Hard: A Step-Brother Romance
Read Hard: A Step-Brother Romance Online
Authors: Sosie Frost
HARD
Copyright
© 2015 by Sosie Frost
All
rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
This
book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold
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Cover
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To
My Husband...
I
can’t wait until you’re home!
Table
Of Contents
I’d planned
to give an elaborate toast at my father’s wedding.
It
wouldn’t have been your normal father-daughter, weepy-eyed, get-Aunt-Jasmine-To-Sit-Her-Ass-Down-And-Stop-Taking-Pictures
speech.
This
speech would have been epic. The kind of story passed generation-to-generation by
offended, busybody cousins. It would have been angry enough to melt through
five layers of lemon chiffon cream cake and so profane it’d ruin my
soon-to-be-step-mother’s white wedding gown.
It
had metaphor. Imagery. Childhood anecdotes. Hell, I even gave
citations
.
And I’d
need three glasses of champagne and a shot of whiskey to get through it. But my
father deserved to hear it.
Every
last word of it.
I
stared at the tumbler on the bar. The tiny glass filled with something harsh
and necessary instead of bubbly and delicate. The bartender owed me a favor and
cut me a break. I hadn’t asked for the good stuff, but she gave it to me. I
slipped her a twenty for being cool. There’d be more money where that came from
soon.
I
knocked the glass with my manicured tips. I even had my
nails
done for
this circus.
Served
me right.
“You
got off lucky.” I raised the shot glass to the air. “If they only knew the real
you, Dad.”
At
least my mourning blacks passed for scholarly, and the whiskey’s shallow
confidence suppressed my bitterness. Most of it. After a long day of
arrangements, phone calls, caterer confusion—yes, we could still serve cream
puffs at a funeral, just send a server around with prayer cards too—I was done.
Done planning. Done worrying. Just
done.
Especially
with
him
.
In
actuality, I had two speeches.
One congratulated
Dad on his new life and wished him happiness even if he’d buy what he couldn’t earn.
The other
condemned him for running out on his family. It reminded him that when he left Momma,
he also left me, and the past seven years without him were hard and terrible. Sure,
he sent me money. And, yes, he brought me presents. But his
wedding
was
the first time he wanted me in his life—and it was only so I could be part of
his
new
family.
I
didn’t want to join his wife-to-be and her son in another
glorious union
or
second chance
.
I was
his first chance.
And
he blew it.
Momma
warned me about him, especially on my fifteenth birthday when I slid into the
brand new Mercedes he bought for me. She said if he couldn’t remember how old I
was, maybe accepting a present from a man more stranger than father was a bad
idea.
She was
right, but we needed the car, even if she was too proud to accept it from the man
who left her to raise a child with only an envelope stuffed with money for
help. Still, she said she liked greeting Benjamin Franklin a
lot
more
than Mr. Darnell Franklin.
I wasn’t
so sure, and now, they were both dead and buried. If I knew Momma, Heaven didn’t
have a single nook or cranny where Dad could hide. She’d chase his ass from the
holy throne to the pearly gates, and, when she got tired? Gran would be there
with a rolled up Newsweek and a dog-chewed slipper to relieve her.
Kinda
made me sad to miss the festivities.
I claimed
a stool in the corner to avoid the early crowd and the eye of any loner who
decided to take his chances. So when
he
settled beside me and ordered
another round of whatever I was drinking, I readied my prepared response—a semi-casual
back off
with an apologetic smile.
Then…I
saw him.
My
defenses didn’t just crumble. They catastrophically failed. Sizzled up, fried
to a crisp, and left everything in its wake a molten blend of excitement and
bad decisions.
“What
are we celebrating?” He asked.
Charm.
That’s
what he was.
Just
straight-up charm.
A
green-eyed, trouble-making, buzz-cut charmer who saddled up next to me with dimples
that’d fool some poor girl’s momma and tattoos that’d worry her daddy.
I knew
the type. He wasn’t mine.
But
I’d drink if he offered.
“I’m
not celebrating.” The whiskey was my first mistake. Letting him flash those dimples
was my second. Watching him flex an arm that nearly ripped the fabric of his
t-shirt was my third. He would be the latest in a long line of regrets I
planned to drink away. “I’m not really looking for company.”
“Good.”
He took a swig from his beer. “Me either.”
I eyed
the bar. Half a dozen empty seats were in peanut scattering distance. I nudged
the bowl towards him, hoping he’d take the hint and pick one of the other
spots.
No
such luck. He claimed the chair next to me.
“Maybe
we have a different definition of company,” I said.
He
winked at me. Actually
winked
.
Craziest
part was…I liked it.
“I’m
told I’m excellent eye-candy.”
“Let
me guess. You’re even better to suck on, right?”
Charmer’s
grin was too perfect and his dimples too tempting for someone pretending to be
so innocent. He knew what he was after. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“Then
you’re worse company than I thought,” I said. “Why should I let you stick
around?”
“Because
a pretty girl like you shouldn’t drink alone.”
I smirked.
“And a proper lady doesn’t accept drinks from strangers.”
“In
that case…”
He
stood. Good Lord, Charmer was tall. And built. Damn. He was gorgeous. He leaned
close just to showcase his muscle stacked upon muscles. He knew how to carry it
too. He was no gym-rat, and he was nothing like the coarse frat boys pumping
iron and cat-calling me on the treadmill while I studied for classes. He had a
gift. He actually used his strength for something other than popping a vein in
front of a mirror. And he wielded that power with a poise rivaled only by his
confidence to flirt with a stranger at a bar.
He
motioned to shake my hand. “Let’s not be strangers.”
I
offered him my palm. My cocoa complexion clashed against his skin. He was
calloused, rough, like he worked with his hands. At least mine looked decent,
fixed up all pretty for a wedding-turned funeral. It beat the usual—my nails gnawed
into nothing with finals anxiety and family drama.
“Hi.”
His voice melted like wax. “I’m Hard.”
I
reached for my purse. “And I’m outta here.”
“No,
wait!” He laughed, stepping in front of me. “I mean, I’m Zach Harden. But I go
by
Hard
.”
“Of
course you do.”
At
least he owned up to it. “It’s just a nickname.”
“Hopefully
it serves you well in thirty years.”
“Hasn’t
failed me yet.”
So
he thought he was cute. He was right. But I had enough
cute
today. After
I filled out the funeral director’s template obituary, I babysat two precocious
flower girls whining about not getting to be in the wedding. They needed their
hair re-braided as much as their bottoms smacked, but their mothers relented
and let them pitch tissues at crying family members. Needless to say, my cuteness
quota for the day was
maxed
.
“Look,
this has been fun…” I said.
Zach
didn’t let me go. “Finish your drink. You look like you could use it.”
“And
you better be careful with which way you’re lookin’.” I arched an eyebrow.
“Last thing I need is someone telling me what to do right now. Not after the day
I had.”
“That
so?”
Oh,
the pretty boy was testing me. Like my butt hadn’t been dragged from one end of
town to the other trying to tie up my father’s loose ends. Change the flowers.
Call the caterer. Find the will. Get the attorney. Dad only called me a month
before the wedding to even tell me that he was getting married, the first time
I talked to him in a
year
. Now I was the one responsible for finding the
string quartet before they showed up to the hall and strummed up Brick House
instead of Amazing Grace.
And now
green-eyed charmer—with a nickname that probably far exceeded his
reputation—thought it was funny to tease me
.
Worse, he acted like he
wanted
to hear about my day.
I wasn’t
about to get consoled by a complete stranger while sitting in a bar where the
Hairy
Titty
was the house drink. And I certainly wasn’t going to fall for his smile,
no matter how genuine it seemed. Momma told me she was a fool for marrying Dad,
but she wasn’t raising anyone to follow in her footsteps.
“Come
on,” Zach said. “Just hang for a bit.”
It was
a bad move, but I was tempted to sit. Heading home only made me nervous. I wasn’t
in the mood to wallow in the few memories I had of Dad. Plus it was too hard to
shed twenty-one accumulated years of guilt for holding a grudge against my
father until the day he died. I never forgave him for leaving us, but he still
managed to enroll me in the best schools, buy the supplies I needed, and
deliver my first car.
For
a paternal ATM, he was awesome. For someone who should have been at home
teaching me to drive that fancy car he ordered? Not so much.
It was
hard to hate a man who was never around, especially when he’d never be around
again.
Or maybe
it was easy.
I sat
down and took the shot of whiskey. It wouldn’t do a damn thing to help me
think, but at least drinking gave me a reason to not answer the cocky muscle-bound
slice of Heaven who sat beside me.
I
stared into the tumbler. I was supposed to be giving a toast, not a eulogy.
And,
if we were being honest, I was supposed to be forgiving my father, not
shrouding myself in anger for years of unspoken grievances and lost
opportunities.
“Wanna
talk about it?” Zach had the decency to stare at the basketball game on the
television. He sipped his beer.
“With
you?”
“I’m
listening.”
“I
don’t know you.” I shrugged. “Aside from a nickname overcompensating for a
world of issues.”
“Oh,
there’s issues all right. You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”
His
nose was crooked, but I liked it. It meant he wasn’t totally perfect. He couldn’t
have been much older than me, but he acted like it. Whoever called him Hard
should have called him Brass Balls. He packed a lot of heat in those pants if
he was trying to get up on me.
Maybe
he thought he was hot shit and could hit on some lonely girl in a bar. Well, I’d
teach him a thing or two. My skin might have looked soft and mocha, but I was
anything but smooth and tempting. And my cocky charmer? He should have opened
his mouth just to insert his foot.
“My
father just died.”
The
sudden realization smacked the smirk off his face. I shot my drink and stared
at the multi-colored array of bottles neatly arranged on the mirrored bar. The
girl looking back at me—the little wannabe teacher with librarian glasses and a
wave of ebony curls cascading over her back—didn’t hide the pain very well.
“Sorry
to hear that.” Zach nodded. “I know the feeling.”
“I
doubt it.” The empty glass was making me talk, but refilling it would spill way
more than liquor. I tapped my nails over the rim. The rat-a-tat-tat revealed
more than I liked. “He wasn’t a good father.”
Zach
didn’t flinch. “We should start a club. Did yours beat you?”
“No,
you have to hang around to beat your kids.”
“Not
if you had mine. He had a long enough reach.”