This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Avery Flynn. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Preview of Anger Bang © 2022 by Avery Flynn

Entangled Publishing

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Shrewsbury, PA 17361

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Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing.

Edited by Liz Pelletier and Lydia Sharp

Cover design by Bree Archer

Cover photography by Art-Of-Photo/Getty Images

ISBN 978-1-64937-016-7

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition June 2022

Content Warning

At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.

“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow—this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”

Elizabeth Gilbert

Chapter One

Chapter One

Nash

December 1st…

“I’m getting married. Tomorrow. You’re all invited.”

If there was anything Nashville “Nash” Beckett could have said to make his entire family go silent for all of ten seconds, that was it. Not that he had planned it to go any differently. When he wanted to make a point, move a plan into action, or motivate an entire room full of the most stubborn and opinionated people in the entire world (aka his family), he knew how to make it happen. That’s why he’d known challenging his cousins, Griff and Dixon, to the Last Man Standing bet after their grandma Betty died was always going to end in success.

Manipulative? Him?

Only when he needed to get his family to do what needed to be done for their own good.

The rules of the bet were simple: Each cousin had to go on six dates with the first woman who answered their dating bios on the Bramble app. The cousin who didn’t end up in love by Christmas would officially be named the Last Man Standing and win the most important prize ever: the last Christmas present their beloved grandma Betty left wrapped but untagged.

And he wanted that prize. Bad.

With his other two cousins now deeply in love, he only had to last six dates to be named the winner. Which was why he’d found a loophole, of course. Marriage.

All the Becketts stared bug-eyed at him as they sat around the long table in one of the private dining rooms at Le Hibou, which, despite its name, didn’t serve owls (thank fucking God) or French food (again, thank fucking God). It was, however, one of the best (and only) vegan burger joints in Harbor City, which he’d insisted they eat at frequently so his sister, who was the only vegan in the group, didn’t always have to be the one scouring the menu for vegan dishes. And honestly, with a restaurant named The Owl, Nash was glad there was no meat being served.

He absently rubbed at his stomach as he glanced around at the decor.

There was a whole owl motif going on, and the chef had named all the burgers after different owls. Now, Nash wouldn’t say that the look of the owls fit the look of the people who ordered that type of burger, but he wasn’t not saying it, either.

For example, when Nash made his announcement about his wedding, his bearded, tatted-up cousin Griff had been digging into a double-patty Impossible melt called the Whiskered Screech Owl. The man looked like someone you’d cross the street to avoid, and he was prickly enough to be more than happy that people made that assumption, since it usually saved him from having to make small talk. So it was absolutely no shocker Griff was the first Beckett to go back to eating his food at the exact moment when everyone else at the table finished processing Nash’s words.

There was a heartbeat more of blessed silence before all the talking started—translation, hollering—about a million questions at once. In other words, it was a gathering of Becketts.

Finally, one voice broke through the noise.

“You are so full of shit,” his cousin Dixon said and then lifted Fiona’s left hand up and kissed it, nearly blinding the room with the light reflecting off the huge diamond engagement ring on her finger.

“Well, actually,” Nash said as he squirted ketchup onto his Great Horned Owl, aka a cheeseburger with onion straws. “I’m not. The ceremony is at her apartment. Ten in the morning. The dress code is business casual. There will be a reception afterward. Gifts are not necessary. Now, go back to eating.”

Nash knew there was no way they wouldn’t show up tomorrow. This bunch was far too curious—fine, too nosy as hell—to skip it.

News delivered and orders given, he went back to eating his burger. Damn, it was fucking delicious.

Everyone at the table continued to gawk at him as he did the smart thing, the logical thing, and continued to eat the best vegan burger in Harbor City while they ignored theirs. They’d regret that. Cold burgers were still good, but nothing like the brain-bending goodness of a warm one. He was about to explain that in detail to them when the giggles started. It began with his sister, Bristol, of course, but pretty soon the whole table was laughing.

Finally catching her breath after her giggle fit, Bristol wiped away a tear of amusement. “Can you imagine?” She used her fork to point at him from her spot at the other end of the table. “This guy? Married?”

Morgan, Griff’s little sister, shook her head. “He’d spend so much time explaining how marriages work to his poor fiancée, she’d fall asleep before the proposal.”

“Or he’d mansplain how she should feel about engagement rings,” Bristol added.

Should he be offended? Maybe, but this was his family, and despite how much he might pretend the opposite was true, he knew their assessment was fair. Not that he’d admit it. He had his reasons, and they knew that. There was a reason why everyone always came to him with their questions and problems—he always knew what to do.

When his mom got stuck in Waterbury because she’d forgotten to pay her cell phone bill—again—he outlined exactly how to set up automatic payments. Information his mom had ignored, per usual. When his brother, Macon, needed help getting his literary agency off the ground? Nash had been there with a business plan within thirty minutes before his brother even got a chance to ask for it. When Bristol had bought that money pit of a house and had no idea where to go for renovation help? He’d outlined her options, developed a pros-and-cons list about contractors, and when she’d ignored him because, as she’d said, she hadn’t even asked for his help in the first place, he’d emailed the entire document to her anyway and put in calls to a few of his contacts so she wouldn’t get ripped off.

He knew things, and sharing that information was just what he did.

“Is it wrong that I spend enough time reading focus-group reports that I have insight into how people think and how they act?” Nash asked. “I’m literally everyone’s best resource. Hell, I’m the family Google.”

“Oh my God, Nash. I love you, but you are a dick,” Macon blurted out and then looked down to the other end of the table and cringed. “Sorry, Mom.”

Okay, so he had a habit of overexplaining things—even when no one asked for additional information (Bristol and the contractors weren’t the only time that had happened). And yes, he had gotten in the habit of anticipating other’s moods and reactions, which came in really handy in developing marketing and advertising campaigns at Beckett Cosmetics. He had to know women, the largest percentage of their customer base—although the number of men and nonbinary folks in the makeup and skincare sector was growing—and what would appeal to them. Add to that the fact that he’d grown up as the de facto responsible one who remembered for his parents when the utility bill was due, or to pick up Bristol after her Girl Scouts meeting, or where Macon’s baseball team was playing…it was just his wheelhouse.

“You’re not even dating anyone,” Morgan said. “That’s the whole point of this stupid Last Man Standing bet of yours.”

“It’s not stupid,” Nash, Griff, and Dixon said at the same time—and not for the first time. Griff and Dixon were both happily in love and didn’t mind not winning the present. Nash, on the other hand, had every intention of being the satisfied recipient of Grandma’s gift.

“You can’t win by default,” Dixon said. “Just being the last man in the running isn’t enough.”

Nash grinned at his cousin, who hated losing just slightly less than he loved his fiancée. “I wasn’t planning on it. The rules we agreed to only state that I have to go out on six dates with a woman who responds to my Bramble dating profile, and I have to make it to Christmas morning without falling in love. There’s nothing that says the woman who responds to my ad can’t be my wife.”

Griff rolled his eyes but took another bite of his double patty melt instead of saying anything—no shocker there.

“So you’re what?” Dixon asked, leaning forward and putting his forearms on the table. “Planning on a loveless marriage?”

“The odds are in my favor,” Nash said. “Half of all marriages end in divorce.”

“Aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine,” Griff’s fiancée, Kinsey, said, her Southern drawl making it sound like it might be a compliment but might also be an insult.

Nash was smart enough to bet on insult.

“Well, actually, I’m just being factual,” he said, dragging a french fry through a pool of ketchup before eating it. “Most successful marriages are less about love and more about each person’s needs for security and companionship being met. Love doesn’t guarantee anything. If you think about how love and lust mess with people’s heads, then it probably hurts the chances of a successful marriage.”

“Nashville,” his mom said, lifting her hand to her chest and setting off a chain reaction of clinking and clacking as her million and one brackets clanged against one another. “Your father and I have been married for forty years, and we’re still in love.”

And living separately—as in, a five-hour drive from each other—for the past fifteen years, but that worked for them. As far as he could tell, they actually were happy with Mom in Harbor City and Dad at a commune upstate.

“Then you’re the exception.” He glanced over at his engaged cousins. “As I’m sure you’ll all be.”

“Wow,” Dixon said, glaring at Nash. “What a vote of confidence.”

“Look, unlike your marriages, my marriage isn’t about love.” He pushed back from the table and crossed his arms, suddenly losing his appetite even though he had half a burger left. “It’s about getting both of us what we want.”

“And you want to win the bet,” Dixon said.

Nash nodded. “Exactly.”

Griff leveled his unwavering stare at Nash. It was a look that could make most people rethink whatever it was they were saying. His cousin’s mix of muscles, tattoos, and surly snarl that only left his face when he looked at Kinsey tended to have that effect on people. However, Nash had spent every summer growing up with him and had known him back when he was the runt of the Beckett cousins.

“What’s she get?” Griff asked.

Something that wasn’t anyone’s business. “It doesn’t matter. We’re both going into this knowing that in a month, on New Year’s Eve, our marriage is over. That’s more than enough time needed for me to win Grandma Betty’s last present and for my wife to accomplish what she needs. One amicable divorce later, and we’ll both walk away happily single, unencumbered by love, and with our entire lives ahead of us to do whatever and whoever we want.”

His cousins glared at him. They were as close as siblings and as competitive as three nemesis Formula 1 drivers in the race of a lifetime. They’d each walk in front of a crosstown bus for the others but would also gleefully shove a cousin into the icy lake behind Gable House in December just to watch him splutter.

They were guys. It didn’t have to make sense.

“This is bullshit,” Dixon grumbled, obviously realizing that Nash had outwitted him.

Nash shrugged, relishing the moment. “There’s nothing in the rules against it.”

“You wrote the rules,” Griff shot back, no doubt annoyed that the smartest among them hadn’t thought of this brilliant idea first.

Nash smirked—he couldn’t help it. “No one said life was fair.”

“So,” Bristol said, yanking Nash’s attention back to the table full of Becketts and soon-to-be Becketts staring him down. “Who is the lucky lady?”

Across the table, his mom gave him an appraising look as she tucked a long hair behind her ear and started off the jingle jangle of her bracelets again. “It’s Chelle Finch, I presume.”

Nash nodded.

There was a beat of silence, and then everyone—even Griff—asked at the same time, “Who in the hell is Chelle Finch?”

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Chelle

A few days earlier…

Chelle Finch was T-minus five seconds from losing her shit.

The Finch Foundation had been ignored and all but abandoned by her family when she’d taken it over fifteen years ago. Her father—who had never believed that women, not even his own daughter, should be heading an organization—had figured she couldn’t really do any harm to what was essentially a tax write-off. And sometimes when she was alone in the cramped foundation offices late at night, finishing up board reports or reviewing grant proposals, she could still hear his words when he’d given in and agreed to appoint her as the foundation’s executive director. She’d gotten the job after months of explaining why she was the best candidate when no one else had accepted the position that paid roughly half of the going rate for the qualifications required.

Her dad had been a quarter through a bowl of plain, watery oatmeal, and he’d let out a woe-is-me sigh before saying, “It’ll keep you busy until you finally find a husband.”

Yeah, it hadn’t been a ringing endorsement by any stretch of the imagination, but she’d seized the opportunity with both hands and had made something of the foundation.

It had gone from being a shell of an organization to actually doing good for people in Harbor City. Not that he’d noticed any of that before he’d had an unexpected fatal heart attack last year. Instead, he’d just called it a distraction from her real job in life—finding a man to guide her and take care of her.

She swallowed her anger. There were misogynistic fathers, and then there was her toxic dad, who was king of outdated ideas and just-let-the-menfolk-take-care-of-it bullshit.

Really, was anyone surprised that she spent all of her free time writing fantasy books where the female leads kicked ass?

She’d thought by moving out of the family mansion and remaining single she’d finally escaped the curse hovering over the Finch women that always seemed to land them with some jerk of a man who thought he knew better than any mere woman ever could. So far, it had worked.

But apparently her dad was capable of reaching out from the grave to pull the rug right out from under her sensible shoes today.

Her smarmy jerk of an uncle was more than happy to deliver the news to her as he sat behind Chelle’s desk with his size-nine cowboy boots (the ones with the hidden lift insoles) propped up on the battered wood corner. His ten-gallon hat was half on and half off a stack of aid requests sitting in the middle of her desk, making the half-a-foot-high stack look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Never mind the fact that in his sixty-five years, the closest Buckley Finch had ever been to a ranch was watching old westerns and rereading every Louis L’Amour book lining the library at his mansion on Eighty-Sixth.

“No one is saying you haven’t accomplished, by a miracle no doubt, something that no one thought you possibly could,” Uncle Buckley said as he patted down his silver combover, the few strands of which were always popping up anyway despite the amount of hairspray he blasted on it. “But you knew being executive director was a limited-time engagement. The business world is no place for a woman, and your dad cared about you enough to know that you needed a nudge in that direction.”

“A nudge?” That’s what he was calling this absolute metric ton of bullshit? “Getting slammed by a rocket loaded with billionaires suited up for low atmospheric joyrides in zero G would be less of a nudge than this.”

She tucked some of her dark hair behind her ears and took in a deep, cleansing breath, willing herself to calm down. The last thing she needed right now was to appear anything but calm, cool, and collected. Uncle Buckley would seize on the moment to tell her that women were too emotional for leadership positions, she was sure.

He shrugged. “It is what it is, and you knew what was going to happen when your dad’s will was read last Christmas.”

Chelle’s pulse skyrocketed as she fought to keep an even-keel exterior even though, on the inside, she felt like she was drowning. “I never thought my own family would follow his ridiculous dictate.”

It really had been too bizarre to even consider. For all of their many faults and toxic attributes, she’d thought her family loved her and finally saw her as a smart, independent, forty-two-year-old woman who had proven herself. That, obviously, had been wishful thinking on her part.

“Your father was right, and you know it.” Uncle Buckley plopped his feet back on the ground and leaned forward, his elbow bumping against his hat, which pushed against the stack of aid requests and sent them tumbling over. He looked at the resulting messy pile in the middle of her desk as if he had no idea how it had happened. “You’ve played your little game of Boss Lady long enough. You either have a husband by Christmas as required by your father’s will, or I become the foundation’s executive director and shut the place down.” He narrowed his beady little eyes at her. “You could’ve spent the past year looking for a man who might have let you play executive director on a very part-time basis. Instead, you just stuck your head in the sand and pretended that you could change the way things are.”

The urge to rage at this man (the de facto leader of their family and the one who lorded over them all like a real-life Lord Farquaad) rushed up her body like a hot wave of pent-up fury as she sat in the guest chair in her own damn office.

“This isn’t the Middle Ages,” she said, needing to stay calm because other people’s ability to buy groceries, to learn new skills, and to pay daycare bills depended on the foundation continuing its work. “You can’t force me to get married or fire me. That’s not legal.”

“First of all, this is an at-will state. The foundation’s board can fire you for any reason or none at all. Secondly, force you to get married?” Buckley’s voice went up as if he was shocked—shocked—she’d level such an accusation against him. “Michelle Christine Finch, we are only guiding you toward your true calling—being a wife and submitting to your husband. Maybe if your dad had listened to me and put his foot down immediately with you, we wouldn’t be in this situation, but here we are.”

“This is blackmail.” She sank back against the chair, her spine curling into a C as her shoulders drooped under the weight of lost hope. “People depend on this foundation. It helps thousands of people every month.”

“Yes,” Uncle Buckley said, having the audacity to look all torn up about the situation—or as close as he could with a heart as small as a pebble on the beach. “It would be a shame if they suffered because of your pride and selfishness.”

And there it was, the battle she’d been fighting since she’d come out of the womb without a penis into a family that claimed to believe in traditional values, when it was really all about control. How foolish she’d been to think she’d escaped their clutches and could live as the outcast of one of Harbor City’s richest and most powerful families.

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