Sledgehammer (Hard To Love Book 2)

by P. Dangelico

  I flip on the light in my bedroom and freeze. Except for my jaw, my jaw hits the ground with a thud. My fairy Godmother must have broken into my room while I was at work. She must have. There’s no other possible explanation.

  Eyes wide and unblinking, I slowly step inside and turn in slow circles. I don’t know what to gape at first, the sixty-three inch television hung on the wall, the dark wood furniture, or the tufted bed. The entire room looks like it stepped out of the pages of Elle Décor. There’s even a nice rug covering the ancient, scuffed up wood floor. And drapes. Thank God for drapes.

  I’m dumbstruck. Mindlessly, I grab the remote, turn on the television, and lose my ever loving shit. Quietly, though, veeery quietly. All the channels. All of them. And…Apple TV and Netflix. I’m dead. I must be. I must’ve died and gone to heaven.

  Forget that it’s way past midnight. Forget that he may or may not be doing something naughty to himself. The urge to spew gratitude propels my body to Vaughn’s bedroom door. Once there, though, I blank. The light comes back on. Definitely Spidey sense.

  “I can hear you,” he calls out, his voice rougher than usual.

  I can’t figure out how to make my vocal chords work. He’s made me stupid. The man murders gray matter. Without asking, I open his door and…umm…stare. In my defense there is a lot of skin on display.

  He’s sitting up in bed, leaning against a tufted leather headboard that matches my brand new white one. His chest is bare, the sheet pulled up to his lean hipbones. I suspect he’s naked under that sheet, but manage to maintain some semblance of civility and control the impulse to do a full-fledged investigation. With discipline worthy of a ninja, I force my eyes up to his face. Where I find him putting on glasses––horn rimmed glasses to be precise.

  Guys with glasses have never done a thing for me. Never. Until now. Now they’re doing something. Something that makes me uncomfortably warm in this notoriously drafty house.

  He rubs his eyes, eyebrows rising and falling. I know he got an early start; I heard the shower running at five this morning. He must be exhausted. What’s he still doing up at this hour anyway?

  Behind those glasses, his soft, sleepy eyes conduct a brief examination of my face while he patiently waits for me say something. I have yet to produce a single sound. It’s starting to get a little weird so I point to the room next door.

  “You don’t like it?” His shoulders fall a little in what looks strangely like disappointment. “I did the best I could on short notice. You can change it if you want.”

  Don’t like it? Is he drunk? Better yet, am I drunk? Why would he be disappointed?

  “Don’t like it? I…I don’t know what to say. Love isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t believe you…Netflix…Apple TV.”

  His mouth kicks up on one side. “You seem more excited about Netflix than you did about me getting you out of jail.”

  “It’s Netflix. You have no idea how many hours of uninterrupted, mind blowing pleasure you’ve given me.” That sounded different in my head. Two spots of heat appear on my cheeks while his mouth quivers in amusement. At my expense, of course.

  “You’re definitely more excited about this than getting out of jail.”

  “I owe you a big one.” Okay, why does that sound filthy too? I’m tired. That’s it. I’m just tired. In the meantime, heat spreads all the way down my neck.

  “You don’t owe me anything.” He yawns, seemingly oblivious to my clumsy innuendo. Thank God his mind is not the cesspool mine is. I watch him rake his long fingers through his hair, which musses it up even more, which makes him look even sexier than he did a minute ago, which makes me glower. This is becoming a vicious cycle.

  “Anyway, thanks. I’ll let you get back to it. Sleep that is––or not. Whatever it was that you were doing.”

  He frowns, confused at my change of pace and tight voice. I can’t fault him. I’m confused, too. Confused as to why I would have this kind of reaction to this particular guy. In my line of work I see one pretty face after another and none have ever affected me like this. Or is it infected? Whatever. They’re one and the same as far as I’m concerned. I’m about to close his door but his voice stops me.

  “How’d you get home?”

  “Cab. But I usually take the subway.”

  He suddenly perks up, the sleepy look in his eye clearing. His lips thin. “That’s dangerous.”

  “I’ve been doing it for six years. Hasn’t gotten more dangerous as of today.”

  He stares. No blinking. I’m not even sure he’s breathing. “Use my car service. I’ll have them wait outside for you.”

  What? Wait, what? “Mmmthank you, but that’s not necessary.”

  “It is if I want to get any sleep.” He runs a harried hand through his hair and presses his thumb and index finger over his closed eyes. “You work Tuesday to Saturday. It’ll be outside waiting.”

  Not a chance in hell am I doing that. However, I’m all too familiar with the fact that arguing with him is pointless.

  “It’s late. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Thanks again,” I say quickly, hooking a thumb toward my room. Before he can respond, I duck out.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hi, Marco. How is she?” I say to the young man walking toward me, the physician’s assistant assigned to help care for my grandmother. Sleeves of tattoos, piercing through his eyebrow and God knows where else. In other words, hot as bawls. I wouldn’t mind moving in here and having Marco assist me. He shakes his head, his demeanor serious. And the small amount of joy I was feeling drains out of me in an instant.

  “Not a good day. She threw her oatmeal at Ethel this morning.” Ethel, the woman my grandmother shares a suite with.

  My spirits sink to the bottom of the crapper. “I’m sorry––I don’t know what else to say.”

  “No need to apologize. It’s the disease. Can’t do nothing about it other than be patient.” Seeing the demoralized look on my face, he continues. “She’ll be happy to see you.”

  All I can do is nod and hope he’s right. Because I don’t know what I’ll do if she starts throwing things at me. Nine years ago my grandmother was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s. It seemed to be progressing at a slow pace until six months ago when slow unfortunately turned into rapid.

  I knock on my grandmother’s door and enter. The room is bright and tidy, the care at this facility exceptional. Which is why we all agreed that she would live the rest of her life here. My grandmother picked this place herself.

  Turning away from the window, she stares back with a soft smile and a vacant look in her eyes. And I know––I immediately know she doesn’t have a clue who I am.

  “May I help you?”

  “It’s Amber, Grandma.” In her pale blue eyes, I can see her working through it and not coming up with anything. “Do you remember me?”

  I don’t want to stress her out, which could possibly lead to one of her meltdowns, so I pretend. I’m good at playing pretend, brilliant at it actually.

  “Margaret?”

  Her face lights up. “Yes.”

  “Would you mind if I visit with you for a while?”

  She gets a bit flustered, smoothing the velvet pants of the track suit I got her last Christmas while she thinks it over. “I’m not really dressed for a visit.”

  “That’s alright––”

  “And I don’t have anything to offer you.”

  “I already ate.”

  Timidly, she motions to the empty armchair near hers. I sit quietly and stare out the window with her.

  Forty minutes later with a heavy heart I’m headed out the door. The head of administration for the assisted living facility, a lovely woman in her late fifties, catches me before I can walk out the front entrance.

  “Miss Jones. May we have a word?” Her uncomfortable expression sets me on edge. I’m really not in the mood for small talk, but I definitely need to stay in her good graces.

  “Sure. Is everything alright?”
<
br />   Her mouth purses before she speaks. “Unfortunately, no. We never received last month’s payment and this month’s bill is due today. You’re aware of our policy. If you’re more than three months behind we’ll be forced to evict your grandmother.”

  Every hair on my body stands on end. Fucking Eileen.

  Things that go bump in the night never scared me. I learned a long time ago that the things I should be scared of seldom hide under the bed or the closet. They rarely look like the boogeyman. Only in bad fiction are villains so heavily drawn. The villains in most of our lives are family and friends, lovers. People making choices. It’s as simple as that. Some we agree with, some we don’t, and some that leave deep and lasting scars.

  We had an agreement. All three Jones women. My grandmother, Eileen, and I. It was the first and certainly the last time we would all agree on something. My grandmother was going to sell her lucrative funeral business, property and all, and put most of it in a trust to pay for her care. Two small portions were set aside. One for my inheritance and the other for Eileen. Because my grandmother insisted that she didn’t want her condition to hold me back from pursuing my career, she made Eileen the trustee. In other words, in charge of my grandmother’s money. The money that was to pay for the assisted living facility she had picked out herself when she was still able to do so.

  My grandmother was notoriously punctilious, neat and orderly, everything was always done by the book and on time. She would clutch her pearls in horror if she knew her bills aren’t being paid.

  An hour later I finally reach Long Island, my mood as dark as pitch. After a solid ten minutes of pounding on the front door and pressing the doorbell, it finally rips open.

  My thirteen year old half sister stands with a spindly arm on her hip and her head tilted. It’s like looking in the rear view mirror, at myself sixteen years ago. Stringy blonde hair, freckles, that sullen, narrow eyed sneer on her face. The purple braces and expensive clothing are the only things that distinguish the past from the present.

  “Audrey.”

  “Amber,” the cheeky little shit retorts.

  Over her head, I scan inside the house and find nothing. It seems empty other than the sound of the television blasting. “Where’s Eileen?”

  “At the mall.”

  “Busy laying waste to the family coffers?”

  “The what?”

  “Never mind,” I grunt, blowing on my fingers to make sure frostbite doesn’t set in. “Tell your mother I came by and that I need to speak to her. And tell her it’s urgent.”

  “She’s your mother, too!”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  With that, I trot down the front steps and march out of there as if my pants are on fire.

  “When did you get your period?” a thirteen year old voice shouts.

  Huh?

  The motorcycle boots I bought in a thrift store for the cost of a sandwich come to a hard stop. My heel hits a patch of ice. Somehow I manage to right myself before my face gets intimately acquainted with the sidewalk. Turning, I find Audrey with her arms crossed in front, putting on her best tough girl act. She may be able to fool other people with that scowl but not me. I invented that look. To me, that look says scared shitless and lost.

  I barely know my half sister and it’s pretty much my fault. All the animosity between our mother and me has spilled onto her. And frankly, up until now, her personality resembled more flora than human being. Before today she’s only ever spoken two words to me––yes and no––and this abundance of verbiage is usually accompanied by a dirty look.

  Am I a little resentful that Eileen works hard to look like mom of the year with Audrey when all she worked hard to do was to get rid of me? Yes, I’m a little resentful. I say only a little because if Eileen is anything, she’s consistent. Over the years, I’ve watched her pretend to be a better mother, but in the end her selfish nature always prevails. Like everything else she’s done in her life, it starts out with a bang and quickly turns into a whimper.

  I swallow a heavy dose of guilt as I watch Audrey play with her braces and nervously shift from one purple Ugg boot to the other. Why did I ever think that Eileen was going to be any different with her? The truth punches me in the gut. Because I was thinking of myself, of my own pain, of my own anger––of my own issues. And if there’s one thing that scares me, it’s not things that go bump in the night or hide under the bed. It’s being anything like my mother.

  “Okay. Start again.”

  After I ascertained that Eileen had left Audrey home alone, I went inside and got comfortable. Dan, her father, is due in twenty minutes from his dental office. I figured it was best to have the conversation over the bills with the slacker also known as my mother in person, with witnesses present, and Dan is honest as the day is long.

  “Brielle said that everyone else already got their periods and the later you get your period the smaller your boobs are and boys like big boobs.”

  I grab my Diet Coke off the coffee table and take a long, slow sip in an effort to temper the words that want to come screaming out of my mouth. Audrey doesn’t blink, waiting patiently for my answer as if I’m about to come down from Mount Sinai with the word of God.

  Was I this clueless at her age? No, I don’t think I was. I was also too busy raining hell down on Eileen any way I could. From putting dog shit in her mailbox, to setting it on fire on their front steps, to constructing a makeshift sling shot and hurling it at their white garage doors.

  “Brielle is a freaking genius.”

  “Really?”

  “No, Audrey. I can’t believe that you would listen to that twat.” Oops, by the wide sea foam colored eyes I’m looking at I’m not supposed to use that word. “I mean chick. Whatever, you know what I mean. Why didn’t you Google it? Why would you take the word of that braniac?”

  “Brielle knows stuff. Her sister’s a senior and she’s dating the captain of the baseball team and he’s super cute.”

  “Well, bully for Brielle. Too bad her older sister is dumber than she is.” I rub my temples to soothe the tension headache this conversation is causing and consider what Camilla would say to a scared thirteen year old girl. “It doesn’t matter when you get your period, Audrey. It’s genes. Mom is really tall and I’m not. I probably got that from my father, but who knows for sure. I got my period just after my thirteenth birthday. And trust me once you get yours you’ll wish you could’ve waited longer.”

  “Mom has implants,” she blurts out. Like I didn’t notice the double Ds Eileen was sporting after her trip to the “Bahamas” last year.

  “I think it’s a little early for you to be thinking about stuff like that.”

  “I sing,” she blurts out, again. I guess this indicates a change of topic. I’m both surprised and pleased––at both the change of topic and the discovery that Audrey has something she’s passionate about. “And play the piano.”

  “Are you any good?”

  Her eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment before they move to the stain on her leggings. Picking at it, she shrugs.

  “That’s great, Audrey. Maybe you can play for me sometime? I’d love to hear you sing.”

  As she nods, we hear the door leading to the garage open and the click-clack of heels on the tiled floor. A minute later Eileen walks into the living room carrying several large bags from various clothing stores. Typical.

  My mother’s problem is that she’s beautiful. I came to this conclusion at the ripe old age of fifteen. She’s a doppelgänger for Christie Brinkley in every way except where it counts. Where as Ms. Brinkley parlayed those looks into a magnificent career, my mother parlayed it into a kid out of wedlock. A career would entail getting out of bed at a reasonable hour and putting in some effort also known as work. Eileen couldn’t be bothered. She’s self-centered and naturally lazy as fuck, couple that with beauty and you get a perfect disaster.

  Eileen the beauty queen. Her nick name in high school. I’ve heard the story a billion
times. So of course every time she would mention it, I would respond with something like this, “You made it through high school? I thought you only went as far as junior high.” Or “Your Special Ed school went all the way to high school?”

  I was a kid. I was angry. Don’t judge.

  Her turquoise eyes land on me sitting next to Audrey on the couch, and she stills.

  “Amber? What are you doing here?”

  “Took you a minute to remember my name, did it?”

  She gives me one of her surly looks. One that makes her look like the wicked stepsister in Cinderella.

  “Mom, can Amber stay for dinner?” Audrey says, her tone holding the typical angsty desperation of a teenager. Meanwhile, I am horrified.

  “If she wants to.”

  “Nope. Nope, can’t. I can’t,” I answer over Eileen. Leaping up from the couch, I remember why I came in the first place.

  “I’m here because we need to talk.” Tilting my head in Audrey’s direction, I add, “In private.”

  “In the kitchen. Audrey stay here.”

  “But mom! I want Amber to stay, and if you guys fight she’ll leave.”

  Audrey is seconds from tears, the expression familiar. I can’t count how many times Eileen’s had me in tears over the years. Not that I’ve ever let her see it. The organ under my sternum throbs and I know it’s time to leave. I can’t get caught up in this. I have too many battles of my own to fight.

  Eileen follows me into the kitchen without answering Audrey.

  “I went to see Grandma.” I cross my arms and lift my chin, readying for battle. Unfortunately my mother is three inches taller, six with her heels on, so I’m still forced to look up. She sighs tiredly and lifts an eyebrow. As if I’m an annoying mosquito buzzing in her ear she’d like to swat away.