Hardest to Love Read online

  Hardest to Love

  Copyright © 2019 by Sidney Ivens

  www.sidneyivens.com

  All rights reserved. Hardest to Love is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locals or events is entirely coincidental.

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Again, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, products, media and incidents either reflect the writer’s imagination or are used in a fictional context. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Developmental Edit: Ann Leslie Tuttle

  Beta Readers: Rachel Daven Skinner, www.romancerefined.com

  Final Proofread Edit: Alexandra Ott

  One Final Check: grammarly.com and autocrit.com

  Book Cover: Vanessa Mendozzi

  Interior Book Design and Typesetting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PART II

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  PART III

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  to John and my sons

  It takes courage to grow up and

  turn out to be who you really are.

  —e.e. cummings

  Desperation is not a good look on me, so I pretend to be casual as I beg for my best friend’s money.

  We’re in the back of the bar, the pool table section, near a foosball player scuffle. Wearing blue and orange jerseys, they’re Da Bears fans. It’s two in the morning, noise dying down, slushy streets outside. Chicago’s hottest singles hop off stools, grab jackets, and head to the nearest 24/7 pancake house to sober up.

  Me? I’m a thousand miles from tired. I’m hovering over a pretty redhead lying on top of the green baize edge of a pool table. She’s rolled up her gold sweater to expose the slope of her belly. I’m about to deconstruct a Margarita, but not in a glass.

  Lime slice in hand, I pivot to face Marc Cosmatos, a.k.a. Cos, my former wingman. “Yes or no?”

  He waves an arm, incredulous. “How can you talk business when your mouth’s on some girl’s navel?”

  “Shhh. A master’s at work.” Tactic number one, project confidence via sexual prowess, and her open lust gives me street creds. All part of my approach, my plan to rope Cos in, and Miss Hottie serves as my willing prop. The pool table she’s lying on belongs to Division One, the sports bar my father owns and I manage. It’s me, Cos and that tantalizing belly button.

  The young lady trembles while I sprinkle and then lick off granules of salt from her pale skin. She moans and gyrates her hips a little. Throws her head back, red hair spilling over her shoulders.

  Then I tip the glass and empty the light green liquid onto her flesh.

  She gasps and wiggles.

  I slurp up the tequila mix from her belly button. Next, I lean over to brush the lime against her lower lip and sink my teeth into the slice, staring into her eyes.

  Cos’s smile has flatlined. Clearly underwhelmed. With his light flyaway hair, he looks like a castoff from the Von Trapps. His front teeth are crooked; one tooth is shy and hides behind the other. He holds up his hands. “I get it, I get it. You want to fly solo because the old man’s an asshole. But the failure rate for opening a restaurant—”

  “I know the stats, Cos.”

  “Isn’t this a big enough sandbox?”

  I break eye contact with the redhead and grit my teeth. Sandbox, my ass.

  Division One is my father’s big toe in the lucrative waters of the urban sports bar, a steel-and-glass monster occupying prime real estate on Michigan Avenue. The interior is sports-fan-meets-hipster, backlit a marine blue. Massive plasma monitors and personalized twelve-inch flat-screen TVs in every booth, white oak tables, and countertops.

  Guys enjoy the display of pretty waitresses in striped ref shirts and shorts, while the women visually feast on muscled waiters and bartenders. My demographic leans toward single professionals, corporate wunderkinds, attorneys, PR whizzes. The physically fit and fierce. I want noise and cheers, numbers being exchanged, beer glasses clinking and appetizers that never go cold on the plate.

  Everything is perfect about Division One. Except it doesn’t belong to me.

  But can I truly “fly solo,” and risk losing the iconic brand of Zaccardi Hotels? Cos’s eyes are narrowed on me. Shit. Investors can smell a drop of desperation, and he’d pick up the scent faster than anyone. Close the sale. Close it. The new location’s a surefire hit, I tell him, a friggin’ wet dream. Corner location. Ample parking.

  As I do my spiel, I move my feet over the wood floor spotted with silver, black and pink confetti. In lieu of a Powerpoint slide, I grab a few embossed napkins from the bar. Center one across the redhead’s exposed belly and extract a black felt marker from my suit jacket pocket. “I’m estimating 4,500 square feet.”

  “With or without her belly button?”

  “With.” I sketch a three-story, square-shaped building. “The place is brick, probably about eighty, ninety years old. They currently use the lower two floors for retail space. Third floor, who knows. Storage.” I punctuate my masterpiece with a smiley-faced sun.

  “Hey.” The redhead’s eyes widen, and she raises herself up on her elbows. “That tickles.”

  “If you don’t hold still, I’ll do more than tickle you.”

  “Goody.” She plays with her sweater, inching the wool hem up higher, two pale globes peeking under the wool. Her eyes burn into mine.

  Yeah, I’ll be honest. The red-haired prop is making me hard as granite. A couple of years ago, I would’ve escorted her to the coatroom and given her a banging fine time. Discipline, scatterbrain. Put a cap on the big dick energy. Instead, I recap the pen and focus on the sketch. “The remodel will take about three months. The piece de la résistance? I’m
going to install arched windows in front.”

  “And your dad doesn’t know about this,” Cos’s voice carries. Like to Milwaukee.

  “Shhh.”

  “Why now?”

  I stare into space, absently rapping the marker against my palm until it stings. Because of something I can no longer live with—something that I found out after I’d signed the non-disclosure.

  Let that sink in. My old man ensures my silence.

  “Nick?”

  I force a smile. “The timing’s right.” I trace the marker along the denim seam of the redhead’s jeans, around the bunched-up knee, and along her outer thigh.

  “Oooh, now you’re just frustrating me.” She slides off the side of the pool table with a sigh, tits bouncing under her tight sweater. She tugs down on the gold wool and sucks in a breath, nipples hardening.

  “Thanks, honey. I’ll lick salt off you anytime.” I tap her on the tip of her nose. “Stick around and maybe I’ll read you a bedtime story.”

  Her eyes dilate, and she exaggerates a pout. She grabs a blank napkin, takes the marker from my hand to scribble down her name and number. “Promise?”

  Hot Little Red saunters back to her friends, swiveling her ass back and forth.

  Cos shakes his head. “They fall like acorns at your feet.”

  “Tempted?”

  “Married.” Cos sets his empty glass on the bar counter, as final as a deadbolt click.

  Fuck. At best, he’s barely interested. I stuff the napkin sketch into my jacket pocket, aware that I’m sweating. My shirt’s drenched. Damn if I don’t feel like a used car salesman wearing a clip-on tie instead of a tailored Zegna suit. “I’m putting up most of the capital. Practically zero risk for you, bro.”

  “Yeah.” He leans forward to toss his empty soda can to Ezio, the head bartender, for recycling. Dark, mustached, Ezio is so Greek that yogurt companies want to stamp his face on their containers.

  Earlier I’d tried to spike Cos’s Coke with rum, but he cupped a hand over the top like an outraged pastor refusing firewater. Honestly, what the hell gives? He used to be a warrior, eager to compete, to out-drink, out-yell, and out-fuck. Then eighteen months ago, he went all altar and vows on me. Mainlined suburbia. Cos keeps this up, he’ll be ordering fabric swatches and grow a set of moobs.

  He reaches for his leather jacket and nods at my suit pocket, where the sketch is stored. “Is the owner even selling?”

  “They’ll sell. They will. Who buys books anymore? They’ll sell; I’ll make them sell. Let’s take a quick drive over there.”

  Cos brings his jacket around his shoulders and tugs on the cuffs of his shirt. “Can’t.”

  “Princess Patton gonna lock you out?”

  “She hates when you call her that. I hate it when you call her that. We’re shopping for dining room furniture in the morning.”

  “Furniture? Are you kidding me?”

  “We’re hosting Thanksgiving this year.” He’s pulled out his phone, thumbs moving fast over the cell pad.

  “Thanksgiving isn’t for a month.”

  “More like three weeks. Furniture can take a while to ship.”

  Did he not hear the word opportunity? Furniture buying when there are riches to be made? I’m with the Grinch on this one—holidays are useless. People flash phony smiles at relatives they can’t stand, pass around lumpy gravy and dry turkey and later go comatose on their couches. They pack on weight, max out their cards and call suicide hotlines. The only holiday I tolerate is New Year’s because it signals things are moving on.

  I nudge Cos with an elbow. “C’mon. Old times’ sake.”

  But he’s texting again.

  As kids, Cos and I lived on the same block, both of us scrappers riding our bikes to the comic book store. Our best times were shooting hoops, knocking the rust off backboards until the last of the sunlight faded. Later we’d pool our loose change and buy bottled water and snacks at the drugstore. Blast through those automatic doors like conquering heroes, t-shirts soaked, laughing. We were close. Blood brother close.

  We spoke of it then, two junior high school punks, owning our own sports bar, Cos and Zac’s.

  I have only one real friend, and he can’t wait to leave.

  I pick up a pool stick and smack the cue ball hard, sending the blue two spinning into a side pocket. “I’ll have you back here in forty minutes, tops.”

  “Go ask the redhead.” Cos tucks his phone away.

  “But I’d have to talk to her.”

  “So my wife is right about you?”

  She hated when Cos insisted I be his best man. I chalk the end of the pool stick. “I already know what the redhead wants. A guy with deep pockets.”

  “She might not want that at all.”

  “Right. She wants world peace.”

  “People are more than demographics, Nicky. More than the surface.”

  “Swimming in shallow water is great. The view’s clear and you can always see what’s at the bottom.” I pull over a padded bar stool and sit. Exhaling, I wave him on. “Fine. Go back to the princess before you turn into a pumpkin.”

  “The carriage turns back into the pumpkin. The coachman turns back into a mouse.”

  “How do you know shit like that? Now I know you’ve got moobs.”

  He rolls his eyes, flipping me off as he leaves. In a bizarre way, that middle finger salute is love, and reminds me of old times.

  “Nick.”

  The exaggerated baby doll voice is familiar, and a pair of glittery stilettos slither from the shadows.

  Over at the foosball table, the three guys stop, and their heads turn.

  “Belly shots are sooo Spring Break 2012.”

  She draws closer, showing off a black lace dress that earned an NC-17 rating, one of those tiny purses tucked under her arm. She poses as much as she walks, flinging her blond hair from her face and gazing into a gold compact, which she snaps closed.

  Its gold glint makes me turn away. “Checking for wrinkles?”

  She smiles. “Counting all the heads that turn.”

  Three weeks ago, we wound up at my place, with her pressed so tight against me that the rhinestones on her sparkly dress left dent marks on me. She didn’t pretend to be virginal or shy; she came after me. I gave her a long hot night to remember. Intimate details rush back to me: strawberry-colored mole under her right tit. Hairless pussy. Too much perfume.

  “Excuse me, honey,” I say. “We’re closing.”

  The foosball guys pick up their jackets and head toward the exit where Mudslide, the head bouncer, opens the doors to let them out.

  She doesn’t move.

  I wrap my fingers around the pool cue and stroll around her, my arm deliberately brushing against her shoulder. I lean over the edge of the table to steady the cue between my left knuckle and thumb. With my right hand, I position the tip to bank the shot. Ready, aim . . . crack.

  “You never called.” She follows me around the length of the pool table.

  “You were raised to believe you’re a very special butterfly. But my net catches a lot of butterflies.”

  Her eyes narrow into fake-lashed slivers, kind of like curved tarantulas. “I’m waiting for an apology.”

  “I never apologize for having fun.”

  “You’re such a bastard.” She’s smiling, her eyes hard and bright. Why, do you ask, does she smile? Because I represent “challenge.” I don’t grovel for any female.

  I loosen my tie. “Pretty coincidental that I show up in three different bars over the past two weeks and you just happen to be there, too.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “No?” I smile.

  “No,” she insists, folding her arms, pushing up her fake tits into two round mounds. “You’re interested in that bookstore on Canton Street.”

  I look up sharply and nod toward the side of her head. “That an earring or a covert listening device?”

  “You told me at your place. Don’t you remember
?”

  “I wasn’t that drunk.”

  She fans out her fingers to admire her manicure. “I might tell you what I know, if you’re nice.”

  A laugh slips out of me. “I’m not nice.”

  “I have a personal connection at the bookstore.”

  “The custodian?”

  “Jagoff. My employer pays me to scout out the trendiest neighborhoods. Remember who I work for? Do you remember anything about me?”

  Aside from her body? No.

  “Hell-OH?” She snaps her fingers. “I’m in the same profession as Daddy, remember? Hand me my compact before you break it.” She’s left the gold compact on the edge of the pool table, a foot away from me.

  I stare at the compact and freeze. The air in my lungs compresses until breathing hurts. I push the memory back, the one threatening to burst free from its bunker.

  “God. It’s not radioactive.” She stomps past me and shoves the compact back into her purse.

  The tight muscles around my neck and shoulders relax.

  “Any-way.” She draws out “aa-nn-ee-wayyy” into nasal syllables. “I’m checking out that neighborhood, too, for my hotels.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “My hotels?”

  “Okay, so I don’t own them like your daddy. I’m going to pitch the neighborhood to my employer ‘cause it’s growing, and close to the airport. Close to conference centers. I heard UIC’s building an auxiliary location there.”

  I keep my poker face, but adrenaline spikes my heart rate. I’d heard the same rumor about UIC, the university, expanding there, promising even more young singles. This is the right place and time to strike.

  “The bookstore property’s too small for a high-rise hotel. But the building size is perfect for a restaurant or bar.” Her voice grates on me with its reality show diva up-speak. She pulls her smartphone from her purse and scrolls, the white tips of her nails forming points. “I know the niece of the owner. We worked together in the college cafeteria. That was Daddy’s idea of punishment, be a slave for tray carriers.” She glances down at my tapping foot. Then she slow-motions her search, enjoying that she’s testing my patience. “She—uhm, the niece—she’s always been a bit of a church mouse. Some kind of professor now, I think.”