Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“Favorite song?”

I give him a look of serious disappointment. “Sympathy for the Devil, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he responds with a slight lift of a sexy brow.

“You?”

“A tie between Start Me Up and Beast of Burden.”

“Figures.”

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

Home. Something in the way he says it sticks in my craw. I shouldn’t like hearing him call it that, and yet…

We find his father, Jake and Hope, and a few more family members on the patio having brunch. Every single one of them gives us a queer look. Except for his father––his father smiles broadly. I’m guessing my little ploy worked. Ethan kisses Norma. I get a suffocating albeit nice hug from the Honorable Judge Vaughn. We say our goodbyes and depart.

“Why don’t you know how to drive?” Ethan says. Ahead of us, traffic crawls to a stop.

Talk about a loaded question. I’m riding the crest of a good mood. The last thing I want to do is talk about my childhood. After last night, however, it feels petty to hold out on him.

“Yeah, driving around in a hearse would’ve done wonders for my popularity.”

“A hearse?” That got his attention. He’s watching me now.

“Eyes on the road, Fancy Pants. Traffic’s moving. It’s the only car my grandmother owned.”

“Why would she own a hearse?”

“Because she owned a funeral home. We lived upstairs.”

He side-eyes me, assessing whether I’m messing with him by the looks of it. Whatever he finds convinces him. “Holy shit,” he says with a bark of laughter.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm.”

“What’s up with Norma? Why would you agree to have her set you up?” Then it dawns upon me. “Unless you’re fine being set up with women.”

“No,” he says, before I even finish. He sighs, his eyes shifting back and forth from me to the road. “My mother was her only daughter, and the baby. Norma took it the hardest. Sometimes I think harder than my father.” He shrugs and squirms in his seat. “I started spending a lot of time with her because I was scared she would…she was really depressed. Since then, I’ve always been closer to her than anyone else.”

“Hmm. You think she would’ve hurt herself?”

“I don’t know…at the time it sure seemed that way. We helped each other. She kept my mind off my mother, that’s for sure.”

“So you indulge her.”

He shrugs. “It makes her happy, and it wasn’t a big deal when she was setting me up with women.”

The thought of him going on dates makes me cringe. His phone starts ringing. Glancing at the screen, he frowns and answers it. I listen to him bullshit with one of his client’s family members, a brother or uncle or something, for a time I deem far too long. He hangs up and briefly glances at me.

“I’m leaving in a couple of days for the draft.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks. Try not to miss me too much.”

Glancing sideways, I catch him wearing a shit eating grin. I can’t keep from returning a smile of my own. “I’ll try my best.”

“Get dressed.”

“No.” I burrow deeper under the covers and shove my head under the pillow. Two bartenders called in sick last night, leaving me to man the bar on a Saturday with only one other fellow bartender. Practically crippled, I stumbled in the door at three am.

“Get dressed now.” I feel the bed dip beside me. With a woosh, my pillow is gone.

“Hey!!!” I screech and cover my head with the blanket. That’s when I feel a large body straddling me. The blanket is ripped down and I’m staring up at the determined expression of a soon to be dead man. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Get dressed.”

“You’re a New York minute from being murdered by dragon breath,” I growl. It’s definitely a growl.

He hops off the bed and before I know what’s what, he rips the cover away, grabs me by the arm, and throws me over his shoulder. I scream. He slaps my ass, throws me into our newly remodeled bathroom, and slams the door shut, holding it closed from the other side.

“Have you lost your ever loving mind?!” No answer. Not even a peep. “I guess that’s a yes!” I turn on the shower and begrudgingly divest myself of t-shirt and underwear.

“I don’t have time to sweet talk you into it. Get going.”

“Sweet talk me? When have you ever––”

“That’s my point, Jones,” he says, interrupting. “You’re so clueless, you don’t even notice when I’m doing it. That’s why the change of strategy. Art of War and all that.”

“Art of War, my ass. I wrote that book, Vaughn. And you’ll pay for this.”

He won’t. But I’m having too much fun. I get under the hot jet spray of the new shower. I shouldn’t be smiling like a loon. I shouldn’t be. But I am.

Twenty minutes later I’m riding shotgun in Fancy’s Audi headed who the heck knows where. The sun is out. A dust of green coats the trees, signaling that spring is finally here. Despite that I’m a total train wreck, I’m enjoying myself. However––I’d flay myself alive before I’d ever admit that to him.