Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

The elevator opens onto the sidewalk and I head toward the townhouse without a backward glance, the wind chill making my eyes water.

“Who do you think negotiated that monster contract for him? Brought him to New York.”

I stop and turn, almost crashing into him. He takes a small step back. Barely a step. I’m forced to step back myself. It’s either that, or shout at the chest six inches from my nose. “Are you looking for a round of applause? Is that it?”

“What I want is to be kept abreast of who my clients date.”

“Why? Does he have to get permission?” I march around the corner and jog up the stairs of the townhouse, burning with a need to get as far away from him as possible. Vaughn gets the keys out and opens the door while I blow on my frozen fingertips and daydream a million different ways to torture him. As soon as the front door swings open, I hustle inside, and proceed to hang up my puffy jacket in the hall closet with Vaughn dogging my every step.

“I need to know these things in case I have to deal with a baby mama situation.”

My steps screech to a sudden halt in the middle of the staircase. He did not just say that to me. I turn and take in the man standing three steps below me.

Fuuureaking men. You have sex on a first date you’re easy. You don’t you’re frigid. Tell them you love them, do nice things for them, you’re clingy. You don’t, you’re selfish and cold. I could go down the list of contradictions for hours. And now I can include being friends with a professional athlete makes me a gold digger.

“You’re one to talk, Typhoid Mary! When it’s pretty damn clear you’ve slept with half the women of Manhattan!”

“What did you call me?” The look of shock on his face would be funny if I wasn’t so pissed right now.

“I called you a purveyor of disease. But here’s a term you’ll understand––slut!” I’m on a roll now, no end in sight. “When was the last time you had an STD test? You should’ve warned me that I needed to bleach the toilet seat every time I need to use it.”

The shock on his face transforms into a fresh fit of anger. All puffed up, he suddenly looks two inches taller, his color high. “Are you, or are you not dating Harper?”

Turning up the stairs, I stomp to my bedroom door and step inside. “Ask your client,” I shout, after which I slam the bedroom door in his face. “I’ll go to jail before I let you manage me!”

Bang bang bang. I reluctantly crack open an eye. Bang bang bang. If that’s the construction crew, it’s gonna get murdery up in here. Bang bang bang. Actually, it sounds more like knocking. Ignoring it, I snuggle deeper under the covers but the knocking only grows louder. I barely slept three hours. Reason number one, because I was so worked up by the altercation. And number two, because I could not assuage the tension I was feeling by said altercation with one of my electric book boyfriends. Just as I was settling in for a good work out with my dear, dear Gabriel, doubt started to creep in. One of those suckers sounds like a chainsaw and I couldn’t remember which one. What if he heard me? What if he walked in while I was using? The bedroom door is so old it has a keyhole, no other lock. Needless to say, I’m in no mood for him now.

“Jones? You awake?”

Motherfu…

“Jones?”

I shove my sleeping mask up and grab my iPhone off the nightstand. 5:30 am. He can’t be serious. I have a private party to work tonight that will run way past midnight.

“Jones.”

“Go awayyyyy!”

The door to our mutual bathroom swings open and I pop up in bed. “Hey! I didn’t say you could cooo…”

My eyes focus. Standing in the bathroom doorway dressed only in sweatpants, he’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms and ankles crossed like he has a right to be there. If he’s trying to get a rise out of me, then he just knocked it out of the ballpark.

“You’re sweating,” I grind out through clenched teeth. For the love of modesty, his chest is glistening.

“Tends to happen when I run.”

This dude must have a death wish. “Well––go do it elsewhere.”

“I have something I need to say first.”

He looks determined. I volley back a look that says I’m ready to crack nuts if need be, the slow to develop irritation I’m feeling inching closer to critical mass.

“Did you hear enter? No. No, you did not. Get out.” I flop back down and cover my face with the down comforter.

“I’m sorry for what I said last night.”