Sledgehammer (Hard To Love Book 2)

by P. Dangelico

  “Does Fancy know? I mean Ethan.”

  “Fancy?” She chuckles. “Cute––it suits him. And yes, he’s fine with it. Anyway, if I play my cards right, with Ethan’s help, I can become a full manager and bring in my own clients. Maybe even some female athletes. So when he sells the business, I’ll have some leverage with whomever buys it.”

  My ears perk up, the topic suddenly interesting. “Ethan is selling his business?”

  “If he gets the job as head counsel for the Titans, he has to.”

  “Did Ethan say he would help you?”

  She nods and sips her soda. “Yeah. He’s so generous. I’ve learned more from him in one year than I did working with Titans Player Personnel in three.”

  “Speaking of the patient,” I say. Treading lightly, we both head out of the kitchen and into the living room. Sprawled out on the very uncomfortable modern couch, Fancy is snoring. We watch him for a minute, then look at each other and smile. She motions to the door and I follow.

  “You can throw the contracts I brought over in his suitcase,” Andi states, one foot out the door. “I’ll be here by eight tomorrow and the car by 8:30.”

  “Got it. I’ll have him ready.”

  “Amber, I know we just met but I feel like I can say anything to you.”

  Obviously––she’s been talking nonstop. But why does this suddenly make me uncomfortable? Groan. The answer hits me in the gut. Because if she divulges her life long crush on her boss, I’ll get queasy. Looking into her eager and open expression, I brace for the worst.

  “I’m really glad he met you. I couldn’t figure out how such a great guy didn’t have a girlfriend.”

  Umm. Okay. Not what I expected. More importantly though, I can’t have her running around thinking or spreading rumors that Ethan and I are an item. Not with the possibility of Ethan getting disbarred. When did I start thinking of him as Ethan? Huh, weird.

  “We’re not anything. It’s a long story that you don’t have time for, but in a few months I’ll be gone.”

  Her delight wanes. “Bummer.”

  “Nope. Besides, I’m not looking for anything, and neither is he.”

  Her expression, wavering from suspicion to doubt, clears a moment later. I can see she doesn’t believe me. Regardless, she keeps her opinion to herself. “See you tomorrow.” In kitten heels, she gracefully glides down the limestone steps.

  “Andi.” She turns toward me with a smile. “You and Ethan?”

  Her pert nose scrunches up while the rest of her face twists into a disgusted scowl. “Gross. He’s like a brother to me. Incest isn’t my thing.”

  After her colorful remark, she holds up an arm and in seconds a cab comes to a break neck stop before her. That’s never once happened to me. Not freaking once. And I’ve lived in this city for nine years. Apparently hailing a cab is a sensual act. I never got this memo.

  “Gee wiz, what’s this?”

  With feigned innocence, I hold up a jar of hair product. Ethan steps out of his walk in closet, two suits hanging from his good hand. As soon as his eyes zero in on what’s in mine, his expression turns sulky. I, instead, revel in my victory. “I’ll just put this in your fancy beauty case.”

  “It’s a shaving kit.”

  “Whatever, it’s Louis Vuitton.”

  His brow bunches and he looks away. “I like the good stuff,” I’m pretty sure I catch him muttering under his breath. A stretch of silence follows. It prods me to glance up. I find his gaze heavy on me again. This time, however, his expression is contrite.

  “What?”

  “I need to apologize.” He drops the suits on the bed.

  Abandoning the shaving kit among the rest of his things in the suitcase on the floor, I stand. “I overreacted,” I say, offering an olive branch of my own.

  “No, you didn’t.” Walking closer, he sits at the end of his bed. “I shouldn’t have said that.” His eyes, filled with remorse, meet mine. “I shouldn’t have insinuated it about you.”

  “You see a lot of that in your line of work. I get it.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” In frustration, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want you to think that I make snap judgments about people like that. That’s not who I am.” He watches me expectantly. This expectant look is developing into a habit with him.

  For what, though, I don’t know. Judgement? Absolution? I don’t hold it against him. I don’t know much, but I do know there’s a heavy penalty to pay for carrying grudges around. I learned that lesson the hard way.

  “I know you’re one of the good guys.” After everything he’s done for me, this fact is indisputable. God knows if someone asked me to take in a virtual stranger, I’d immediately direct them to the Bellevue Hospital psych ward.

  His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. Whatever crosses between us makes me uncomfortable. This entire conversation is making me uncomfortable. I shove my hands in the back pockets of my jeans to stop them from fidgeting.

  “Is that what you think?” he murmurs.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  The mood grows more serious with every second that ticks by. He plucks at the loose end of his bandage. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here.”

  “See, I’m good for something,” I throw out, hoping to tease him into a better mood. He doesn’t take the bait, though. Silence falls again. I’m about to leave when he clears his throat.

  “No, Jones. You’re just plain good.”

  My stomach drops. What in the ever-loving hell am I supposed to do with that?

  “Friends, then?” I suggest in yet another attempt to steer us into a less awkward conversation.

  He looks up then. “You want to be friends?”

  I shrug, trying to act cool when I’m anything but. “This has the makings of an epic friendship. You’ve seen me naked. I’ve seen you naked––”

  Even though his face doesn’t change, I detect a smile in his eyes. “I knew I caught you looking at my junk. You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

  “You almost knocked me unconscious with that thing when I was helping you with your sneakers.”

  “It did not get anywhere near you.”

  “The tip was this close to my eyeball.”

  “Not true,” he says flatly, though he’s biting on his bottom lip in a poor attempt to curb his amusement. “Not even close.”

  “How did you expect me to explain the black eye? Don’t answer that. Point is, we’ve both seen each other’s privates and have come away unimpressed.” His smile flattens. “I see a frown. Are you saying you don’t want to be my friend? Because I’m ready to give you a matching lobster claw on your right hand if you answer in anything other than an emphatic yes.”

  “I already think of you as my friend.” His steady gaze is all over me again and I’m instantly back to fidgety. I don’t know what to say to that. I stare back blankly, blink a couple of time, scratch my neck. This conversation has lasted maybe fifteen minutes, and I’m as exhausted from the rollercoaster of emotions as if I’d worked a double shift.

  “You do?” Might as well go with the truth. And the truth is I’m both surprised and confused.

  “Hmm.”

  “Then it’s settled. Friends. Let’s hug it out.”

  Leaning in, I wrap my arms around his neck, doing my best to keep a respectable distance between my breasts and his chest, because I am a respectable girl of course. Except the moment we touch I realize it’s a mistake.

  Too late. Too bloody late. One minute I’m standing, and the next he pulls me in and I’m sitting in his lap. His arms slide around my waist, squeezing tightly, while he plants his nose on the side of my neck and inhales.

  Sweet Jesus Christ Superstar.

  Every muscle I possess braces, my breath held hostage by the tightening of my throat. To say I’m shocked is a bit of an understatement. I sit there like a lump, overwhelmed by the warmth of him, the scent of laundry detergent mixed with something subt
le and uniquely him, the heavy beating of his heart, the pressure of his touch. It bleeds into me and unlocks some of the discomfort.

  In small increments, I begin to thaw, and feeling me relax, he relaxes, too. It feels so good to be held I simultaneously want to run out of the room screaming, and tie him up and abuse him like I do my sex toys. Neither of which will happen. Not only is it forbidden in all caps, but I don’t even qualify as a hump. Let’s not forget that beauty.

  He’s having a vulnerable moment. That’s all this is. Everybody needs a hug once in a while. Even man-hoes. He’s obviously not getting any from his parade of women. Which is why, I pat his back twice, the gesture wooden and clumsy, and pry myself off his lap.

  “Good,” I say, all business. “Great. Glad we had this talk.”

  I swear he’s looking at me like I kicked his three-legged puppy. Now I definitely want to run out of the room screaming. “You’re all packed.” I’m pretty sure my smile looks creepy. Positive actually. It’s being held up by sheer force of will.

  “You have your Tylenol PM ready?” He nods in response. “I’ll put your suits in the bag tomorrow morning. Good night.” I wave, which ends up looking like a quasi-Nazi salute. The heck is wrong with me? Everything, that’s what.

  He watches me intently as I back out of his bedroom. As soon as the door closes, I exhale the breath I was holding, my shoulders sagging along with it. This trip of his couldn’t have come at a better time. Nothing like a little distance to smother the weird vibe that’s taken up residence between us.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s been four days since he left and not only does time seem to be standing still, but also, the house has grown twice as large and lonely. The moment Morrison and his men walked through the door the day after he left I knew he’d gotten to him first. The contrite look on Morrison’s face was a dead give away.

  “He called you didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  “And.”

  “And I’m to…uh…do as you say.”

  Squinting at the clear lie, I say, “I call bullshit.”

  “Fine,” he barks. “He said I should consider myself your bitch until the end of the job or he’ll make sure my license is pulled.”

  Sounds about right. “The bathrooms, Mr. Morrison.”

  Lawyers…I should’ve known.

  Fancy: Burn down my house yet?

  The text comes in as my hand is dive bombing into a bag of cheese puffs. You can imagine my predicament. Fingers covered in orange, I try and fail to use my elbow to pause the Animal Kingdom episode I’m thick in the midst of. A text from my roommate? My roommate who is, at present, in Jacksonville. My roommate who has never texted me before. Why is my roommate texting me at one am?

  I use my knuckles to answer, fumbling to not leave a florescent orange trail all over my bedspread.

  Me: Im in the midle of sphitzing the coch with lighter fuid as be speck.

  Oopsy. Leave it to spellcheck to fail me the one time I need it.

  Fancy: Are you drunk?

  Me: Cheez puf hands.

  Me: Cal me.

  As soon as the phone rings, I get a strange sensation in my belly that feels like some distant relation to excitement…best not to examine that too closely.

  “What are you wearing?” His voice is low and husky and full of mischief. If that doesn’t deserve an eye roll, I don’t know what does. This is what you call male humor. It requires a penis to find this funny.

  “What if I said I’m wearing the Hello Kitty underwear I picked up at Target on sale.” Phone cradled between my shoulder and ear, I finish washing my hands in the bathroom.

  “I’d say that’s surprisingly hot.”

  So predictable. “What if I said a strap-on?”

  “I’d say let’s change the subject.”

  Sooo predictable. “How’s the lobster claw faring?”

  “Having to watch my assistant cut my meat isn’t exactly on my list of favorite things.”

  “I bet.”

  “You were right. I couldn’t have done this without Andi,” the man on the other end of the line mumbles.

  “No shame in your game, counselor. I was going to suggest getting a temporary handicap sign next.” I’m expecting a chuckle. At the very least, a snort. Instead I get a good three minutes of silence. I don’t do well with silence. I immediately feel the need to fill it.

  “What are you still doing up? Didn’t you get your usual, obnoxious five am start?”

  “Yeah, I did…I couldn’t sleep.” I hear a long suffering sigh and my ears perk up. The silence grows tense. I’m about to break the stalemate, but he beats me to it. “I’m not a slut.”

  Oh boy. I was hoping and praying we were going to gloss over that part of our little tiff…guess not.

  “Soooo, we’re not going to pretend I never said that? Because I thought we were.”

  “I’m not a slut.”

  Sigh. What does he call it? Being generous with his dick?

  “I’m not.”

  I want to say agree to disagree, I really do, but I can’t do it. Something in his voice tells me he’s dead serious about this, and by the mere fact that he’s bringing it up almost two weeks later says he’s obviously been thinking about it.

  “Why does it matter what I think?”

  “I’m not a slut,” he repeats more forcefully.

  “Okay, well, then I guess you date a lot? Is that closer to the truth?”

  “No. I haven’t dated anyone in a while.”

  “Fancy––every time I turn around there’s a woman stalking you.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit. Do you believe me when I tell you I’m not a slut.”

  The silence crackles with tension, anticipation screaming through the phone. Thing is, I do believe him. Ethan is many things, but not a liar. Not to mention there’s absolutely no reason for him to lie to me. I’m nobody he needs to impress.

  “I believe you,” I grumble. Even though a nagging voice in the back of my mind tells me it’s easier to believe he’s a slut, easier to curb this budding friendship between us which feels dangerous.

  “Good. I’m going to sleep. Call you tomorrow.”

  With that, the line drops. For the next few minutes, I stare at the screen of my cell phone wondering what the heck just happened. Then again it’s becoming a trend where he’s concerned.

  I started receiving texts. Lots of them. At the most random times. And most of them look like this:

  Fancy: What are you wearing?

  Me: A frown.

  Fancy: A wise woman once said turn that frown upside down.

  Me: A wise woman is now saying stop texting while she’s trying to vacuum.

  Fancy: Why are you vacuuming when the cleaning service is coming in two days?

  Me: The house is covered in dust. I’m not waiting.

  Fancy: How did court go?

  Me: David got the postponement. Still don’t know why. I’d like this to be over as soon as possible.

  Fancy: David knows what he’s doing.

  I didn’t doubt that for a minute, but I won’t deny that I’m antsy for this to be resolved as quickly as possible.

  Fancy: Flight boarding. Txt ltr.

  Later that day…

  Fancy: What are you wearing?

  Me: Dust. Lots of it, Miss Havisham.

  Fancy: ????

  Me: Never mind. Getting in the shower. Ltr.

  The phrase ‘fell into a friendship’ comes to mind. Whether it was by proximity or circumstance doesn’t matter, it happened seamlessly. I’ve never had this level of comfort with anyone, not this quickly, not even with Justin. As much as I love Justin, he is five years younger, which once in a while becomes glaringly apparent––i.e. there are only so many times I can spend the day playing Madden and drinking beers.

  By the end of Ethan’s ten day trip I’m feeling a lot better about the state of our unorthodox friendship, the sizzle between us turned down to a respectable lev
el. Whatever that means.

  It’s eleven by the time I see him standing in my bedroom doorway holding his luggage. Hair mussed, tie hanging loose. He looks tired. And he’s wearing his glasses…and scruff. God help me, the torture. He gives me a lopsided smile and I give him one in return, cheeks stuffed with popcorn and all.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “A thmile.” I cover my mouth to stop the popcorn from spilling out. “Wecome hoe. Welcome home,” I reiterate after swallowing.

  Dumping his luggage at the door, he walks in and starts pulling off his tie.

  “What are you watching?”

  You. You’re by far the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. “The Leftovers.”

  He discards his suit jacket and I get a tweak of something called unease. Taking another handful of popcorn, I nervously cram it in my mouth. I’m a nervous eater. This is normal behavior for me. What is not normal behavior is my roommate pulling a Magic Mike routine in my bedroom.

  “You look tired.” In a daze I watch him unbutton his dress shirt. I have absolutely zero control over what my eyes are doing and at present they choose to be glued to those wicked fingers. The things they are doing to those buttons.

  “Hmm,” he answers, or rather grunts.

  I begrudgingly look up and say, “Is this a bad time for me to ask what it is you’re doing?”

  “I don’t have a TV in my bedroom and I can’t read. My eyes are shot.” Abandoning the half unbuttoned shirt, he starts unbuckling his belt and unzipping his slacks. My discomfort grows exponentially larger. The slacks fall to the floor with a thud, his shirttails falling over his black boxer briefs. At this point I may as well be standing in an oven. So much for the sizzle being dialed down. I’m freaking roasting.