Hardest to Love Read online

  “I don’t care if she’s a unicorn whisperer. If the aunt’s the owner, she’s who I talk to.”

  “You can probably reach the aunt through her. Look. She’s teaching some kind of class tomorrow night. At said bookstore.” She hands me her smartphone.

  The Lucky Pup Books Lecture Series for Women. Potentially torturous, but I could drop in, listen for a minute, sideline the aunt. Get a first-hand look at the interior, assess how extensive the remodel will be. As long as a bulldoze and an exorcism isn’t required, I’ll offer to buy the property on the spot. My brain’s humming along at 80 MPH. Even better, the lecture happens Monday night. I had Mondays off.

  Then I read the topic.

  My mental brakes squeal in protest.

  Part of some series: “to examine oppressions related to gender.”

  “What Women Want—”

  —is to kill all men. I squeeze my eyes shut and a cartoon image pops up. Snarling, unshaven women. Butch haircuts.

  Lexi is setting me up.

  I snort. I want to talk to the building owner, not hear about the latest castration techniques. “What women want, my ass. I already know what women want.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She sticks out her tongue in an attempt to be playful, but her eyes are as hard as a lizard’s. “So what do I want, asshole?”

  “A guy who’s loaded and crawls around on all fours.”

  “You’d look good in a dog collar, Nick. A prong collar around your dick. You could at least thank me.”

  “For sending me into a man-hating coven? We’re done here.” I signal for the bouncer, Mudslide, who’s hulking near the doors. Mudslide moves slow and deadly, hence the nickname.

  He stops a foot away, hands clasped in front of him.

  “Mudslide,” I say. “Please walk Lexi to her car.”

  “You can’t walk me?”

  “I don’t do chivalry.”

  “Nicky, Nic-keee.” She pouts and then strokes my hand. A yellow hair extension curls over the slate-gray sleeve covering my arm. “Maybe we could get . . . reacquainted.”

  Now she’s cute and fluffy? But some of the softest rabbits still bite at the petting zoo.

  “Please?” she says.

  I smile. Please. I like pleases. Especially accompanied by Oh, God and moans. I glance around. What the hell. The redhead and her friend had left, and Lexi had some impressive oral skills.

  I wave off Mudslide. He takes his thick-necked bulk back to the entrance, where two waitresses are counting their tips.

  My focus returns to Lexi, who puts a little extra wiggle in her rump before settling on the stool.

  I smile. “I can’t decide which of your two faces is prettiest.”

  “Go ahead.” She tilts her head and her tongue darts out to lick her lips. “Be mean to me. I’ll be mean right back. We’ll have even hotter sex.”

  “And hate ourselves in the morning.”

  “And have big, big smiles in the morning.” She’s frisky now; the instep of her stiletto is wedged in the arch of my dress shoe. Her knee is rubbing into mine, and her hand’s exploring the inside of my pant leg.

  Incredible view of her cleavage.

  For a moment, I forget her name. I forget my name. “Uhm . . . ”

  “Lexi.” She places her long-nailed hand under my chin to direct my eyes toward hers. “Short for Alexandria. I’m a conqueress.”

  “Conqueress. Which one gave that the thumbs-up? Merriam or Webster?”

  “This will help you remember: Lexi rhymes with sexy.” Her other hand slides along my thigh and stops at the base of the zipper. “You thought I was very sexy a few weeks ago. We had an ahh-mazing time.” Her fingernail traces over the tip of my hardening cock, little bitty circles that make me tingle and lose brain cells. “No man’s ever the same after he’s been with me. He always tells me, ‘Baby, you’re unforgettable.’”

  “Lexi. Honey.” I gently grasp both of her wrists and look into her eyes. “He said that right after you wiped his cum off your face.”

  Her pretty face contorts as her eyebrows wedge together. “You asshole.”

  She flounces off in a cloud of angry perfume, shoving her purse under an armpit. Shrieks at Mudslide to open the doors.

  There. I’d made an enemy. I’d been nasty, but something told me she’s faking the Holly Helper act. All Spandex, stilettos and the eyes of the Terminator. The only tricky thing is that she’ll hold a grudge, which will last a lifetime. Her grandkid will be born with that grudge.

  She’d been following me for weeks; tonight isn’t a coincidence.

  Why?

  I reach inside my jacket pocket to glance at the napkin sketch. Tuck it back inside. Maybe, just maybe, the lead she gave me is legit. And coincidentally, Monday night, my day off. Kismet. Monday daylight is already booked, interviews with potential head chefs for my place.

  I drain the last of my Jameson and hand the glass to Ezio. I pick up my cell phone, activate it, scroll to the bookstore’s website.

  What kind of women went to bookstores? Bookstore, bookish. Librarian types. I could handle that. Plus, it has been a long while since I’ve met any women outside of clubs, salt-of-the-earth women who eat carbs and don’t have Brazilian waxes. They’d serve as a sort of ad hoc marketing focus group.

  What the hell. I’d go to this bookstore gig. Be a fly on the wall. Check for cracks in the interior, seek out the aunt.

  Oh, God, why can’t someone else be teaching this.

  At the podium, Elena Mufson shook all over and glanced around at the lower level of Lucky Pup Books—the Old Barker, as she fondly called it—her aunt’s bookstore. The evening hour muted the room and black-and-white photos of Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Eudora Welty. The scratched wood parquet floor stretched from front to back. Most of the metal folding chairs she’d arranged in a half-circle around the podium were empty. The ceiling sagged in a corner, and a plywood slab patched the front window.

  She reached for a glass of water, the condensation from the glass sliding in her hand. An ugly trapped feeling churned in her stomach. She should be teaching this as an impassioned cause, not because they needed money.

  She was an imposter.

  Behind her, a Powerpoint slide flashed, a cartoon of an Indian goddess with multiple arms juggling a baby, a laptop and a laundry basket. The caption read: “Feminism and Beyond: What Women Want When We Can’t Have It All.”

  Her aunt had talked her into giving the lecture tonight, reasoning that since most women bought books, they might get a great turnout. Surely these mini-lectures featuring authors and local celebrities would help rack up sales. Her aunt’s bookstore would make a comeback, and she could resume her search for a teaching job. Maybe a miracle might happen and a tenured professor would retire, creating an opening.

  But sooner or later, she’d have to confront her own lie—that her women’s studies degree hadn’t helped her gain entry to a fulfilling academic career. She hadn’t sought feminist enlightenment through her degree but to understand the psychology of women, particularly her own troubled mother. She’d sat in her classes on auto-pilot before being struck by a terrible truth.

  Bad timing, considering tonight’s topic.

  Horrible, putrid timing.

  She closed her eyes and gripped the podium.

  She preferred the company of men.

  She wanted to pound the wood surface. Yes. Yessss. She’d rather be playing poker with her brother and his Marine vet buddies at the VFW, grabbing handfuls of cheese popcorn, its orange seasoning on the tips of her fingers, a chaser of something fizzy on ice. She was sick, a traitor to her own sex. Normal women couldn’t enjoy cheese popcorn at the VFW, they’d complain about the depressing décor. Bemoan the carbs and MSG. Let those male slobs choke on their flippin’ plaid, they’d say, give me a good rom-com and HGTV.

  But her brother’s friends cracked jokes and made her laugh. The women attending tonight looked as though their funny bones had been surgically removed. All th
is serious, serious, serious and the room strangled with it, and she couldn’t take much more. Lately, she’d overdosed on serious. Auntie Rob’s diabetes had gotten worse. Chris, her brother, still battled memory issues and dark moods. Their third-floor apartment’s water heater was broken, and they shivered under icy showers.

  Three minutes now. Elena chewed at the corner of her lip and shuffled her note cards.

  Quite the motley crew, the nine or so women seated, their coats, scarves, and gloves in piles on the empty chairs. In the front row, a redhead wearing black-framed glasses doodled DEATH TO PATRIARCHY in her notebook. A brunette popped bubble gum while chatting to her friend. I had nothing else to do.

  Another ringing endorsement.

  She leaned into the microphone. “Let’s get started. I’d like all of us to introduce ourselves.” A light bulb flared. Light bulb, crazy impulse, no matter. She’d give it a whirl. “How about you describe yourself in one word. One word that describes you or your mood this evening. Don’t think about it too hard. Before my brother bids us goodnight, I’d like to introduce him.” She looked toward the cash registers where her brother hunched over a garbage can. “This is Chris, who’s indispensable around here.”

  Her brother kept his eyes downcast. Tall and thin, he wore a gray uniform shirt and faded jeans, slinging long bangs from his eyes. He’d let it grow long since leaving the military and no longer looked like himself. He drove a fist through a blue plastic liner and pasted it on the inside of the garbage pail.

  An awkward silence resulted. The women looked elsewhere.

  He finished his cleaning tasks and trudged toward the door leading upstairs to their apartment, bucket, and rags in hand.

  “Chris’s word is—” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Brave.” She prompted the women seated in front of her. “Next?”

  The redhead punched up her black-framed glasses and passed along copies of a sign-up sheet and class evaluation form. “The one word that describes me is Pissed.”

  Another woman spoke up, calling herself “Disillusioned.” The third identified herself as “Exhausted.” Then came “Badass.” The elderly woman answered last, her purple metal needles moving in and out. The skin around her eyes crinkled. “I’m Knitter.”

  The redhead gave her a testy look. “More like senile,” she muttered under her breath.

  Elena refrained from doing a cross across her chest and sped through her presentation, originally clocked at twelve minutes, but she finished in nine. As she wrapped, she found herself breathless from talking too fast, her audience less than rapt. The knitter’s eyelids drooped, and her lower jaw had opened. Her magenta needles tumbled to her lap.

  Maybe the room was too warm. “Well, ladies—”

  “—Is this thing on?” A slim woman with long blond hair steadied the microphone in the center aisle. “Do you mind? I want to talk about something outside the topic.”

  At the podium, Elena raised her arm in an encouraging gesture. “This is an open forum.”

  The slim blonde crossed her hands behind her back and glanced around the other seated women. “I’m a blogger and a feminist, but I want to talk about how toxic men are. To me personally.”

  “Somebody shoot me.”

  A low male voice came from the tallest bookshelves, the shadowed Personal Development section.

  The blonde turned to look over her shoulder. The rest of the women glanced around, some puzzled, others alarmed by the mysterious voice.

  Nerves rattled, Elena craned her neck. It couldn’t be Chris. The voice was too deep. Heart pounding, she hustled over to the eight-foot-high metal bookshelves, wood panels creaking under her feet. A shadow danced between the shelves, and she chased after it, then went to flip on all the lights.

  She weaved around more shelves and exited near the front cash register. No sign of a man anywhere.

  The women’s fretful faces followed her every movement, and one woman reached for her coat and purse. She had to keep them here and handle whoever might be in the store.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this.” She pulled out her phone and texted her brother: Get down here. Potential intruder. Then she looked up, scanning the confused faces. Keep it light, or they’d flee. She returned to the podium. “By the way, here is a Fun Fact. Did you know that when women talk to each other, seventy percent of our conversations are about men and relationships? Seventy percent.”

  Their grim faces and silence confirmed this was not a “fun fact.”

  “Is it okay to talk again?” the blonde asked, unshaken by the phantom interruption. If anything, she seemed emboldened.

  From the podium, Elena nodded.

  “I’m trying to figure out why I can’t find the right man.” The blonde steadied the mic with French-manicured fingers. “I’m only thirty-two. I’ve modeled. I’m educated. I’m a writer and I’m awesome to be with. Super awesome.” She glanced down, her blond hair falling forward, and fingered her forest green dress, her buckled ankle boots turned inward. “I’m dating a lawyer who’s thirty-eight, and I thought he might be The One, but then he tells me he wants to see other people. Like the twenty-two-year-old who lives in his building.”

  “Listen.” The same deep male voice came from Biographies and History. “If a guy who is almost forty wants a twenty-something, why would you want to even date him?”

  Elena’s heart raced, to the point of bursting. Where was Chris? “Who is that?” Her voice came out firm and loud as she raised her phone and waved it. “Come out now or I’m calling the police.” She crossed the room and halted, mindful that the attacker could be on the other side of that book-crammed shelf. “This is a private class that you’re interrupting, and if you don’t come out this instant, I’ll have you arrested. My brother’s on the way down and he’s a Marine.”

  The redhead plunged a henna-tattooed hand into her leather backpack. “And I’ve got mace for the creep.”

  There was an awful clanging, and books toppled from the “Famous Movie Wars” display, books on the Battle of Thermopylae led by King Leonidas. A gold plastic Spartan helmet rolled across the floor in a clatter.

  The women recoiled in horror as though the helmet was a severed head.

  A tall man emerged from the center shelves where he’d been crouching. He raised his arms as though he were taken hostage, but his face looked far from afraid. His mouth curled into a cynical smile. The sleeves to his white business shirt were rolled up, his dark charcoal slacks crisply pleated.

  Instinctively Elena took several steps back. “This lecture is intended for women—”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, I’m in the right place. Don’t call the cops, lady. I come in peace. The creep comes in peace.”

  The red-haired woman’s mouth curled into a jeer. “You look like the type to get a piece.”

  “Watch the microaggression, Gingerella.” He glanced around. “I was about to evacuate the burning ship here, but I might have something to offer. Like a guy’s perspective.”

  His low voice became louder as he stepped into direct light, standing like a man who’d reached the summit and was about to plant a flag . . . on Elena’s foot. Heavy-muscled as a rugby player, his long legs spread slightly apart and broad shoulders stretched the seams of his shirt. His dark hair was cut in a flattering buzz, and a slight beard dusted his jaw. Put a dueling pistol in his hand, and he’d out-pirate Blackbeard.

  Head tilted back, he stared at her, eyes as intense as lasers.

  Not the vacant eyes of a frat boy whose thirst for knowledge was limited to how many beers he could pour from the keg. This man’s eyes gleamed with intelligence. Her breaths quickened, and a strange sensation see-sawed in her stomach.

  The entire night was a big fat lie. She wanted it all, starting with him.

  Stop gawking. She gripped the podium. “You’re disrupting my class.”

  “So I am.” He bowed, a big hand pressed to his chest. “Miss, Miss—”

  “Professor Mufso
n.”

  “Professor.” His gaze took a slow path around her face. “I didn’t know professors looked like you. There still time to enroll?”

  Her heart pounded wildly. This man. This horrible . . . awful . . . hot man. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d encountered a man so audacious.

  And he knew. He knew she was attracted. Peacocks like him never took her kind seriously, the plain brown birds who blended in. He wouldn’t hesitate to humiliate her in front of these strangers.

  Take charge of the class before he did.

  “And you look like the type who likes coloring books,” she managed in a cool tone. “We sell a nice selection in aisle eight.”

  “Do you? I’m partial to finger painting myself,” he said, grinning.

  That was a swift backhand to her serve. If she didn’t regain control of him and the outspoken redhead, they’d both hijack tonight.

  At the microphone stand, the blonde waved, gazing in his direction. “What did you mean, why even date him?”

  I look at the professor. “Do I have permission to answer?”

  “First tell me why you’re here.”

  “To buy this bookstore.”

  She wedges her brows together. “What?”

  Now that I’m in better light, I do a quick assessment. Some cracks around the ceiling and sagging. Not good. Interior brick needed mortar patching. Floors squeaked in places. Translation: potential foundation problems. Meant an inspection of the sub-floor.

  “Excuse me, did you just say you wanted to buy us out?”

  I turn to face her. This professor dressed conservatively, north of nun. Riiight. The church mouse. Her plaid pleated skirt falls at her knees. She’s got shapely ankles, but her legs and feet are hidden under black stockings and ugly shoes. The turtleneck she swims in was obviously borrowed from a linebacker, although there is a substantial amount of roundness. Her hair is almost black, too, and falls a little past her ears, flipping at the ends. She huffs long bangs from her forehead.