Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be suuuper gentle when I breach his virgin anus for the first time. Can’t make any promises about the second time, though.”

Cal blinks twice, his mouth gapes open. Then he shuts it and his eyes narrow. “See, this is what I mean.” He turns to Cam, whose eyes are as large as dinner plates, and says, “This is exactly what I mean.” Head shaking, he blasts me with that icy, gray gaze he’s famous for on Sundays. “Not funny.”

Shrugging, I glance at Cam. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, desperately trying not to laugh while she attempts to pet her husband into a better mood. Besties 4 eva. Cal plants his hands on his hips and tips his head back.

“Relax, Calvin,” I half-grunt, tired and generally pissed off. “Your sweet boy prince is safe from my evil sorcery. He’s the only chance I have of staying out of jail. Besides, you can’t go poking around there willy-nilly. You need to prep the area––”

“I can’t listen to this,” Cal mutters to his wife.

“She’s kidding, Boo.” The heavy petting continues. “Amber, tell him you’re kidding.”

Vaughn’s pimped out Audi A8 pulls up to the curb. Black tinted windows, black hubcaps, black paint. Wild guess: he likes black. He gets out holding a man’s winter puffer jacket. Wait for it, it’s black. Ripping open the door, he walks up to us without a word and throws it around my bare shoulders. His moves are impersonal, brisk and efficient. He’s a man on a mission, and the mission it seems is to swaddle me.

“What are you doing?”

My question goes ignored. The jacket is as large as a sleeping bag, my head and bare feet the only parts of my anatomy sticking out. My eyes cut to Cal and Cam who are equally silent. This time I direct my question at the two stiffs standing next to me.

“What is he doing?”

My best friend’s puzzled frown matches mine. Before I have a chance to argue, Vaughn picks me up, kicks the door open, and carries me to the car.

Being arrested in front of a hundred people because the owner of the house is screaming, “fire starter!” at the top of her lungs while pointing at me didn’t do it. Losing a shoe as I was being manhandled into the back of a squad car didn’t do it. Not even having my mug shot taken did it. However, being carried like I’m a small child by this man has managed to crush into dust what’s left of my dignity.

Outside it’s close to ten degrees, the concrete frozen over, and though I’m far from bummed that my bare feet do not have to touch the ground, I still can’t hide my discomfort. My body is corpse-like in his secure hold while I stare straight ahead.

“Call me,” Camilla shouts.

I turn to nod and notice Cassandra coming out of the door. Having been released, she heads for a waiting yellow cab. She’s about to get in when she spots me. Punching her fists in the air, she shouts, “Cinder! Luv you, girl.”

“Friend of yours?” the weirdo carrying me says. The note of amusement in his voice compels me to look at him. His lips quiver, on the verge of a smile that he eventually disciplines.

I tug my arm out of the jacket and wave at Cassandra. “She is now.” As he gently places me in the passenger seat of the car, I force myself to look up at him.

“Thank you for helping her.”

His eyes hold mine longer than I deem necessary. It feels like he’s peering into my soul and judging me as damaged goods. It makes me excruciatingly uncomfortable, a state of being I’m accustomed to. My heart rate picks up speed. I’m dying to look away. However, I learned a long time ago not to backdown from a challenge. That’s why I stare back until he finally shuts the door.

The car ride back to the city is about as much fun as getting a Brazilian wax job, painful and seems to last an eternity. For a full hour Vaughn stares ahead with a blank expression. The few minutes of understanding we may have shared back at the courthouse have long been wiped away as if they never happened. He wants to do quiet. I can do quiet. This is a battle of wills I don’t intend to lose.

“I trust you understand the importance of not contacting Gregory in any way, shape, or form. Not on social media. Not anywhere.”

That tone. That tone is nails on a chalkboard to my ears.

Lips thinning, I decide to nip this in the bud. “Look…umm…” Mister? Nope. That sounds weird. I start again. “Vaughn––”

My address prompts a slow turn of his head in my direction. His lids grow heavy and his mouth twists into a cynical smirk. I’ve never addressed him formally. It’s usually Fancy McButterpants, or Fancy Pants––his chosen nick name by yours truly after I determined His Holy Fanciness needed to be taken down a notch, or two. But never Mr. Vaughn, and never ever by his first name. For some absurd reason calling him by his first name feels too intimate. It suggests ease, a friendliness that does not exist between us. Hence, I’ve never used it. Not once. Weird, I know. It is what it is.