by S. E. Hall
“Uh huh.” Emmett nods, actually appearing to understand—a skill only she, after years of practice, can pull off. “That explains it.”
“Oh yeah,” Evan drawls on a laugh, “clears it right up. Grown man plows through the middle of giant tree… gotta be inertia. Can’t believe we even had to ask.”
“Um, guys…” Whit raises her hand. “Sorry to interrupt, again, but, we’re missing some pieces. Has anyone seen-”
“Sawyer’s carrot-dick-nose? Found it. Just can’t reach it.” Laney points upward… everyone tilting their heads to see…
“For fuck’s sake, Beckett! How did you possibly think you were even warm, pinning the nose on the goddamn ceiling fan! You saw the target, that big picture of a snowman, hanging on the wall, directly in front of you. Ringin’ a bell? So why would you reach for the ceiling?” Dane’s face is blood-red, clue numero uno that he’s just about hit boiling-point. “Better yet, how’d you reach the ceiling?”
Sawyer just shrugs, sadly, but genuinely, clueless. “It’s all a blur, man. Musta flew outta my hand and happen to land there, ‘cause I don’t remember doing any climbing. But probably woulda helped to have a lil’ coachin’. Left, right, hot, cold. Anything. You guys suck shit for teammates.”
“Is he kidding?” Dane snaps his head in every direction, asking anyone, everyone. “Is he? I can’t tell anymore. He’s not, is he?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, tears of laughter wetting my fingers, and shake my head.
“We were blindfolded, you mouth-breather!” Yep, Dane’s head’s gonna blow clean off his neck.
“Yeah, that’s right… so you should understand my predicament!”
“Swear to-”
“Babe…” Laney intervenes in the nick of time, hand on Dane’s chest, using her best soothing coo. “Us girls, we’ve got this. Why don’t you and the guys go in your office, have a drink, watch a game. It’s Christmas. No killing your friends on Christmas, Caveman.”
“He’s not allowed in my office until he… PEELS THE EYE SACS OFF HIS FOREHEAD!”
“Dammit, Dane, why’d you tell him? I haven’t gotten a picture with him looking right at me yet,” Evan gripes.
“It’s my fault,” Laney grumbles. “I should’ve had you all tested sooner. I’m taking back the reins though, right now. Anyone with a sac, anywhere on their person, Go. To. Dane’s. Office!”
Sounds like a helluva plan… for the other three. I want to have a drink and watch a game about as much as I want to play another round of “Pin the Dick on the Ceiling Fan,” and the look I shoot Bennett tells her just that.
The sexy grin she sends back tells me she got my message.
“Actually, Laney,” my girl sighs, pretending to wobble on her feet a bit, “I’m not feeling so well.”
I’m on it.
“Sweetness?” I rush to her side. “Come sit down, tell me what hurts.”
“My head. I’m a little dizzy.”
“Oh God, this is my fault too. We sort of had a head-on collision during the game. I’m sorry, B. Lemme get you some Tylenol,” Laney worries, and guilt starts to set in… just not enough to make me abort mission.
We’ve come too far now— we’re getting the hell outta dodge—guilt be damned.
Here we go, time to put my acting skills to the true test… the Crew can smell bullshit comin’ a mile away. “That’s okay, Laney. I don’t think you’re supposed to medicate a concussion. And stop with your feeling bad. Not your fault. Accidents happen… as clearly demonstrated by Sawyer. I think I’d better get her home though, just to be on the safe side. Come on, Red, bedtime for you.” Shit. “But… uh… I’ll have to wake you up every few hours, you know, in case it really is a concussion.”
“Yeah,” she frumps, with just enough dramatic flair, “probably a good idea. Whitley, what else did you have planned tonight? I hate to miss it.”
“Due to the startling turn of events, and by that, I mean the wreckage, not your head, and the fact that the rest of our evening will need to be spent cleaning up, I’m gonna incorporate what else I had cooked up into our next party.”
Well there’s something to look forward to.
“So lemme get this straight.” Sawyer totally abandons his previous worries of out loud versus inside your head discernment. “We’re all gonna go along with this shit? I’m crawlin’ around on my hands and knees”—now he stands up—“tree’s on the fuckin’ floor, Daney’s havin’ a meltdown, Gidget thinks she’s the boss of me, and Whitley’s doing her best not to cry, but Zach gets to duck out on a hunch that Ben’s concussed? And y’all think I’m the one who misses the obvious?”
“You callin’ my woman a liar?” I step to him.
“No, I’m sure her head does hurt. Hell, mine does too! Willin’ to bet everyone here has a headache at this point. Am I sayin’ you’re not a damn doctor and milkin’ an excuse to leave? That’d be a big ol’ hell yes.”
“Okay then, we’re cool.” I smile and slap him on the shoulder. “Just makin’ sure you weren’t mouthin’ on Ben. Now that that’s settled, Dane, Laney, thanks for having us. We’ll see the rest of ya later.”
After he’s made ample production of helping me into my seat, knowing at least one of them are watching out the window, and climbed in the driver’s side, I turn to him. “Kudos on defending my honor, Stud, but you forgot to deny that you were lying.”
“No sense adding a lie on top of another, right?” He chuckles. “No one would’ve bought it anyway.”
“So they’re all gonna be mad at us.”
“Mad they didn’t think of it first, yeah, definitely. Mad at us? Nah. Dane and Sawyer both are always sneaking off to get some ass, every chance, every party. My turn.”
“And just whose ass are you planning on getting? Damn sure not mine. Not if that’s the best sweet talk you’ve got.”
His hand searches for and finds mine, giving it a tender squeeze before lifting it to his mouth for a kiss. “Don’t go getting pissed, Sweetness. You know how much I love you, and ‘sweet talk’ you plenty. But sometimes, a man wants to fuck. Needs to fuck. Not ashamed of it either. You been prancing around all night, teasing me. Your sweater may be ugly, but ain’t nothing ugly ‘bout the way it hugs your tits. And that skirt? You knew exactly what you were doing when you put it on—starting the clock on when I’d peel it off. So yeah, I wanna fuck ya, babe.”
Because he’s right, he does whisper of romance nine times out of ten, and because it’s so damn hot when he doesn’t, I let it slide. And slide my hand down, rubbing his semi-hard dick through his jeans.
He shifts, giving me room to play. “Don’t think I won’t pull over,” he warns in a husky groan.
“Ah, should I stop?” I purr, making quick work of the button and zipper standing between me and his now-fully-hard dick. “If you can’t take it and still drive safe, just let me know.” I sneak my hand inside his boxer briefs and wrap it around him, tight. “I can wait till we get home, if that’s what you want.”
With a quick, brows-raised side glance and cocky grin, he sits a little lower and lays his right arm across the back of the seat. “What I want is your sassy mouth down there helping your hand.”
No way in hell was I gonna retreat to Dane’s office and have a drink—I know better—precisely the reason I stay to help my wife, and the others, clean up… Armageddon.
As do Dane and Sawyer, the other two “wise men.”
While working, we may take advantage of their absence, and of course discuss Zach and Bennett’s relationship.
‘Cause if your friends can’t dissect you behind your back, who can?
I don’t protest, though; everyone here wants nothing but the best for them.
“He has the ring; had it for a while now. Why he still hasn’t proposed is anybody’s guess,” I say.
“Maybe he’s afraid she’ll say no. I would.” Sawyer imparts his wisdom. His being the operative word there.
“Why would she possibly say no?�
�� My pretty girl’s voice trembles with sincere, empathetic worry. “Short of the piece of paper, they’re as good as married and obviously very much in love. So why would she say no? I could talk to B-”
“No!” Five protests ring out in unison.
Laney continues on, “Whit, I know you mean well, and if anyone could approach it correctly, it’d be you, but…” She pauses to choose “Whitley wording,” which I’m praying she succeeds— my wife has a delicate heart-of-gold. “Bennett can be… unpredictable. Has been ever since… well… I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
We all know what she almost let slip out, then completely botched the recovery. Since we lost Tate, Bennett’s first love and Dane’s brother—better left insinuated than said, for Dane’s sake—but caught herself a little too late.
“Maybe they’re happy with the way things are,” Laney speaks fast and loud, covering the gap. “I think we should let them figure it out themselves. You know what they say, ‘if it’s not broke, don’t fix it.’ We need to leave it be.”
“I agree with Laney,” Emmett nods and adds.
“Okay, I won’t interfere. I just… I want them to be happy. And you’re right, they are, so, nose back in my own book.”
With that delicate heart-of-gold comes easy acceptance, forgiveness, and a straight line back to cheerful. An absolute doll; my wife. I hug her tiny frame against me and lay a kiss on her even tinier mouth. “Atta girl. Sure is sweet of you to care so much though.”
“Eleven-sixteen,” Dane randomly barks out of nowhere.
“If you’re not gonna take me up on that go have a drink offer, then make yourself useful. Quit watching the clock and get to cleaning faster,” Laney zings right back at him without missing a beat, shoving trash in the Hefty she’s holding with aggravated gusto. “At the very least, it’d be nice if my Christmas tree was in an upright position and the coffee table remnants were in the trash outside before going to bed. And for God’s sake, would someone please fetch the infamous carrot down from the ceiling fan!”
“Eleven-eighteen.”
“You heard me, Dane Kendrick,” she hisses at him.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’re y’all talking about with the countdown shit? Another bomb due to explode?” Sawyer asks, another example of his impeccable timing, while balancing—for lack of a better term, and the fact he’s yet to fall—his big ass on the arm of the couch to retrieve the talk of the night… the dangling carrot.
“Since it somehow escaped your attention that they’re havin’ a thing, and it’s probably best not to provoke them into elaborating, I’ll take a crack at it for them and say Dane’s reminding her of the ‘midnight cap’ he set before we got here. The time this shindig is to end.” I’m dead-on; guaranteed.
“Like Cinderella,” Whit coos.
Laney, upon hearing the word ‘Cinderella,’ forgets she’s mad and falls in line with a dreamy sigh and far-away eyes. “Oh my God, you’re right. I didn’t think of it like that. Well then; midnight it is, Caveman.” She gives him an easy smile.
Slick bastard.
So slick, he didn’t even have to do anything—Whitley laid the grease for him.
And thanks to my wife, just like that… he’s all smug grin and silence… knowing he’s now getting laid… for not knowing he made it about Cinderella.
Whatever works.
It was so long ago, it seems like… tomorrow, not yesterday, and no longer stings to admit—he’s perfect for Laney. He loves her in a way I never did, or would’ve been able to. A way that only he can, or could ever— as though possessed; in the best possible way, of course— a madness, combustibility, to their connection that more than obviously works for them.
And I love Whitley in many ways I never did Laney. Sometimes the journey’s unclear, no sense in sight, and often the climb can hurt; but if left in the right hands, things work out as… meant.
It was fated, etched in ancient stone, out of our control… we all ended up exactly where we fit best.
And for that—God, Laney, Dane, perhaps even a little myself—taking it from me, so I couldn’t screw up what was to be my wife, son, forever… I send up another one of many a ‘thank you.’
Then snap out of it, ready to get this show, and my truck, on the road. “Dane, for real this time, come help me hoist up your tree. Sawyer, haul the trash bags that are full and what’s left of the table to the big cans outside. What else needs done, ladies?”
“Kitchen’s clean and everyone’s piles of food and presents going home with them are sorted by the front door,” Emmett sounds a little relieved, more so excited, to announce.
“I’d say all that’s left is a quick sweep, once the tree’s standing, which I can do in the morning. So we’re done!” Laney’s so happy she claps her hands.
“Now it’s a merry Christmas. On three,” Dane counts off, and together, we get their monstrosity of a tree— seriously, same amount of presents fit under it whether it’s eight or eighteen foot tall— upright and brushing against the ceiling.
What’s the famous Christmas song, poem, story… whatever? Something about “there arose such a clatter?”
Yeah, that’s what happens.
Some of, okay, almost all, the ornaments don’t make the trip intact, falling, rolling and breaking… with such a clatter.
“It’s okay! Everything’s fine! Nobody panic!” Whit panics, shrilly, to say the very least. “I’ll have the… uh… survivors hung back up in a jiffy. Just as soon as”—she’s a’ searchin’—“I find some. Any one. Em, why don’t you go ahead and grab that broom now?”
I’m stone-still, braced for incoming, identical expectation transmitting, loud and clear, off an also frozen-in-place Dane. Any second now… Laney’s gonna detonate. Blast off. Crying, shrieking, ‘everything’s ruined’ female fireworks, the likes of which the Chinese Dynasty and their festivals have never seen. It’s what Whitley would do. For days. Weeks even, depending on which of our three trees took the beating.
Without looking directly at her, now’s not the time for eye contact, I keep a close watch on Laney—wanna see the blow before it lands—from the corner of one eye… and wait. Ready to duck. After I shield my wife.
I take a quick glance at Dane too; that smug confidence he was wearing from before no longer anywhere to be found, replaced with pissed-off dread. Yes, it’s dawned on him—what I could’ve told him—no more “sure thing” tonight, my friend. Not even Cinderella can fix this shitastrophe.
Ever the “hummingbird,” Whit flies into action, flitting across the room so fast you can’t see her wings move. Where she’s headed, I don’t know, but she’s stopped mid-flight by… Reverend Laney? No really, that’s the first thought her pose brings to mind—head down, one arm raised, palm up to the sky— as if ready to preach about something like it ain’t never been preached before.
“Stop,” she snaps… bit too brusque for a sermon.
“You ‘bout to pass around an offerin’ plate there, Gidge? No need, we’re all more than willin’ to chip in. And, please, no hymn. I’ve heard ya sing. You can’t. Definitely not anywhere near being able to take it to church, sister.” Sawyer laughs alone, the rest of us too afraid, or wise. It’s funny as hell, though… and, I nailed it—not the only one who thinks she’s impersonating an evangelist. A serious, one of the all-in, “lay hands,” may bring out some snakes, made for a T.V. telethon variety.
“Fuck you very much, Sawyer Beckett.” Alrighty, never mind. Not gonna let ‘er on T.V. with that mouth. “I sing like an angel. Plus, I get the words right! Yeah, I heard ya earlier, butchering “Away in a Manger.” It’s ‘no crib for his bed.’ Why wouldn’t there be room in a manger for a crib? It’s a manger, not a coat closet. And the cattle? They’re lowering, not mooing! So shut it!”
Wow, I didn’t realize she was so passionate about her singing. Which, he’s right again… she cannot do.
Hold up a sec; not done. There’s more.
“Oh, and while I�
�m at it, you know the Katy Perry song you love, but try to act like you don’t? Uh huh, that one. It’s ‘let your colors burst!’ Again, why would she need to let her ‘conscious work’?”
“You done?”
“Sawyer, honey-”
“Got it; do the inside my head thoughts thing,” he finishes for Emmett.
This, the end of “Battle of the Lyrics,” places us smack dab back in the even more exhilarating game of trying to guess, When. Where. Or. How. Badly. She’s. Gonna. Flip. Shit, and its accompanying cone of silence. The eerie calm before a F5 tornado drops down outta nowhere.
Super fun.
And just when I think she’s tipped her head back to let it all out—a battle cry that’ll shatter the windows (which we’ll have to stay and help fix too) —I catch a glimpse of her. The Laney I’ve always known. Laney Jo, the girl I grew up with, who never quite “fit the mold” of her peers. Her own laid-back, level-headed, “look for the sunshine” drummer.
And accordingly, she sets her beat… by busting out in laughter. The laugh—the one that once you’ve heard it, she’s forever, in one way or another, embedded in your soul.
The rest of us take turns eyeing one another, wordlessly, gathering and gauging the collective opinion on our safety, best escape plan, chances of survival, and who’s in charge of hiding the knives… while Laney keeps right on laughing. Which calls for another “group discussion”—speaking via arched brows, subtle head shakes, and enlarging of one’s eyes—on whether we believe the laughter to be the warning bell of a mad woman or a long, healthy “sometimes you just have to laugh so ya don’t cry” release.
“I swear, I’m gonna write a book,” she wheezes. It’s the latter; we’re safe. “About us, The Crew. It’ll have to go under Fiction, even though it’s not, since no one would believe even half the things in it… but damn if we make good print.”