“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Beckett’s same tired play on words echoes down the hallway, announcing his arrival.
Every. Damn. Year.
Pretty sure we’re already well past due and should go ahead and officially declare it “a tradition.” But he better not have pointed at my wife this time — warned his ass about that shit last December.
And the December before that.
“I know you did not just point at me, Sawyer Beckett! I’ll snap that fat, stubby finger of yours clean off at the knuckle!”
Got my answer— he pointed at my wife.
Sounds like she’s got it handled though. That’s my girl.
“Um, hello? Whitley and I got the “ho point” too; we just don’t care. Same way we don’t ever care… every damn year,” Bennett gives voice to my earlier thought. “Honestly, my real concern’s for Sawyer’s mental well-being. It’s obviously slippin’. I mean, more than usual, and far too rapidly for his age. He’s got twelve months to think up something new, twelve, and nothin’. Early-onset dementia. Gotta be it. Sad, really.”
And… match. Bennett for the win.
“Shorty, you just gonna stand there and let ‘em talk about me like that? Threaten to snap my not-at-all stubby, if judgin’ by the way they make you moan, fingers?”
Emmett’s soft giggle floats on the air. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. Don’t throw stones if you can’t catch them when they come flying back at you. Plus, don’t share anything, with anyone, at any time, about my, uh, moans if you ever want to hear them again. And, last but not least, please tell me you’ve gotten all that sparkling wit of yours out of your system, and don’t plan on calling our daughter, and/or nieces, a ‘ho’ when they get here.”
“They’d think it was funny. ‘Cause it is. They’re not a bunch of-”
“Sawyer, quit talking and bring your dumb ass back here,” I yell from my office, stopping him a couple poorly-chosen words short of death.
“Always a joy, arguing with you women, but, as you heard, Daney needs me. You boys coming?”
“Nah, think I’ll stay with the ladies,” Zach answers him, Evan following up with a dead-panned, “Same.”
“Kiss-asses,” Sawyer grumbles, while on the move, sounding closer to my sanctuary… where the much-needed Scotch is served neat.
“You’re damn right,” Zach hollers back. “And later tonight, when you’re on the couch, alone, I’ll be kissing her-”
“Zachary,” Bennett hisses. “Much like Emmett’s moans, we do not share with the class either. Especially not with the “Sawyer Section” of the class. You know it only encourages him. Have you learned nothing in all these years, or you looking to get cut off too?”
Yep, much-needed Scotch; of which I pour myself another dose. This is where we’re at… and we haven’t even eaten yet.
And yet, I wouldn’t trade this, my family, for any other in the world.
“Why the hell do you get to hide out?” Sawyer busts in my office, and I do a double take, making sure I’m seeing correctly and didn’t miscount how many drinks I’ve had, then turn my head, trying not to choke on my indeed correctly-counted mouthful of aged-whiskey.
“What’s so funny, Dick?”
When I’m as composed as I’m gonna get, I turn to him, and have to laugh again… like I haven’t in too long to remember. “What the hell are you wearing?” I sort of say, more so wheeze.
“My ugly sweater. Better question, why aren’t you wearing one? Not that the shirt you have on isn’t ugly as fuck; you always dress like a preppy lil’ fuck-boy, but did you not read the agenda?”
I shake my head, not yet able to totally shake my laughter. “I didn’t.”
“Whitley! Gidget! All the other Ghosts of Christmas is Pissin’ Me Off, get in here!” he roars... only amusing me further.
Laney comes rushing in, her beautiful brown eyes wide with expectation of something horrible, the others hot on her heels. “What? What happened?” she pants, eyes scanning for blood spatter.
Sawyer whirls his big, angry self around, shifting the air in the room, and glares them all down. “Why isn’t Daney wearing an ‘I like fucking my wife so I’m gonna wear this ugly-ass sweater’ sweater? And while we’re on the subject, who thought putting Whitley in charge of shit was even close to a good idea?”
Wouldn’t trade any of them. Or a single second of the melodramatic circus that is us.
“I did,” Evan declares, joining the somewhat cramped mayhem. “She worked damn hard on everything too, so shut it, Titbag. Laney, where’s Dane’s sweater? I’m having a damn heatstroke, about to itch my own damn skin off in this thing; he’s putting one on too.”
“I don’t have one to put on.”
Sawyer hoists both arms in the air. “I know what you’re all thinking, but save your breath; I already told him the shirt he’s wearing sucks plenty. And, not the point.”
“Hello? Parentals? Anybody here?” JT calls out, appearing in the doorway seconds later. “Oh, hey. Why’s everybody packed in back here? Did something happen?”
“Nothing bad,” Laney assures him in her motherly tone.
“Okaaay, then… oh, geez, please tell me this isn’t some ‘Secret, Almost-Dead, Parental Society’? Or one of those freaky mid-life crisis swap meet things you read about on the Internet, like a fishbowl drawing? Oh…” He perks up and snaps, “Is it finally an intervention? And if so, whose?”
“Nice sweater, son,” I seethe. “Now, say again? The part about swapping, and fishbowls, in reference to your mother. Think I must’ve heard you wrong.”
His face blanches, eyes quickly finding the floor. “You did, my bad. Clearly not the time for a joke, especially if this is an intervention.”
“It’s not, and yes, it was your bad. So fix it. While being man enough to look them in the eyes. Your shoes aren’t that damn interesting.”
His head snaps up. “Sorry, Mom, aunts. Really. Out of line.”
“Not a big deal, except to your father, but I appreciate it.”
Mama’s boy.
“So…” This time, he claps. “What is up?”
“Your dad-”
“Nope,” Zach cuts Sawyer off, “can’t listen to it again. Dane, put on a damn sweater, uglier than what you’ve got on. Everybody else, back in the living room. If we aren’t eating in the next twenty minutes, I’m ordering pizza! Let’s go. You heard me; move it!”
He herds the masses down the hall, but Laney stays behind, sauntering over to me with motive in every step. “Caveman,” she purrs, “can you do me a small favor?”
“You have it hanging in my closet?”
She nods.
“You gonna help me put it on?”
“We have a house full of people,” she gasps, “including one of our children.”
I slide a hand along her leg, hitching it up and around my hip. “All I asked for was a little help with my sweater, baby. What are you suggesting?”
“Stop. I have to go play hostess. But later…”
“Later was always a given. Now, with the favor added in… you can’t get this house empty soon enough for me. Midnight. Wrap. It. Up. Agreed?” I growl, rubbing against her.
She answers with a heated kiss, hands tangled in my hair, trying her best to climb me. Tongue saying ‘yes,’ tiny moans saying ‘hell yes.’
I pull away first, all-too-aware of my threshold… and how there’ll be no stopping me if she crosses it. “That’s my girl. Stay just like this, hot and wet for me, and move things along. Midnight,” I remind her, swat that fine ass…
And go put on the sweater.