Tad trots forward, his left foot oddly skipping ahead as if this were some terribly choreographed dance move. “You just go ahead and send it, but I’ll rip it up and send it right on back. I don’t need your money. I’m glad you’re gone, Gregory. I’m glad I don’t have to look at that disheveled hair, those baggy sweatpants, that dumb look on your face at the family table. Once you left, it’s as if the curse had lifted. You’re not looking at Tad Landon the broke joke. You’re looking at Tad Landon, Wild Fifty winner!” A slight gasp goes off in the crowd and I look to Logan for answers.
The lottery, Skyla, Marshall answers instead, and now it’s me gasping.
“That’s right!” Tad hoists his champagne glass to the ceiling and sloshes some of the golden liquid over Chloe’s chest, and sadly it only invokes images of Gage doing just that to her on a far more intimate level. “I, Thaddaeus Thorne Landon, amRICH! And now I can finally tell each and every one of you what I think about ya!” He shakes as he extends those last words like a gleeful threat.
And just like that, my night gets better.
He jabs his finger at Gage. “You are a waste of human flesh who left behind three mouths to feed, hoping that a real man will come along to clean up your mess! And you”—he snarls at Chloe—“I thought you hadbrains. Just remember you brought this plague upon yourself.” He jabs an accusatory finger at Emma. “You are an insolent, overbearing, pompous”—his head sways dramatically from side to side with each new barb—“arrogant snob who walks around with her nose in the air to the rest of us. Well, I’ve got news, sweetie. The only time you bring anyone an ounce of joy is the moment you step out of the room!”
Emma gags and stutters, holding her chest as if Tad had the power to invoke a coronary incident. I say, go Tad.
“What’s the matter, Emma?” he barks with that demented look in his eyes. Tad Landon is drunk with power, and there’s no stopping him now. God knows I wouldn’t dare do it. “I bet when you played hide-and-seek as a child, no one came looking. And you’ve spent your life taking it out on the rest of us!”
Barron groans, “That’s quite enough.”
“Andyou!” Tad doesn’t waste a second before jabbing a finger his way. “You’re a pushover if ever there was a pushover to push! You’re the pushiest pushover that the pushovers of the world have seen!”
“TAD!” Mom riots as if she used her supernatural capabilities to turn her voice into a megaphone. “Enough with it already.”
Demetri closes in on us with that pompous grin and, my God, if he’s not asking for it.
“Well, look who’s here. If it isn’t good ol’ Demeet.” Tad distends his chest, his thumb hitched behind his suspender. “Well, guess what, Demetrio? I’ve got my own money now. No more kissing your tiny hiney, letting you pet my wife when you think I’m not lookin’. I’m a serious contender now.” A loud pop explodes overhead as a light bulb from a chandelier nearby goes out. Then, one by one, they blow like gunshots and the crowd screams and shrieks, while Tad ducks and jives as if his life were in peril. “They’re gunning for me, Lizbeth! They’re after my millions.”
Emma sneers as she bats him away before he inadvertently knocks her down. “You don’t have millions, you moron. The Wild Fifty is worth fiftythousanddollars.”
Tad straightens, and it becomes apparent to everyone he’s just now realized the error of his verbose ways, amusing as they were.
“It’s still enough,” Tad grouses as he threads his arm through my mother’s. “Time for more bubbly, Lizbeth. And it’s high time I put these two left feet to good use. Somebody turn up the music!” he roars. “The time has come for Tad Landon to dance!”
The music indeed increases in velocity, the lights dim, and bodies of those long deceased rise a good ten feet above the floor, garnering an extended round of oohs and ahs from the crowd.
I glance past Demetri and spot Mia and Melissa, each holding a miniature dance partner. The boys look adorable in their matching hunter green sweaters, their miniature Levi’s. I want nothing more than to be home with them, warm in my bed with our bodies intertwined. For a moment, I envision Gage holding me tight, his—
“Skyla”—Emma steps in far too close for comfort, blinking at me with that obnoxious look on her face—“I’m hosting Christmas dinner. Understandably, you won’t want to be there. Have the boys ready by three. I’ll have Barron pick them up.”
“I can do it,” Logan volunteers.
Something enlivens in me, a whole new level of rage. Gage can have his useless love back, but he can’t have my boys. I may have been generous while he was on his own, but no more.
“Or I can bring them myself,” I say. “Will there be a seat at the table for me, Emma? Or should I bring my own folding chair and crash the party anyhow?”
Barron pulls a scoffing Emma away. “Of course, you’re welcome, my dear. We look forward to having you. Good evening.” He nods, his salt and pepper hair shorn short, his silver-rimmed glasses catch the light. Everything about Barron reminds me of simpler times, and yet at the same time everything about Emma makes me want to drown her like a sewer rat.
Chloe steps forward, the prickling of a demonic smile twitching on her lips. “I’ll save a seat at the table for you. You’ll sit next to me, Skyla.”
“You’re going to die.” The words stream from me like a poem.
A dull laugh thumps from her. “Fate seems to be on my side. I’m not exactly looking over my shoulder for the Grim Reaper.”
“Don’t fear the reaper, Chloe. Fear me.”
My hand flies over her face so fast and hard my palm rejoices with the sting.
Chloe’s features harden to flint, her hand rising to that newfound pink spot on her cheek.
“That is the last time you may hurt this body.” Her eyes widen with rage.
“Hey”—Laken speeds over and offers me a hard embrace—“Merry Christmas, Skyla. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you sooner.”
