Sledgehammer (Hard To Love Book 2)

by P. Dangelico

  What is it with this guy? He’s like catnip, or crack cocaine––totally intoxicating, completely irresistible, and most importantly, a very bad habit. Not only does the man stink of virility, but there’s something so darn comforting about his scent. That’s the dangerous one. Virility, I have no use for. As a matter of fact, he needs to keep that shit as far away from me as possible.

  “Athhhat,” I half shout, my voice muffled by the hills of muscle I’m squashed between. His chest heaves from the laughter he’s trying to contain.

  Gripping my shoulders, he holds me away and inspects my face. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine,” I snap, indignant as all get out.

  “Right there,” he says, pointing to a spot on my shoulder, his laser focused stare on it.

  “What?” I grumble sourly.

  “A dent in your pride––”

  He barely has time to finish the sentence because I launch my fist at him again. Except this time he’s faster. He catches it in his hand and brings it to his lips, placing a quick kiss on my knuckles.

  I shouldn’t be smiling. I really shouldn’t be. But I am.

  I can never, ever show my face at Chelsea Piers––EVER again. We step outside. The river walk along the Hudson River is jam packed with women pushing strollers, cyclists, runners barely avoiding us.

  “Ethan?”

  My eyes rise off the sidewalk to find the owner of the feminine voice. Dressed in workout clothes, she’s tall and super fit, pretty in a ‘I’m too sure of myself and naturally beautiful to care what I look like’ way.

  Hate her.

  Her platinum blonde head tilts, her long ponytail swaying in a disgustingly adorable manner as she studies me with a quizzical expression. It’s then that I realize Ethan has yet to say a word. One quick glance reveals he’s stiff as a corpse and just as pale. His jaw is locked and his usual crooked grin absent.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Wow. Fancy Pants rude? Never would’ve imagined it. A second later a near carbon copy of Ethan walks up to the blonde and hooks a wrist onto her shoulder. This man’s features aren’t nearly as refined. He’s a bit rougher around the edges, and older by the look of the lines fanning out from his eyes. Though in his own way, just as handsome. My CSI skills lead me to deduce that they must be somehow related.

  Four sets of eyes bounce around. We all stand there quietly for far too long, pretending it’s not awkward when in truth it is awkward as fuck. No surprise, I’m the first to lose my patience and decide to take care of business.

  “Amber Jones, nice to meet you,” I announce, sticking my hand out to the handsome stranger.

  His smile is genuine, reaching his eyes––if not a little tempered. “Jake Vaughn, nice to meet you, Amber. This is my wife Hope.”

  Holy mother of all mothers. The brother and the infamous ex. Ethan’s dodgy behavior makes sense now. The ex extends a hand and we shake.

  “We’re in town for a photo shoot so we thought we’d stay for Norma’s birthday party,” Jake offers.

  “She didn’t tell me you were coming.” Ethan’s voice is almost unrecognizable, low and angry.

  Eyes crinkling at the corners, Jake looks off into the distance, clearly uncomfortable. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  Another eternal three minutes passes in silence. I can’t take it anymore.

  “Anywho, as much as I’d love to continue this riveting conversation, someone––” I hook a thumb at the stiff standing next to me, “––promised to feed me.” I turn to find Ethan looking back at me with…relief. He’s relieved, his crooked grin back on his beautiful face. The same smile that makes my heart lurch inside my chest…crap.

  Time to redirect this very self-destructive train of thought. “Sugarpuss, you know how unbearable I get when I’m hungry.”

  Ethan’s lips twitch up before he manages to press them into a tight line. He can’t keep the smile out of his eyes, though. “I sure do, babe.”

  Babe? I need to not like that as much as I do.

  Something in his eyes draws me in and holds me captive. I’m momentarily flummoxed, my world narrowing until there’s only him. Only us. I don’t know what kind of voodoo this man practices, but it needs to stop.

  Someone clears their throat. “I guess we’ll see you at Norma’s,” Jake says, while Ethan and I continue to stare at each other.

  “Guess so,” Ethan absently answers. Then he threads his fingers through mine, and yanks me away from sporty Ken and Barbie. As we make our way up the riverwalk, he raises our joined hands up and takes a long measured look.

  Judging by his expression, he’s as confused as I am. I would give a kidney to know what he’s thinking right about now. I don’t have long to wait, though, because he shakes his hand loose and wraps his arm around my neck, tucking me onto his side.

  Gasp. That feels amazing. So amazing I press even closer and indulge in another covert whiff of his scent, my eyes practically rolling to the back of my head. And as I’m doing so, I catch sight of Ken and Barbie.

  They’re still standing there, watching us. My hand glides down from Ethan’s waist to his perfect booty, where I manage to get a nice handful and squeeze. A strangled cough comes from my human grope toy.

  “Have a nice trip back to wherever you came from,” I shout over my shoulder. Jake smiles while Hope frowns.

  A moment later Ethan looks down at me. “Sugarpuss?”

  “Better than Fancy McButterPants?”

  The amusement is still there, on the face I’ve come to know so well. “Not by a long shot.”

  I’m almost certain he’s going to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds on tighter. For another ten minutes we walk in comfortable silence, millions of people all around and I barely notice because I have the object of all my dirty dreams touching me. Not because he has to––because he wants to.

  The world starts to melt away. People all around us, running past us, riding their bikes, walking their dogs. And yet it feels as if we’re the last two people on the planet, enjoying each other’s quiet company on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I close my eyes and soak in all the feels, letting his steady presence be my guide.

  “Thanks,” he says, a pronounced rasp in his voice. Something about it garners my immediate attention. My eyes slow blink open, narrow at the sunlight flooding in.

  “For what?” I glance sideways and find him staring straight ahead, as serious as I’ve ever seen him.

  “For being awesome.”

  My stomach sinks. My heart stops beating. Boom. I’m dead. Or something like it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s the second time this week I made the trek to New Jersey. Lately, I find myself wanting to see my grandmother any chance I get, as if we’re on borrowed time, which in all likelihood we are because of her disease. Or maybe we’re not. Maybe time has already run out.

  “Margaret?”

  My grandmother turns and takes me in. I look for a sign that she recognizes me––a spark, a furrow of the brow, any glimmer of hope––but nothing, she may as well have laid eyes on me for the first time in her life. I’m a stranger to her.

  “Do you remember me?”

  Her expression is flat, at best a touch inquisitive, if that. She gives me one of her polite smiles, one I know well from my time working at the funeral home with her. It’s the same one she would give to grieving family members while she explained how much a funeral was going to cost them. You’d be surprised to learn how expensive it is to die.

  “How are you?”

  She smiles again, her gaze moving over my face as if she’s trying to figure out who I am. I’m momentarily excited that she’s on the brink of remembering me.

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Good…good.” I struggle to come up with something that won’t confuse or frustrate her. “I’m Amber,” I say, continuing with caution.

  “Right, Amber. I thought you looked familiar.” She grips and releases the arms of
the chair, a gesture I know means she’s a bit nervous. “You remind me of my daughter.”

  My heart leaps. This is more than she’s said in the last few weeks.

  “Really? What’s your daughter like?” I’m on the edge of my chair I’m so excited.

  “Oh, she’s wonderful. She’s a great daughter. She comes to visit me all the time. Brings me gifts.”

  Uhhhh, no. No, she doesn’t. I’m the one that comes all the time. I’m the one who brings gifts. My mother comes to visit her maybe three times a year. And that’s only because it’s on her way to the Short Hills Mall to shop.

  “What’s your daughter’s name?” It’s dangerous for me to ask questions. I know this. And yet I can’t help myself.

  Her paper thin lips, ruffled on the edges by time, press together in deep thought.

  Something sparks in her eyes. “Eileen,” she says. Overjoyed at the recollection, she beams a smile at me. The only smile I’ve seen on her face in months.

  Even though I want to laugh and shout and hug her, I’m simultaneously crestfallen. Because although I’m glad she remembers Eileen, a daughter she was never close to, a daughter that has never lifted a pinky to help her, I’m a stranger. Me, the person that gave up everything to help take care of her. That has always been there for her. I’m the stranger.

  “You remember Eileen?

  “Of course, dear. Why wouldn’t I?”

  This of course compels me to continue––against my better judgement. “What do you remember about her?”

  “She’s a real beauty. I’m very proud of her. She won Miss New Jersey.” No she didn’t. She partied hard and passed out in front of her hotel room door the night before the second day of competition and was immediately cut from the pageant. It’s one of my favorite Eileen stories. “And she’s a good daughter.” My grandmother grows serious, a slow to develop frown replacing the soft smile she wore not a second ago. “Unlike my granddaughter.”

  Her words hit as forcefully as a physical blow to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me.

  “What do you mean?” I croak.

  “She’s a whore.”

  I struggle to keep my emotions hidden as hard as I struggle to breathe. “You don’t mean that.”

  “No other way to say it, dear. The girl is easy. She spreads her legs for any loser that smiles at her. She was always trouble, that one. Right from the start.” She waggles her index finger. “Staying out late…the short skirts.” Leaning closer, she whispers, “I don’t think she wore undergarments half the time.” After which, she purses her lips in a disapproving look.

  I’m stunned. I’m stunned and shaking. In my mind I’m screaming, You mean your daughter! You mean Eileen! But I keep it to myself. I can’t argue with her.

  “What’s your granddaughter’s name?” I dare ask, my voice raspy and raw from bitterness.

  She frowns, her thin, gray eyebrows drawing together in deep thought. Her index finger on her lips, she stares out the window looking for answers. “I…hmm…I…her name is…her name is…”

  She huffs out a sharp breath. She’s getting upset, working herself up into something that could turn into a fit. With that in mind, I rush to distract her.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, Margaret. You’re daughter sounds wonderful. You’re very lucky to have her.”

  Her pale blue eyes clear of the confusion and meet mine. “Why are you crying, dear?” Her brow puckers––in worry this time. Her hand presses over her heart. “Is it something I said?”

  “No,” I tell her, head shaking. I wipe my cheeks with my palms and conjure a smile I’m not feeling. “I’m just thinking about how much I miss my grandmother.”

  “Is she gone, dear?” she asks with a sympathetic smile.

  Nodding, I answer, “Yes, she is––and I really miss her.”

  “Jones?”

  I don’t answer, hoping and praying he goes away. I can’t face him right now. I’ve got nothing left in me. No jokes. No easy words. No energy to keep him at bay. And I’m tired. So damn tired I could sleep for a thousand years. None of me is soft. I’ll admit it. I’m all sharp angles and sharper words, but am I really that hard to love?

  “Amber? Are you okay?”

  I should’ve known that stubborn streak of his wouldn’t allow him to walk away. “I’m fine.” I hear the squeak of the wood door creeping open. “I said I’m fine.”

  “You’re sitting in the dark––listening to Alanis Morissette. You’re not fine.”

  That I Would Be Good plays in the background. I didn’t realize it was still playing. I’d lost track of the music, lost track of the time, lost track of my will to fight.

  He pads to my side of the bed. “And you’re sitting on the floor.”

  “I’m not in the mood to talk.” My voice cracking, it’s all I can muster out. I rarely indulge in feeling sorry for myself. I’m not prone to bouts of tears. Everyone has a hard limit, however, and today I’ve reached mine.

  Standing a few feet from me to the left, all I can make out is Ethan’s silhouette as he removes his jacket and tie, and throws them on the bed.

  I’ve never been so thankful for the cover of night, grateful that I can’t see his expression because I’m ninety-nine percent certain that if I see pity on his face I will erupt in a flood of tears.

  “I…” I sigh, the sound brimming with defeat. “Really Ethan, I’m not in the mood for company.”

  “We don’t have to talk. I’ve had a long day, too. All I want to do is sit in the dark and listen to Alanis. And here you are––doing that exact same thing.” He sinks down to the floor next to me, back against the bed, long legs hitched up and his elegant wrists resting on his knees. His body heat soothes me. Radiating from his upper arm, where we touch, it spreads like an antidote to the sadness infecting me.

  He is so good. This man is as good as it gets. Strange how someone you think you have nothing in common with could turn out to be someone who understands you implicitly. Never in a million years did I suspect that he would turn out to be someone I could say anything to and feel accepted. And yet here he is before my very eyes.

  “Nothing like some angry chick music to help me decompress,” he deadpans.

  My smile turns into a chuckle, which turns into tears. In seconds I’m sobbing, curling into a fetal position and sobbing like I may never stop. Ethan wraps a heavy arm around me and pulls me onto his lap, his strength absorbing the awkward tremors and jerks that for the life of me I can’t seem to get a handle on. The vibration of his soft murmur, words I can’t make out, makes my skin tingle. The fingers he pushes into my hair, raking it back and massaging my scalp, make me shiver.

  I’m so tired of fighting this thing between us, tired of trying and failing on a daily basis to keep him at arm’s length. It’s not only the physical comfort he gives me willingly, it’s understanding, it’s lack of judgment. He takes me as I am, sharp angles and all.

  We sit like that for a long time. Long after I’ve drained gallons of tears onto his dress shirt, and wiped my snots on his shoulder. Long after the hiccups stop.

  “My ass is killing me,” he quietly admits. We both snort and chuckle.

  I’m about to get off his lap when he grips me closer. Tucking me securely against his chest, he stands with no effort whatsoever. When he places me on the bed, I have no choice but let go of his neck and instantly feel the loss of him.

  I can’t remember ever letting anybody other than Camilla catch me in such a vulnerable state. Face wrecked and raw, soul laid bare, emotions delicate, and ego battered. And yet my natural instinct to protect myself, to put a brave face on it remains quiet. The dragon sleeps peacefully.

  For a moment he doesn’t move, only stands there watching me while the moonlight spilling in through the open curtains traces his features in blue, his expression serious. I’m too tired to try and decipher what it means, or what he’s doing when he strips off the tear soaked shirt and gets into bed next to me. I don’t even make a
peep when he hauls me against his side and wraps me in his arms again.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No…it’s embarrassing.”

  “More embarrassing than looking like road kill on New Year’s Eve?”

  I snort and pinch the non-existent fat of his waist. “Ouch.”

  “You deserved it. And yes, more embarrassing than that.”

  “I think you’ll feel better if you talk about it. We’re friends. Isn’t that what friends do for each other?”

  Friends. He’s turned into the best friend a girl could wish for. That alone makes me want to get hysterical again. In the silence, I listen to him breathe, feel the steady beat of his generous heart under my palm.

  “I went to see my grandmother today.” When I don’t continue, he squeezes me closer and waits. No platitudes, no easy assurances, no junk––just patience and gentle persistence. In the end that’s what persuades me to tell him everything.

  “My grandmother’s the one who raised me. My grandfather died shortly after I moved in so I never got a chance to know him. My grandmother was old school.” I catch my mistake. Was…is. Is she anymore? “I mean she’s old school. You know, children should be seen and not heard and all that. When I was in high school, I had to harass her to buy me jeans. If it was up to her I would’ve been wearing skirts and dresses to school. I wasn’t allowed to date, so of course I was always sneaking out and getting grounded. My curfew was always much earlier than everyone else’s. But over the years we learned to get along.

  “My sophomore year at Yale I got a call from the police. She’d forgotten how to get home from the grocery store. That’s how I discovered that she had Alzheimer’s. She’d been keeping it a secret for a while. Anyway––I dropped out of school and moved back home.”

  “Hmm.”

  “She knew she could count on me. The only reason she insisted on making my mother power of attorney was because she wanted me to finish school and pursue my career. She didn’t want her illness to hold me back.”

  “She loves you.”