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  Hard Love

  Sara Ney

  Copyright

  Hard Love

  Copyright © 2020 by Sara Ney

  Editing by Caitlyn Nelson (Editing by C Marie)

  Proofreading by Julia Griffis

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Casey Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without express “written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or shared with other people. If you would like to share with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Tripp

  2. Chandler

  3. Tripp

  4. Chandler

  5. Tripp

  6. Chandler

  7. Tripp

  8. Chandler

  9. Tripp

  10. Chandler

  11. Tripp

  12. Chandler

  13. Tripp

  14. Chandler

  15. Tripp

  16. Chandler

  17. Tripp

  18. Chandler

  19. Tripp

  20. Chandler

  21. Chandler

  22. Tripp

  23. Chandler

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Ney

  One

  Tripp

  My brother is getting married.

  Married.

  A grown man who calls himself Buzz.

  Like seriously, what the fuck.

  Oh, and get this—he’d only known the girl for three weeks before they got engaged.

  Three.

  Yeah, I didn’t stutter.

  I can’t help the bitter taste rising in my throat; he didn’t even bother to deliver the news in person—he sent me a text. Well, my mother sent the text after Buzz and his fiancée told our mom and dad in person, at a dinner I wasn’t invited to.

  Roast beef and potatoes with pecan pie.

  Beef is my favorite and I didn’t even get any.

  My fingers grip the steering wheel of my truck as I pull it into my garage, my gregarious bulldog, Chewy, hopping on his back feet at the sight of my arrival, pudgy face pressed against the screen door in the laundry room.

  Chewy.

  He’s the only buddy I can trust.

  Unlike my backstabbing engaged brother, the dick.

  I shove my truck into park, grabbing the iced coffee I stopped for on my way home from work, and shove open the driver’s side door. Hop out and tug at my jeans; they feel restrictive after having worn spandex compression shorts the past five hours. Should have gone with mesh, not denim.

  Chewy continues hopping, and I’m shocked the little bastard hasn’t put a hole in the screen door because he sure as shit has dented it in about forty spots.

  “Dude, chill,” I tell him, and he chills.

  I’m not sure who wields more power in our relationship, myself or the dog. Probably Chewy since I hold the door open for His Majesty so he can prance out into the yard and do his business. Then I hold the door open for him again so he can prance back inside, where I’ll feed him and brush him and I am clearly his bitch.

  The bag clenched in my fist gets tossed on the counter; it’s already past six in the evening and I have to arrive at my brother’s bachelor party by eight, which gives me almost two hours to eat, relax, shave, and get my ass back out the door.

  I shoot Chewy an apologetic look. “Sorry bud, I have to leave again. Uncle Buzz is having a party, but Molly will swing by to play with you.”

  Molly is a teenage neighbor girl I pay fifteen bucks an hour to hang with the dog. She scoops his poop and feeds him on days I’m running late or weekends I’m gone. Which, lately, is a lot.

  Like my brother Buzz—who plays professional baseball when he’s not being a professional douche—I play a professional sport, too.

  Football.

  And right now it’s football season so I’m gone a lot; poor Chewy spends so much time with Molly I should just rehome him. I’m like the dog dad he never gets to see unless it’s summer break. Summer camps and spring training take far less of a toll than fall and winter.

  “Yeah,” I inform the dog, “Uncle Buzz has his bachelor party tonight—do you believe that shit?”

  Chewy stares up at me, drool hanging from his bottom jowls.

  “Want to know what’s worse than a bachelor party on a Saturday night when I could be lying on the couch? A themed bachelor party.” I eyeball the bag on the counter through narrowed eyes and yank open the fridge. The cleaning lady slash housekeeper has left me some chicken patties and a side of potato salad so there’s nothing for me to prepare.

  I grab and go.

  Heat and eat.

  The chicken goes in the microwave, the potato salad goes in my mouth.

  “Get this.” I swallow. “We’re going axe throwing and he wants everyone to wear plaid.” That’s what’s in the bag—the plaid flannel shirt I had our mom buy for me. Who has time to hunt that shit down? Not me.

  Yes, I could have ordered it online, but who knows what I like better than my own mother?

  I peer inside. The shirt is lumberjack plaid—haha, funny Mom—a red and black checkered pattern. Khaki cargo pants.

  I groan. Why must Buzz insist on making us look like complete imbeciles in public? As if axe throwing wasn’t bad enough. I’ve never done it, but how hard can it be? Obviously I’m going to dominate at it, but still, I’d rather be couch-surfing with the dog tonight.

  My chicken comes out of the microwave, warm and steaming hot and loaded with cranberry stuffing (my favorite), and I prematurely cram a piece in my mouth.

  It scalds my taste buds. “Dammit!”

  Fuck I’m so hungry.

  I barely taste it as I pack it down my gullet, trying to finish my meal so I can take another hot shower. When I’m finally upstairs in my bathroom, I study my reflection in the mirror.

  Do I shave, or leave it?

  If I don’t, I’m going to look even stupider and lumberjack-ier in that dumb plaid shirt—but it’s such a hassle getting out the razor and going through the whole process, and I’m not exactly in the mood to put in any effort.

  I text my mom.

  Me: Do I seriously have to wear this outfit? I’m going to look like a douche.

  Mom: Yes. This is not about you.

  Me: This is about me not wanting to wear this outfit.

  Mom: This is your brother’s big night—be a team player.

  Me: This is NOT THE WEDDING, MOM. Could we not call this his “big night”? Everything is not always about him.

  Mom: Tripp Francis Wallace I’m not going to say this again. If I hear that you didn’t do your part, I’m going to be so disappointed in you. Your brother has finally met someone decent and you are not going to ruin his
bachelor party.

  Me: Someone else will probably do that.

  I can’t help adding that little jab; let’s be real—Buzz has invited a bunch of freaking idiots who’ll probably get wasted and destroy property.

  Mom: Tripp just wear the goddamn shit.

  Whoa. She’s getting pissed—Mom almost never swears and she just did it twice.

  Mom: Shirt. Just wear the SHIRT. It’s not too much to ask. This is ONE night.

  I want to point out that it’s not one night; it’s one of three: bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception. Except there is no reasoning with Genevieve Wallace—nothing has given her a purpose to live more than her youngest son getting married. Nothing can dull her sparkle. Anyone getting in her way will be obliterated and I will feel her wrath if I do not wear this fucking stupid outfit.

  Buzz, Buzz, Buzz, it’s always about Buzz.

  Me: Fine. But I’m not shaving.

  Mom: Oh you’re going to look so handsome! Text me and tell me how it’s going. I want all the details!

  Um, yeah—that’s not happening. I’m not going to gossip about some dumb stag party with my mother. I’m lame, but I’m not that lame.

  Mom: You’re a good brother Tripp. We’re so proud of you.

  No one lays on a guilt trip quite like my mother.

  “Proud of me for going axe throwing,” I mutter, grumbling as I climb into the shower. The water shoots out of seven heads—ceiling, three in front of me, three in back. It’s excessive and indulgent, but after an entire day outside, battling the elements during practices and games, I know it was well worth installing the additional plumbing.

  Or rather, having Buzz do it.

  I bought this house from him after he flipped it and the shower was one of the selling points.

  He’s one smart son of a bitch, I’ll give him that. And sure, his fiancée is pretty fucking awesome—but that still doesn’t mean I want to hoof it to Axe to Grind, the throwing bar where the party begins.

  Ugh. An entire night of drinking, shooting the shit, and bar-hopping.

  My worst nightmare.

  Most of the wedding party on the groom’s side are professional athletes—baseball players from his team, the Chicago Steam, and myself. No big deal, not impressed.

  That doesn’t mean other bar-goers won’t be. All night we’re sure to be inundated with fans, superfans, jersey chasers, and gold diggers interrupting us for autographs, photos, and forced chitchat.

  I’ll have to be polite when I’d rather be myself.

  Showering takes my mind off how my day went, at least. Drill after drill at the stadium, followed by an ice bath and a rubdown by the team’s massage therapist. My body aches. My head hurts.

  My dick is soft.

  Through the glass shower door, Chewy watches me, bored, no doubt wondering when I’ll be done showering so we can play, his favorite ball lying between his paws, covered in slobber.

  A twinge of guilt forms in my stomach and I shut the water off. Grab the towel I tossed over the barrier and dry off, throwing on a pair of sweatpants so I can roughhouse with the dog. Tire him out a bit before the dog sitter comes.

  I hate leaving him alone.

  When it’s time to dress, I rip the tags off the godawful cargo pants; complete with side pockets and heavyweight fabric, they are truly fit for a mountain man.

  They fit perfectly.

  The shirt fits too as I pull it on, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. Leave the top two buttons undone so I don’t choke myself, or maybe that’s the solution to get out of this hellish evening.

  Viewing myself in the mirror again, I cringe. Dammit, I should have shaved this scruff off. I look ridiculous. Like an actual fucking lumberjack.

  I am going to kill my brother.

  Whose dumb idea was this?

  I have my answer as soon as I step into Axe to Grind and find my brother and his group of friends. They’re easy to spot—large, loud, and not wearing plaid shirts.

  I stomp over, my sights set on one person: Buzz.

  He has his back turned, but I’d know him anywhere; broad-shouldered and tall, he’s the spitting image of yours truly—the Irish twin I never wanted, born only a year after me.

  He’s clean shaven and freshly shorn, no doubt in preparation for his impending nuptials.

  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 t
ake 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.

  How hard can this possibly be?

  I’m a fucking badass, and I’m dressed like a goddamn lumberjack, for fuck’s sake.

  I stare at the red center as my idiot brother and his buddies begin chanting my name.

  “Paul Bunyan! Paul Bunyan!” over and over, and so what if it’s not my name? I know they’re chanting for me.

  I lift the beer in my left hand and chug down half the bottle, wiping my mouth on the sleeve of my flannel. Squint my left eye and raise my right hand to aim.

  Throw the axe at the red dot.

  It bounces off the board.

  “Fuck!”

  Goddammit, that must be some kind of fluke. I’m freakishly good at everything, including darts. This is basically the same thing.