Sledgehammer (Hard To Love Book 2)

by P. Dangelico

  A long pause tells me she’s mulling this over.

  “Okay, yeah, I can do that.”

  “And Audrey––”

  “Yeah?”

  “No more eleven pm strategy sessions. Get some sleep.”

  “K, bye.”

  That’s why I’m not at all surprised when I received a text from her half an hour ago as I’m on my way to work asking if I’m busy. What I was not prepared for was this––

  Funsize: I’m at the Manhasset mall and mom and dad aren’t answering. Phone almost dead. Come and get me.

  In a panic I called Fredo for a ride to Long Island. He was at the townhouse not fifteen minutes later, God bless his heart.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be there in no time,” he tries to assure me.

  Yeah, it’s not working. I nod as I blindly stare out the passenger side window and rub my sweaty palms on my jeans. Rationally, I know he’s right. And yet I can’t seem to stop my stomach from churning. I’ve never felt this kind of anxiety. And quite frankly, if this is what being a parent feels like, then sign me up for tubal ligation surgery, stat.

  “Do you have kids?”

  “A son. He’s sixteen.” Fredo throws me a brief smile. “I’m blessed. He’s a really good kid.”

  “Did he ever pull any teenage nonsense on you?”

  Fredo’s expression grows thoughtful before he answers. “He didn’t have it easy growing up. I was going through some stuff.” With a sideways glance, he gauges my reaction. “Being unemployed for so long gets to you. I went through a bout of depression.”

  If bartending has taught me anything, it’s that each and ever one of us has a little red wagon of issues we drag around. Sadly, nothing surprises me anymore. “Are you doing better?”

  He nods, a small smile softening his blunt masculine features. “Every man needs a purpose, and being able to take care of his family is an important one.”

  “Her friends ditched her at the mall and she has no money for a cab. How would you handle it?”

  “My two cents. Don’t say or do anything impulsive. Hear her out first. Take it from someone who’s learned how to parent by trial and error.”

  By the time we reach the mall I’ve lost half my body weight in sweat. I once drank three Monster drinks in a row and felt nowhere near as jittery as I do now. The car hasn’t even come to a full stop and I’m out the door, yelling at Fredo to meet me inside and to keep his phone close. The weather still being on the chilly side I warned him that she could be wearing purple Uggs and most likely carrying a purple backpack.

  In the food court, I spot her sitting by herself, chin in hand and staring at her phone. Relief spreads through me, the sweat on my back and forehead cooling. Shivering, I wipe the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand. As I walk up, I notice that she’s flipping through her Instagram account and a pickle of unease crawls up the back of my neck.

  “I thought your phone was dead?”

  Startled, she looks up with big wide eyes. Something stinks and it’s not the fast food.

  “Tell me you didn’t lie. Tell me you actually called your parents.” Anger bubbles up from my gut because I already know the answer to that. Her gaze falls to the floor, her bony shoulders curving.

  “Audrey!”

  Suddenly, she stands. “I’m sorry!” she wails. Some of the mothers and kids sitting nearby turn and stare at the commotion. I tell them to mind their own business with a glare.

  “I can’t believe you!” I grind out, jaw in jeopardy of snapping in two. “Get your things and let’s go.”

  “I’m sorry, okay.” She ducks her head and shoves her backpack over her shoulders, pulling her sleeves over her hands. Oh please, is she crying? Of course, dramatic streak a mile wide in this family.

  “You’re crying? Really? I’m losing about 400 bucks in tips tonight and you’re crying? I’m the one that’s crying, Audrey. On the inside. I’m inside crying for being so goddamn stupid.”

  With that I turn and start marching through the mall. In the meantime, I shoot Fredo a quick text that I’ve found her and to meet us out front.

  “Why did you come?”

  “Because that’s what I do, I chase after things,” I say yelling my response while ironically walking away. Audrey picks up the pace, staying right behind me.

  “Things, or people?”

  “Both.”

  “People you love?”

  My feet come to a hard stop and Audrey bumps into my back. “Yes.”

  “Does that mean you love me?” I turn and find her peering up at me with nervous anticipation, her eyes still wet, her cheeks pink. Why doesn’t she just drive a stake through my heart? Maybe dangle some garlic under my nose.

  “Yes. And Audrey, here’s a serious warning. I despise manipulation. Manipulating me will only make me love you less, so don’t do it again.”

  Lying and subterfuge are tedious and time consuming. I don’t possess the requisite energy or desire to keep track of lies. That is why I always go with the truth––no matter how painful, ugly, or savage.

  Without missing a beat she throws her skinny arms around my waist and hugs me tightly. My arms hover over her shoulder, unsure where to land. I don’t know why I’m surprised at her open display of affection. I remember all too well how much I craved it when I was her age. Shit, I still do.

  I would do anything to get some attention at her age, which means I was often obnoxious, which also means I usually received none. It was a vicious cycle. One I don’t want Audrey falling into. My arms fold around her, my hands running up and down her back as she presses closer.

  “Let’s get you home.”

  “I love you, too. In case you didn’t know,” she blurts out, her voice muffled by my clothes.

  “I know.”

  “Are you gonna tell Mom and Dad?”

  I give her the old suspicious eyeball. “Not this time. This is your one get out of jail free card and you just used it.”

  She nods. Keeping my arm around her, we make our way to the parking lot.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Want to go to the gym with me?”

  I rip my eyes off a very good episode of The Affair and level the man that has just spoken with a disbelieving expression. He’s standing in the doorway of my bedroom in track pants and a hoody. Ugh, he even manages to make a hoody look sexy. Who does that?

  I’ve been avoiding him. There, I said it. The first step in recovery is admitting you have a problem. I’ve been avoiding him for this exact reason––I can’t be around him without conjuring up the lewdest, filthiest images. The shit I want to do to him is illegal in approximately 50 states. I’m not sure about Massachusetts and North Dakota and I can’t Google it in fear that should something happen to me, someone would find it on my browser history.

  It’s not his fault that I’ve acquired the worst case of puppy lust since the creation of puppy lust. He’s a witless victim. In mind only, as of now. If I keep hanging around him, he’ll be a victim for realz.

  I tuck the French fries I was diligently shoving into my mouth a second ago into the side of my cheek. “This may come as a shock to you, but all this awesomeness––” I motion to said awesome body, “is au naturel. I do not work out.”

  That said, I resume chewing.

  “I’m going to Chelsea Piers to do some rock climbing. You should come.” He lifts his arms and stretches from side to side, which causes his t-shirt to ride up, exposing his ridiculous abs and happy trail. I stop chewing.

  “I’m busy,” I say, my eyes glued to that bloody trail of happiness. The one I’d happily trace with my tongue if it wasn’t grossly inappropriate.

  “You don’t look busy.”

  “Well, I am…busy…eating.”

  “I think you should come with me.”

  I look up and find a knowing smile on his face. The hell is he smiling at? My eyes narrow. “No, I don’t think I want to,” I respond and shove another French fry in my mouth for good mea
sure.

  “Yeah, you do. I’ll feed you. I’ll take you to Sarabeth’s for brunch after.”

  “Tempting, but––no.”

  “Unless you’re scared to brake a nail.”

  After a full two minutes of silence, I find my voice. “Did you just say scared?”

  Twenty minutes later, hands on hips, I’m staring up a forty-six foot wall, cursing my pesky mouth. It’s a ninety degree angle of death. This place must be a freaking graveyard. It must be.

  “Where are the bodies buried?”

  “Excuse me?” says Shaggy of the Scooby Doo gang, also known as the safety instructor. He looks confused. And clearly feigning stupidity because, let’s face it, what’s he going to do once the harness breaks and someone plummets forty-six feet to the ground? Nuf said.

  “How many people have died here?” I annunciate carefully and loudly.

  “Uh, none.” His eyes fill with worry. They flicker in Fancy’s direction, searching for a lifeline. News flash: there ‘aint one. Fancy is much too concerned with checking his harness for his K2 ascent.

  “Our odds are shit,” I say to Ethan. The lack of response prompts me to glance his way. Where I find him very busy ignoring me. “According to the Law of Averages––and Malcom Gladwell––had someone fallen to their death recently, we would be okay. However, if what Shaggy here says is true, then the next person to climb could very well be the first fatality.”

  “We happen to have a perfect safety record,” interjects the safety instructor who sounds a bit put out.

  After pinning Shaggy with a weighty glare, I dismiss him. Still prepping, Fancy has yet to come up for air once. “Ethan.”

  His head jerks up. The sharp look in his eyes takes me by surprise. “Say my name again.” His voice is low, huskier than usual––and does strange things to my female parts. A hair singeing flush starts at my feet and shoots straight to my scalp. The intense scrutiny makes me nervous, makes me want to hide.

  “You’re my meal ticket, Fancy Pants, my get-out-of-jail-card. If something happens to you, I’m going to have to pull a Romeo and Juliet and follow you to the grave.”

  The spark that was in his gorgeous eyes only a minute ago dissipates, which makes me feel like garbage. I’m a coward. I’m a bloody coward and fully admit it. I can’t say it. Because in that one unspoken word, his name, a thousand unrequited sentiments lie behind it. Yearning, lust, friendship, respect. Pick one––they’re all there. It’s an effing smorgasbord of feelings that I vowed to avoid like the black plague until my career was off the ground. And yet here I am, having them for a person that is unequivocally off limits to me. Add insult to injury, he’s much too perceptive for his own good. I can’t let him see how I feel about him. That would be beyond mortifying.

  “Hold my crown while I do this,” he says, a blinding white grin on the tail end of it. Another one of his unique gifts. Like he has a clear line of sight into my thoughts and knows when I feel cornered, when I’ve been pushed too far.

  “Yeah, yeah. Stop flapping those lips and focus on staying alive.”

  “Watch and learn, Jones.”

  He begins climbing as he does everything else in life–– carefully, thoughtfully, methodically. He finds a hand hold, grabs it, testing it before proceeding. Then he finds the foot hole and does the same.

  He shucked off his track pants before harnessing up and is presently in his shorts and a v neck t-shirt. Long, sinuous muscles outlined by the sweat soaked t-shirt band across his back. The power of his shoulders on full display as he pulls himself up. And that hiney? Goodness sake, have some mercy. Have some freaking mercy. I want to take a bite of it. I want to sink my teeth into each juicy, muscular globe. I want to…

  There’s a dude standing next to me. And he’s busy doing the exact same thing I’m doing––violating Ethan with his eyes. An immediate impulse to defend my turf steals over me. I perform an open inspection of my competition. Tall, bald, and muscular. I stare at his closely shaved head in the hope that he’ll feel the heat shooting out of my burning gaze. For my effort, I get nothing.

  “Yo.” A minute passes, two. “Hey,” I go with this time, a little more force in my voice. Finally, he deigns me with his attention. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, bud. He’s into hot pockets, not corndogs.”

  My so-called competition crosses his arms and performs a pointed inspection of my person. It’s all very National Geographic, two opponents sizing each other up. And since I’m practically a professional at this, I do not blink. After a full two minute stare down, he walks away. I’m getting a pretty good idea of what Fancy has to go through every time he steps out the door and I do not like it one bit.

  My attention returns to the man in question. He’s only one more foot hole from the top. As soon as he reaches it, he looks down at me, over his shoulder, and smiles. Somebody start thumping on my chest. I think my heart just stopped. After that, he rappels down, taking with him my eyeballs, which seem to be glued to his ass. Don’t judge.

  He walks up beaming that same unguarded smile.

  “What? That’s supposed to be impressive? I’m supposed to be impressed? A monkey could do that in half the time.”

  Hands on his hips, breathing deeply, he says, “It’s not as easy as I made it look.” Then, he grabs the bottom of his t-shirt and wipes his sweaty face with it, a six pack I could shred cheddar cheese on in my face.

  “Don’t you have a towel for that?”

  When he drops the t-shirt, his expression is a combination of amusement and confusion. He steps closer and I automatically take a giant step back. He barks out a laugh, and puts his hands up.

  “Easy there, jumpy. I’m just checking your harness.”

  “Fine. Do it. Just ‘cuz I don’t want to die.” I hold my arms out while he checks the tightness of the straps. He’s so close I have to hold my breath in fear I’ll get woozy from the pheromones pouring off of him. Head down and expression hyper focused, he tugs and pulls on the straps, the backs of his hands brushing against my stomach and hips. Thank the good Lord I wore leggings and a long sleeve shirt.

  “Okay, that’s good. I got this,” I say, scooting away. Grabbing some chalk, I clap my hands together, making a big show of it, outwardly exuding confidence while a larger part of me wishes I was wearing a diaper.

  Whatever. It’ll be fine. I’m athletic and very nimble. I took years of modern dance and some gymnastics when I was a kid because it was the only way to burn off all the energy I had. How hard can this be? I look up again and my stomach plummets.

  “Are you sure? Because we can do it together. I can talk you through it.”

  “Shhh, quiet. You’re messing with my mojo.”

  Ethan’s lips quiver while I’m all business, zoned in and focused on recalling the path he traveled.

  The first half of the wall is easy. I’m getting the hang of this rather quickly. This rock climbing thing is fun. I never doubted myself, not for a minute.

  As I make my way up the rock, I can hear Ethan shouting words of encouragement. Right, like I need him to play cheerleader. Before I know what’s what, I reach the top. Much faster than I anticipated. And now…

  Huh? Now what? Now what? Now…what? At this point I am desperately trying to recall what Shaggy said while I was busy making googley eyes at the man I live with, my friend, who I have less than zero business making googley eyes at.

  A million scenarios run through my mind at once. In the meantime, I begin to sweat a little, my heart beating a little bit faster. Then I look down. I shouldn’t have done that. I definitely should not have done that.

  The blood rushes out of my head and goes straight to my feet. My mouth is so dry I can’t even lick my lips. My hands are shaking. The shaking spreads, infecting the rest of my body parts.

  “Are you okay?” Ethan shouts.

  No, I’m not okay. I am so far from okay, I can’t even see okay on the horizon. A screechy wail reverberates in my head. Sounds like one of those howler m
onkeys on Animal Planet. It’s me. I’m the one screaming. Except nothing is coming out of my mouth. I can’t even feel my tongue.

  “Hold on. I’m coming to get you,” a deep voice shouts.

  I’m paralyzed, clinging to the wall by fear alone because my limbs are jelly.

  “Amber. Hold on.” His voice draws closer. “Be there in a minute…almost there.”

  As soon as he reaches me, I go to grab him.

  “Easy,” he says in a low, soothing voice when I almost dislodge the both of us from the wall.

  “Ethan.” My voice is reed thin. Trying not to hyperventilate, I focus on soft, brown eyes.

  “Ethan.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Ethan.”

  “I’m going to talk you through it and we’ll rappel down together.”

  “Ethan.”

  His lips twitch. “That’s the fourth time you’ve used my name since we’ve met. We may have to stay awhile so I can hear you say it again.”

  If I wasn’t about to faint, I’d deck him. “Get me down.”

  “Look at my legs,” he orders. “See how they’re spread and stiff against the wall?” I nod vigorously. “Do it.” Without delay, I do as I’m told . “Were going to bounce gently off the wall as we rappel down together. Slowly. Keep a firm grip on the line but not too firm.” With that, we begin our descent.

  The minute my feet hit solid ground, the adrenaline drains out of me, instantly replaced by two things: a bone deep weariness and out and out fury. I don’t think. I just react. I cock my fist back and punch him in the gut...and hurt my hand in the process because I may as well have hit a brick wall.

  “Ouuuuuch. You asshat!” I scream. I shake out my hand and cradle it. “All I wanted to do was binge watch The Affair and eat French fries!”

  Before I get a chance to say another word he wraps me in a bear hug, my face smothered between his pects while his arms hold me securely. I have no fight left in me, my limbs sapped of all strength. Instead, I burrow closer and let him hold me up. And then I get a giant whiff of him.