Hard Love, page 2
Behind me, Buzz laughs. “You want some pointers, bro?”
“Piss off.” I glance down at Babe the Blue Ox, still dangling pitifully from my pocket. “Worst good luck charm ever.”
Another axe gets handed to me.
Once again, I zero in on my target, this time squinting with no eyes shut.
I toss the hatchet straight at the red center of the board.
It bounces off.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit!” I shout at it, two of my axes lying miserably on the ground.
“I didn’t realize you swore this much.”
“Can you go away?”
My brother holds up his phone. “Don’t think so. This is my party—I’ll do what I want.” He glances down at Babe. “Loser.”
“Stop filming me.”
“I have to send this to Mom, so keep the obscenities to a minimum.”
Screw you, I mouth to him, mindful of the fact that he most likely is filming me and intends to send the video clip to our mother, who most certainly would not approve of my antics. Or his, for that matter, since it stresses her out when we argue.
“You only have two more chances, dude.” My brother won’t stop talking. “You should have gotten here earlier so you could warm up.” He bends one leg and begins doing lunges, arms behind his head, fingers laced behind his neck.
“I don’t need warming up. I’m going to hit this bullseye.”
He scoffs. “Even if you do, you won’t have enough points to make the board—you’re terrible at this. Even those women over there are at least hitting something. Your axe isn’t even sticking to the—”
“Please just stop talking.”
“—board.”
I sigh loud enough to be heard three counties over.
“Are you going to take all day? It’s Jensen’s turn next.”
Oh my god.
I turn to glare.
He shoos me away, back toward the board. “Focus.”
Who can focus with him hovering, clearly waiting for me to fail?
I pull back my arm, bending it at the elbow, then aim forward, releasing the wooden handle and throwing with all my might.
“There’s a trick to this,” Buzz tells me when the hatchet hits the ground. “You should have watched YouTube videos before you got here. You can’t just aim and throw.”
“Would you shut up?”
“I don’t think giving you another chance is going to yield any results since you have scored zero points. You’re off the team—go sit on the bench.”
I feel my face flush with embarrassment. “You can’t bench me. This isn’t a game.”
“This is my special night,” he informs me. “And you’re giving the Wallace name a bad reputation.”
I open my mouth to argue. “How many points have you scored?”
His chin lifts. “Three. But I also get points for not losing an axe—they’ve all at least stuck and haven’t landed on the ground.”
My ass cheeks pucker, I swear they do. “Fine.”
I stomp to the high-top table the rest of the bachelor party is gathered around, most of them drinking beer and laughing, the giants among men filling the whole room because there are twenty or so of us, many of us professional athletes of some kind.
It feels like I’m at a fraternity party, not a celebration for grown men, and why I can’t enjoy myself is beyond me. Oh. Wait—that’s right, I’m dressed like a goddamn fictional lumberjack and there’s a stuffed animal hanging from my fucking pocket!
Don’t know if it’s my glower from my sour mood, but no one really talks to me. Then again, these dudes are mostly baseball players. There’s one guy I recognize from college, a few from high school, plus one or two coaches, a few cousins, an uncle or three, and my brother’s agent.
There’s a tap on my shoulder; it feels like the tip of a fake nail, and when I glance over, I discover that it is. Bright, neon yellow, and attached to a tan blonde.
“You’re the other Wallace brother, aren’t you?” Well. There’s no mincing words with this broad; she gets straight to the point.
“Yes.”
“Are there any more or just the two of you?”
“Just the two of us.”
She smiles.
Then the woman gasps, noticing my lumber-outfit. “Oh my god, were you just axe throwing? This outfit is to die for! So cute. I love that you went with the theme.” She coos again, practically oozing desperation.
Ugh, I can’t stand cleat chasers.
At another table, one of Buzz’s groomsmen shouts over the music as a pair of highlighter yellow nails graze my exposed forearm. I shiver, and not from delight.
“I wasn’t dressing as part of the theme,” I counter, annoyed.
“Then why are you dressed like a mountain man?”
Dammit! “I’m not dressed like a—”
I clamp my mouth shut. It’s pointless to argue with someone who’s half baked, skin literally baked, and hell-bent on flirting. I could be wearing a garbage bag and this chick would be hitting on me. She knows I’m Tripp Wallace, knows I’m a football player, knows I’m loaded.
“You’re not very talkative.” The girl tries again when I don’t bite on her earlier nonsense about mountain men. “Are you the strong silent type?”
I grunt, hoping she takes the hint and walks away to join her friends. They’re standing in a cluster watching us, heads bent like players in the pre-game huddle, about to take the field.
I don’t want to know what anyone is saying—whatever it is, it’s about me and this chick, and it can’t be good.
After several moments of awkward silence—and me ignoring her—she finally gives up and leaves me alone, going back to her group of friends.
Thank god.
“Dude, come join us again for one last game—we’re bouncing afterwards,” Noah Harding shouts to me over the loud music and the sounds of axes hitting boards and falling to the ground. People laughing. Talking. Shouting. Singing. So much merriment my goddamn head is about to explode.
The last thing I want to do is join my brother and his friends for another humiliating round of axe throwing, but if it means I can hopefully ditch this place quicker, then Noah doesn’t have to tell me twice.
I chug the last of my beer and begrudgingly head over to the cages—Babe the Blue Ox still hanging at my side.
Two
Chandler
My cousin is getting married.
Not just my cousin—my favorite cousin, and I’m so happy for her.
It’s not easy being a part of the illustrious Westbrooke family; always in the spotlight, always putting on a show, always on your best behavior. Which is the reason I learned to smile. To say all the right things, do all the things I’ve been brought up to do.
Obedient. Graceful. Classy.
Serene. Shy.
Those are only a few of the words that have been used to describe me in the past. Words I’ve come to hate, though none of them are bad.
Witty, clever, independent, funny—those are the words I’d rather be called.
Smart. Resourceful. Creative. Capable.
But Hollis handles being a Westbrooke beautifully. A few years older than me, I’ve always admired her independence. Her drive. Her carefree, self-starting attitude and willingness to do things her way.
Therefore, I too plotted my own course.
My stint in Europe following my master’s program wasn’t to shirk any duty or a lack of work ethic; it was to escape the suffocating influence of my family, escape the pressure and expectation of the job I’ve been raised to step into now that I have two degrees.
I’d rather end up like Hollis than like her brother and sister, Lucien and Fiona.
Yes, I am going to work at the stadium once I’m unpacked and moved into my new house—but I’m doing it on my terms: under a contract that I negotiated, until I no longer love it.
You only have one life to live, and now that I’m an adult, I’m living it for myself.
Sure, the progression to independence has taken me a little longer than my cousin, who said no to everything the family offered straight out of high school—but I’m getting there.
Slowly but surely, I’m becoming my own person, freed from my gilded cage.
My eyes stray to Fiona and Hollis, both holding court at the wine tasting slash sex toy event her best friend Madison arranged, a white BRIDE sash hanging horizontally across her chest. She’s wearing a white long-sleeved jumpsuit, a white wig cut into a flirty, chin-length bob, and a tiara.
The rest of us? Pink.
Pink dresses, pink wigs, pink sashes.
It’s classic bridal party and bachelorette attire, half classy, half trashy—celebratory so it’s all oddly appropriate.
To quote the bride: Wear pink to make the boys wink.
I feel flirty and cute in my platform wedges and blush midi dress that’s far more appropriate for warmer weather. I feel sexy for the first time in who knows how long, but I highly doubt any boys will be winking my way tonight.
I give my light pink Barbie wig a fluff. Despite the playful getup, I still scream “good girl”.
In the center of the room is the hostess, an outgoing saleswoman named Ginger, with a vibrator in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. She’s loud, proud, and not the least bit embarrassed.
“…has stimulation for those of you who can’t climax from penetration, which is between ten and forty percent of you,” she’s saying, and my brows go up. “Fun fact, orgasms get better with age, so if any of you ladies are pushing forty, your best years are yet to come.” She laughs. “Come. Get it?”
Ginger passes the vibrator in her hand to Madison, who looks it over before passing it along to another bridesmaid. The blonde holds down the button and watches as it springs to life, buzzing in her hand and making everyone giggle.
“That model uses a USB to charge so it’s much quieter than the models that use batteries.”
So modern.
I’ve never actually held a vibrator—or had one—so would I know what to do with it if I ordered one tonight?
Ginger goes on, holding up yet another pink, gel, dick-shaped item. Similar yet smaller. “This hot number is called The Quickie, and everyone will receive one in their swag bag tonight, compliments of the maid of honor.”
The ladies in the room hoot and holler.
I blush.
Madison airily raises a hand, waving like the queen, adjusting her neon pink wig and invisible crown. “Do go on, you’re too, too kind. No, no—your praise isn’t necessary, the gratitude is enough. Please, hold your applause.” She’s bowing now, dramatically. “Go forth and orgasm—and remember me fondly.”
Someone in the back of the room catcalls and whistles between her teeth.
Ginger clears her throat. “Now I’ll introduce you to the couples’ toys.” She holds up a blue object shaped like a teardrop with a hole in the center. “This is our most current C ring, the Zing Ring…”
I zone out since I’m not part of a couple and therefore have no need for a couples’ toy, let alone a sex toy to begin with.
I don’t realize I’m standing on the outside looking in until Hollis’s best friend Madison wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a nudge toward the bar.
“You seem quiet. Is everything okay?”
I blush, not wanting to be a spoilsport or a goody two shoes, or the Debbie Downer of the party. “Am I? Sorry, I’ve had a long day,” I explain, somewhat abashedly. “I have to move into my new place this weekend, along with everything else that’s going on with the wedding.”
Madison hugs me. “You must be beat! But I’m glad you came. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”
Yes, it has been. Back when I was in grad school out east, Madison and Hollis flew to visit me a few times and we went out and had ridiculously amazing dinners, shopped, and drank. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a party or the company of friends; it’s just that…I’m so damn tired.
“Do you need help? Moving in I mean?”
“No, I think I have it covered. Or, Hollis does.” I laugh. “She’s arranged to have a truck for me—I have to get stuff out of storage and into my second-story walk-up.” I pull a face.
Madison mimics it, sticking out her tongue. “Second story is bad, but it could be worse. I’m four floors up in an eighty-year-old building, and the elevator never works. It’s horrible—I can never move.” She sips out of her wine glass and watches Ginger. “Whose truck is it?”
“Um…I think Trace is in charge of that?”
Madison’s head tilts. “I don’t think he has a truck—then again, maybe he does. I doubt it would be hard to find one with all those hunky men he’s friends with. Or his brother?”
His brother. Track or Trevor, or another name I can’t remember. The guy I’ll see at the wedding, which, rumor has it, he had to be browbeaten into participating in. Cannot play nice.
Great. I hear he’s a real peach and a bit of an asshole.
Buzz, the groom, adores him.
Hero worship, Hollis said—although Buzz would never admit it. Not to her, not to anyone. He adores his older brother, I’m told. If his brother goes to his parents’, Buzz goes to his parents’. If his brother takes a vacation, Buzz tags along. When his brother moved closer to Chicago, Buzz moved closer to Chicago.
They bicker like crazy. They argue in public. They whine and complain about each other—but that’s the sibling love I would expect from two professional athletes in the same family. It’s what makes them great at their jobs, I would assume.
“Do you need any help?” Madison’s voice interrupts my musing.
“You’re volunteering to help someone move?” Is she crazy? I hate moving and doubt I’d subject myself to it if it could be helped.
“I mean—I could fetch coffee and donuts and pizza for lunch. Refreshments and the like.” Her pink wig gets in her mouth, stuck to her glossy lips, and she sputters. “Moving boxes? Not so much. Food services? Yes.”
My place might be too small for random people who aren’t pitching in. “I think we’ll be okay—it’s not a huge storage space, more like the size of a one-car garage.”
Madison visibly relaxes. “Phew, ’cause I hate moving people and suck at it. I’m likely to disappear on you anyway.” Her eyes roam to a table nearby and she leans, grabbing a tote bag by the handle and yanking it our direction. Peers inside, eyes lighting up as she pilfers through it, plucking up a rectangular box. “Use this tonight and you won’t be stressed out tomorrow. Guaranteed.”
It’s The Quickie, in a discreet package but distinguishable all the same.
Hollis’s best friend tilts her head. “Have you used a vibrator before?”
I can’t lie. Shrug my shoulders when words fail me. I mean, come on—I’m twenty-four years old, but…
“You’ve never…” Madison jiggles the box, close enough to my face that I want to smack it out of her hand.
“It’s not a crime.”
“No, but it should be.” Her eyes roam my face, taking in my red-hot cheeks then straying to my light pink hair. The lacy straps on my blush dress, the rash spreading across my chest from nerves. “So—never?”
I shrug again. “I was too busy with homework and graduating early to worry too much about sex.”
“This isn’t about sex—this is about self-care. An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day. Plus, it can add years to your life. I read that once.”
Maybe. But still…it never crossed my mind. And I was never in a relationship, which placed orgasms far down on my list of priorities. Way, way down. Like—at the end, on a separate sheet of paper. Written in invisible ink.
“Not to get personal, but…” She leans in close. “Chandler, have you ever…you know.”
I narrow my eyes. If she’s trying to find out if I’m a virgin, she’ll have to come right out and ask, because I’m not going to make this easy on her. It’s none of her business, and I haven’t decided if I want to make it such.
“You know what—don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. But do yourself a favor and take this out of the box when you get home. Get comfortable and…don’t overthink it.” She pats me on the shoulder, fingers squeezing.
I’m saved from this conversation by my drunkish cousin, in her cute all-white outfit, giggling into her lacy Madonna-circa-1989 fingerless gloves.
“Would y’all mind if we met the boys out?”
Y’all? Is she Southern now?
“Where?” Madison wants to know, a gleam in her boy-crazy eyes. As long as I’ve known her, Madison has never had a boyfriend, but she’s always on the prowl for one. Not in a bad way; she just cannot find a normal, decent guy to love her.
“The guys are…” Hollis has to check her phone. “Axe throwing.”
Axe throwing? What does that mean? Are they literally throwing axes? “Are they going to be there all night?”
Hollis’s nose goes back in her phone, fingers typing furiously. “For the next hour or so? Would you mind if we popped in? Or is that weird?”
“I don’t think it’s weird to want to see your fiancé—you have a crush on him,” I tease, just to see her blush. And it’s true; she has a major crush on her soon-to-be husband, partly because they haven’t known each other all that long. Weeks.
Not months, not years.
Then again, when you know, you know.
You know?
“We have reservations at Pucker, but I can always cancel them, no big deal.” Madison is already pulling up the bar’s app.
Pucker is the drag bar downtown, in the city, where we were going to spend the remainder of the evening. Apparently there’s a huge chandelier in the center of the room, multiple stages—and loads of fun for bachelorette parties.
Madison, party planner extraordinaire, begins gathering up the troops now that Ginger is done with her sex toy spiel, the energy kicked up a notch at the thought of spending the rest of the night with hunky, manly men.
My stomach churns and I place a hand there, nerves dancing.
