on it. “They set us up.”

Eli’s face reddens as Brenden pins him, giving him two consecutive love taps on the chin with his fingers.

“And you idiots took the bait,” I state as they continue to wrestle on the floor, “like amateurs,” I spout aloud to no avail. “You’re being played, idiots,” I finally clip out loud enough to break them up. Both of them stop suddenly and slowly turn their heads toward me. Now straddling Brenden, Eli lifts his head a second before Brenden gives him pig nose.

“How do you know?” Eli inquires, nostrils lifted. “Four years and my spy record is fucking spotless.”

“I just know,” I quip, taking a long drink of my beer. “You’re busted, 007, or should we call you 005?”

“Unhand me, you heathen,” Brenden states, unraveling Eli’s fingers from the neck of his sweater before shoving Eli off. Eli lands on the hardwoods with an “oof” before popping back up.

“Women should rule the world,” I chuckle as the two of them start to straighten themselves. “We’ve so been set up.”

“Prove it,” Eli says.

“Happy to. But you’ll have to stop acting like cave dwellers and get over here.” Both start to army crawl over, but in a last-minute move, Eli thumps Brenden’s dick and scurries ahead. Brenden recovers with a curse, catching Eli’s ankle at the last second and dragging him back. Eli’s eyes bulge as Brenden starts pulling him in horror movie style along the hardwoods before I grip his hands and yank him free.

“Fucking stop!” I whisper-yell. “We’ve probably already missed all the best shit, along with everything else we’re being set up for. We can resume the fucking WrestleMania reenactment later.”

Brenden snaps to, his eyes earnest. “Promise?”

“Yes, now, shut the fuck up and listen.” They both crawl over as I press my finger to my mouth and inch it open.

“Oh, oh! Let’s do an impression of someone in the family and name them!” Whitney suggests as Serena immediately dives in, clearing her throat dramatically. “If it’s not about me, I don’t care!”

“Brenden!” Whitney squeals as Brenden glares at the window, muttering, “witches.”

“I’ve got one,” Erin says. “Murderfucker.”

“Peyton,” Whitney giggles, and I frown, palming my face. Parent of the year.

“Here’s one,” Whitney says, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH about everything.”

“Gracie,” all three say in unison as Brenden and Eli shoot me a sympathetic look.

“Sorry, sis,” Whitney says. “Too soon?”

“Hell no, it’s good to laugh about it. Better than crying,” she says, and I find my smile at that. “Okay, not to bitch,” Serena starts, as my smile disappears because I have a feeling this particular bitch is about me. “But if Thatch ever says “‘here we go again,’ when I come at him for something important, I’m going to Lorena Bobbitt his ass.”

“Who is Lorena Bobbitt?” Erin asks.

A pregnant pause ensues outside as Eli, Brenden, and I physically shudder. The name alone is enough to have every male in population Earth recoiling as they did back in ’93.

“Bless your sweet, saintly soul,” Whitney says. “I don’t know if you can handle such debauchery.”

“I don’t like this,” Brenden utters.

“But in the decade and year of our lord of ninety-something,” Whitney continues, making Eli and I grin, “let’s just say our friend Lorena, in short definition, became the unspoken hero of many a woman because of what she’s notoriously known for.”

The three of us share wary glances as my best friend clears her throat. “You see, dear sister, one sunny summer day—”

“Was it sum-mer?” Serena asks through a hiccup.

“I don’t know,” Whitney says, “hush, you’re messing with the vibe I’m setting.”

“Fine, but I think you should at least know the weather for this story.”

“Do you know it?” Whitney barks.

“No,” hiccup, “but a dark, moonless night and lightning seems appropriate,” Serena adds.

“Fine, sis, it was a dark stormy night, and shut up,” Whitney quips, the only female alive allowed to shush Serena. “Where was I?”

“A dark stormy night, hiccup,” Erin says with a giggle, just as amused by their back and forth.

“Yes, you see, our sister in spirit, Lorena of the Bobbitt, had just discovered her husband was cheating. And in sooo . . .” she pauses for theatrical effect as Brenden, Eli, and I tense at what’s coming. “. . . she bid her time and decided to get even . . . and so one night—”

A pause.

“Jesus, Serena, on the darkest and stormiest night ever—”

“Thank you,” Serena hiccups.

“She chopped off his dick with a kitchen knife!” Whitney booms as the three of us jump back.

“No!” Erin gasps.

“YESSSSSSS!” Serena and Whitney say in unison.

“But get this,” Whitney continues, “she took his dick with her when she fled her house and threw it in a field!”

“NO!” Erin bursts before erupting into maniacal laughter.

In response, Brenden raises his arm, simultaneously pulling his sleeve up his forearm to reveal goosebumps spreading like wildfire across his skin. “I’m fucking officially scared,” he says before fixing his glare on Eli.

“Mep,” Whitney says, her fondness for Peyton’s old substitution for yes and her nephew in her delivery. Even as she uses it to regale the worst imaginable story. “Lorena straight up took the biggest one for our team. Did both the crime and the time being the first to take the verbal threat we’ve all made at one point to our men next level . . . making her my unspoken hero.”

“I really loved being your brother,” Eli imparts gravely. “But I can’t sleep next to my new wife anymore.”

I grin as Serena speaks up.

“Mine too. Did she even do jail time? I’m going to Google it.” Serena states.

“Why?” Whitney prompts. “Want to see how much time you’ll serve if you hack Thatch’s winky?”

“I really loved you both,” I speak up in my own farewell. “I mean it,” I add before looking pointedly at Eli. “Thanks for this. You’ve ruined my marriage.”

“We married lunatics,” Brenden deduces, and we all nod in agreement.

“Turned out pretty well for the husband, John, I think that’s his name,” Whitney informs. “He went on to do pornos after he got it sewed back on.”

We all grimace at the thought, our shared pain visceral.

“Eww, and that’s kind of fascinating,” Erin says. “Unspoken hero,” she giggles. The sound eerie now that the good, close to saintly sister has gone bad.

“My wife can’t hang out with your wives any longer,” Brenden states emphatically. “I won’t have it.”

“Damn, can you imagine? It’s the ultimate revenge,” Serena boasts, a little too dreamily, as I shake my head in disappointment and reply to Brenden.

“I don’t blame you, man. Not at all.”

“Okay,” Whitney says, “let’s list what offenses we would all cut our husband’s dicks off for.”

The three of us are now plastered to the wall, and we lean in, cupping our mouths to make sure not a syllable is missed as we hold our collective breath.

“If Thatch ever says ‘here we go again,’” Serena states. “I will seriously consider that jail time.”

“Put that on my list, too,” Erin pipes as Brenden and I share an eye roll.

“Here we go again?” Whitney asks.

“Oh, you poor, clueless little newlywed. Well, good on you. That doozy is probably around four to six years into the marriage timeline. You’ve got time,” Serena reports. “Cherish it.”

“They’re onto us,” I decide. “We’re busted,” I look over to Eli. “Game over, Welch. You get an A for effort, but you should know by now there’s very little you’ll get past a Collins girl. Especially for this long.”

“You’re sure?” Eli asks, closing the window.

“Mep,” I state, a tug in my heart because I can hear Peyton saying it.

“Well, shit,” Brenden says, “that was pretty anticlimactic.”

“That’s what your wife said,” Eli and I quip at the exact same moment before sharing a fist bump.

“Hey,” Brenden snaps suddenly, and Eli and I jerk back. “I’ve got something for you both,” he digs into his pocket a second before gifting us twin birds. “Here you go, this one’s for you, yep, Merry Christmas.”

“Shit, it’s been fifteen minutes,” I say, my buzz kicking in, “we need to check on the kids,” I look at Brenden. “Or someone does.”

“That’s not that long,” Eli says as Brenden and I both turn to him.

“That’s forty-five years in parenting,” Brenden relays. “Go, you have as many as I do.”

“Uh, buddy, recheck your finger count because I’m pretty sure you have more winning sperms than I do.”

“Which is as many as you, plus one more,” he counters.

“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 they suspect. 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 devil he 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!”

“You better not have put that on my credit card!”

“I don’t know how to credit card! Grammy boughted it!”

“You don’t deserve it! You can’t even use your tenses correctly!” I throw myself into it, lifting a second bird toward the door as I continue to make obscene gestures at my oblivious son. I even toss a leg up in the mix and shoot a bird beneath it as he goes in for the kill.

“Go away, Thatcher O’Neal.”

“Happy to Peyton smears poop on the potty seat!” I snap. “It’s bedtime anyway for me!” Turning to stalk back downstairs, I’m met by the unhinged jaws of my brothers and immediately point back at the door. “Did you see that? He’s a bully and the ringleader!”

Eli and Brenden—perched on opposite sides of the top of the stairs—begin to collapse into laughter as I push past them, shaking my head in aggravation. “Fuck you guys,” I say, still stinging as I glance back, only once, and meet my son’s glare through a crack in the door before he slams it closed. The little shit.

“Did you see that!?” I point out, as Brenden starts to usher me away, and I strain against him, “he’s the ringleader!”

Brenden glances back just as Peyton screams through the door.

“Go away, Daddy! We don’t want you!”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Brenden consoles with a palm on my shoulder, “you can be in our cwub,” he mimics as they guide me down the stairs, “‘cause we found our mommy’s nog.”