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“Whatever that wall did to you, it’s ready to apologize.”
The sledgehammer raised above his head, he stops, then slowly lowers it to the ground. Even from across the room I can feel the bubble of emotion surrounding him. He turns and our eyes meet, the sparkle and good humor he often wears missing. I can’t decipher the look on his face. Though, if I were to guess, I’d say equal parts sadness and longing, as if he’s lost something that matters.
Panting and sweating from the exertion, he leans on the hammer for support as he watches me walk up and hand him the bottle without a word. For a brief moment he stares at the bottle with a funny look. Then, opening it, he takes a big gulp.
“Wanna talk about it?” I plant my butt on a wooden workbench left by the construction crew and patiently wait for him to answer. In the meantime my gaze flickers to the sweat dripping down his chest, the sweat he makes no move to wipe away.
“You know my second rounder?” His gaze slides to the handle of the sledgehammer.
“The running back from Alabama?”
Ethan nods. “He went to a house party last night. Somebody in his group was carrying. They got into it with another group––haven’t gotten the full story yet...bottom line, somebody’s dead.” At my silence, he continues, “The team cut him an hour ago.”
“How bad is it?”
Ethan takes another long pull of his water. “Bad. There’s video. Two guys were gang affiliated. Old friends from home.” Shaking his head, he places the bottle down and takes the hammer in both hands. “Everything was riding on that draft money. That kid has at least twenty-five people to carry on his back.”
“I’m sorry. I know how much time and effort you put into cultivating their careers.” At this, he nods, his brow doctored with worry. “Is it over? His career.”
“If they don’t charge him, which looks like they won’t right now, he’ll get a suspension and a fine from the league. I may be able to get a team to pick him up afterward…depends how bad injuries are during the season…but after Ray Rice and Hernandez––” Ethan shakes his head. In frustration, I gather. “It’s zero tolerance. He’ll have to work ten times as hard to prove himself.” For a moment, I lose him to his thoughts, his absent gaze fixed on the torn up wall.
“You’re a good man, Ethan Vaughn.”
Surprise, wonder, something akin to longing. It’s all there when his attention returns to me. He smiles then. It’s small and sad, weighed down by all the responsibility he wears. Bending closer, his lips meet mine. They brush back and forth until I kiss him back. Until I stand and wrap my hand around his neck and feel him shudder, his frustration tangible under my fingertips.
All I want to do is hold him and pet him and make him feel better, take all his concerns away and that terrifies me. I didn’t sign up for this. I signed up for mind blowing sweaty monkey sex. Not tenderness. Not affection. Not heartache and understanding.
He’s holding back. I can feel him trying to remain stoic in the face of adversity, to keep me at a distance. My fingers knead his neck, working the tension out. A harsh exhales later and I know he’s given up resisting me. Seeking comfort, he places his forehead on the curve of my shoulder and I almost stop breathing, a familiar ache under my sternum.
“I got an email from Parker. He wants to talk.” Raising his head, Ethan’s eyes connect with mine while his expression remains unreadable. “Why is this case taking so long?”
“David is negotiating. What she’s asking for is extortion.”
“I’m ready to borrow against my inheritance to be done with this. It won’t be much but––”
“The hell you are,” says the ruthless lawyer, cutting in. “Did you write him back?”
“No. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.” That part of my life is dead and buried––for good once the case is closed. “He must take me for an idiot if he thinks I have any intention of hearing him out. Last time we spoke––” Embarrassed, I glance up and find Ethan watching me. “Well, you know…he called me abrasive. Said it would be career suicide to work together.”
A lot of mental handwringing ensues while I wait for his reaction. Maybe I said too much. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. A slow smile takes over Ethan’s face.
“What are you smiling at? You think I’m abrasive? Great,” I mutter.
His smile fades. “I don’t think you’re abrasive.”
“You don’t?” I’m not entirely convinced.
A silent moment passes, two, his eyes fall on the handle of the sledgehammer. I watch his hand grip and release it over and over. “You’re like this sledgehammer.”
