Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

So he thought waking me at this hour was a good idea? “I don’t give a fresh load!” I shout extra loud, the sound muffled by all the goose down. Nothing but the best for Mr. Fancy McButterpants. “Beat it, Vaughn.”

“Regardless, I still apologize. I know you’re not with Harper.”

That does it. That pushes me right over the edge. I pop back up and throw the black satin mask at him. It lands squarely in the middle of his sweaty chest and slides down.

“You don’t know a damn thing. I could be doing the entire team for all you know.”

Straightening, he stands with his legs spread apart, his body infused with a fresh need to argue. “So you’re admitting you’re with him”

“Vaughn,” I say über calmly. “If you don’t get out, I will bludgeon you with this.” Reaching under the bed, I grab Gabriel and hold him up, all fourteen inches and two pounds of solid plastic and metal. The end of the cord almost whacks me in the eye.

Vaughn’s face drops. Determination turns to doubt, turns to resignation. “I’m taking a shower,” he mutters and stalks back into the bathroom.

“Good choice!” I yell, waving Gabriel around for good measure. Except it’s not good. It’s soooo not good. Because I’m instantly picturing him naked. Flopping back down, I cover my face with my pillow. My pale skin feels blowtorched. Abstinence is a dangerous thing.

By the time the private party wraps up at two am and I punch out, I’m a character out of the Walking Dead. Stepping out the back door, into the alleyway, every muscle I possess braces at the gust of below zero wind that hits my face. It’s so cold my brain hurts.

The headlights of a shiny black town car parked a few yards away turn on and my suspicion perks up. I keep a close eye on it as I pass, my hand already on the can of mace I carry in my purse.

The tinted window slides down and a man eyeballs me. Around fifties, judging from the silver threaded into his black hair. His dark eyes look eager. Why the hell would they look eager? My suspicion grows.

The driver’s side door bursts open and he pops out. The noise makes me jump and wheel around.

“Miss Jones?” He holds up his hands as if to apologize. “I’m Fredo Alvarez. Mr. Vaughn sent me to pick you up.”

He’s wearing a long black wool coat and what looks like a suit underneath. Groan. It all makes sense. My face must say everything I’m thinking because the guy takes a tentative step closer.

“Look, Mr. Alvarez, I already told Mr. Vaughn I was not in need of a car. Sorry he wasted your time.” With that, I turn and keep walking. Not surprisingly, I hear hurried steps behind me.

“I really need this job,” he shouts, desperation kicking his voice up a notch. I stop and turn. He looks anxious. He definitely looks anxious. “This is the first job offer I got in two years.” He’s talking fast, the anxiety spreading to his voice. “My cousin works for Mr. Vaughn. That’s how I got this gig.”

Are you kidding me? How is this my life?

“I’ve been out of work so long I don’t mind begging.”

Wow. No messing around––he went for the knock out punch. My shoulders slump in defeat, my heart bloodied and bruised. Without a word, I start walking back to the town car. Mr. Alvarez doesn’t know it but my Achilles heel is someone laying their weakness at my feet. Show me your boo-boo and my resolve folds quicker than a bad hand of cards. He couldn’t have played it any better.

“Come on Mr. Alvarez. You’re driving me home,” I mumble, so grumpy I could chew glass.

“Fredo. Please call me Fredo.”

While he holds the door open, I slip into the back seat and glance up at him. The anxiety that was all over Fredo’s face a moment ago is gone, replaced by a small smile threatening to grow larger. “Call me Amber, Fredo.”

I should’ve known he’d get the last word. Freaking lawyers. Score one for team McButterpants.

Chapter Ten

Ten days. Ten days without seeing hide nor hair of him. Unintentionally, we both did our best to avoid each other, falling into a routine of sorts. Well––maybe not so unintentional. Like clockwork, I hear the shower run at the ungodly hour of five thirty every single morning. From that point on, I wait an hour and a half before going down to an empty kitchen because I know he leaves for work by seven.

If I were a better person, a more mature person, a wiser person, I would simply forgive him and brush it aside as no bigs. Spoiler alert: I am none of those things. I knew he didn’t have the highest regard for me––especially not after the scene at the jailhouse––however, being labeled a baby mama? Which in his thesaurus has only one synonym, gold digger. Mmmmno. No. You can call me many terrible things, but you cannot call me a gold digger. That, I will not take kindly to. And frankly, it stings. I was laboring under the false impression we were friends…of sorts. Whatever, friendly–er. But I guess we aren’t. We’re not even back to square one. We’re pre-square one. We’re not even talking.