Hard Love (Trophy Boyfriends 3)

Still.

He ain’t wearing the plaid he said everyone would be wearing, and now I feel like a horse’s ass.

I tap him on the shoulder, and he turns, delight on the face I now want to punch.

“Why are you wearing regular shirts? Where is everyone’s dumb uniform?” Like a dope, I point to the red and black flannel I reluctantly dressed in, the ridiculously uncomfortable pants, the construction boots because only boots looked right with this outfit; all I’m missing is suspenders. “Why am I the only one dressed like this?”

My brother—the merry bridegroom—throws his arms in the air as if I’m the most valuable player arriving to the game, loudly whooping, filling the echoing, cavernous space where the axe throwing cages are. Sawdust and peanut shells litter the floor. Everywhere, people are drinking beer and laughing, dressed like regular people—not morons.

I could kill my brother.

“Hey boys,” he hollers. “Look who’s arrived! Now the party can officially begin!”

I don’t want the party to begin; I want to go home. I want to change my shirt and pants and leave. There must be some gym clothes somewhere in the back seat of my truck.

I stalk over, the scowl across my brow pushing down the rest of my features. “What the fuck, dude? Why aren’t any of you wearing—” I point to my shirt again, indicating the plaid getup I reluctantly donned. “Seriously. Not cool.”

“I changed my mind.” Buzz sips from a beer bottle, conveniently avoiding my death glare. “Did I forget to add you to the group text? Weird.” He inspects his nails, then the paper label on the amber bottle.

Forgot to add me to the group chat my ass, the lying piece of shit! “I hate you so much right now.”

“Oh, that reminds me—I have a gift for you.” His free hand disappears, reaching around his back, pulling out and producing a small stuffed animal. A buffalo? A horse?

A cow?

No. It’s a stuffed toy ox and it’s bright blue.

Babe the Blue Ox—just like the one Paul Bunyan has as his sidekick in the old fable.

Buzz shoves Babe into my arms. “Ladies, ladies, can I have your attention please? Gather ’round—Paul Bunyan has entered the building! He’s single and ready to delight you with his wood-chopping and axe-handling ways.”

Perturbed, I let the stuffed animal fall from my hand to the ground; Buzz bends down and scoops Babe up. Forces him back into my grasp and sidesteps me so I can’t toss the stupid thing back to the ground without coming off as a total, littering jerk.

His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Relax, bro. Lumbersexuals are so on trend right now.” He smacks me on the back. “Harding, get this gloriously rugged man a brew!”

I loathe him so hard.

“You did this on purpose.” It’s an accusation, not a question, and the asshole doesn’t even have the courtesy to deny it.

“I mean—the original plan was to wear plaid, because hello, axe throwing, but since we’re going out after this, it didn’t make sense in the long run.” He pulls his phone out of his front pocket, taps on it a few times, and points it at me. “Say ‘Johnny Appleseed’!”

The flash goes off, damn near blinding me, and I shield my eyes. “Knock it off!”

“Calm down—Mom wanted pictures.” He examines the photo then does a strange little giggle. “Haha, look, Martinez photobombed.”

Buzz holds the phone out so I can see the screen, see my resting dick face, expression angry.

“Mom and Hollis are going to love this picture.” He taps away. “I sent it to you, too.”

My “Thanks” is droll, laced with sarcasm and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I take the beer that’s being handed to me and chug half of it in a few swallows, needing the alcohol to get through this evening. Swish it around and down more.

“Can we get this over with?” I ask, still holding Babe the Blue Ox in one hand. I use him to wipe the foamy beer from my mouth then stuff his tail in a side pocket of my cargo pants.

He dangles at my side, blue and lifeless, a new toy for Chewy to rip the guts out of when I get home.

The guys and I gather at the three axe throwing cages my brother reserved, high-top tables set up for our beverages and snacks. The place is packed full of people; it’s loud and busy and everyone seems to be having a blast.

I scowl.

Someone hands me an axe and nudges me toward the red line on the ground where I’m supposed to stand, surrounded by chain link fencing—to keep axes that ricochet from flying into people, I supposed.

I eyeball the target on the wall, painted onto a piece of plywood. It’s huge—at least three feet across, maybe more, with three possible marks to score. Blue circle, white circle, red center. Bullseye.