Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  I bolt across the space and reach over, but she’s already holding up the plain white mug by the rim so she won’t burn herself and hands me the mug. Considerate, too, turning it so that I can grab the cooler ceramic handle. “Thanks.” I nod at her candy-red mug. “Hey, I’ve seen him before.” The polar bear mug.

  “I wuv him.” She bats her eyes, hamming it up, and scoots in front of me, bare-legged, round ass moving under the fabric of the shirt. Pure female temptation.

  “I’m jealous,” I say. Some part of me wants her to tell me that she wuvs me. Give me a sleepy sexy look and say it casually, yet teasing and real. Move those lips to huff back her bangs and tell me she loves me.

  “Oooh, pictures.” She sets aside her coffee and pushes up the rolled sleeves, her slim arms engulfed by the cuffs. She squints at the screen of my open laptop, at an image of the remodeled façade. Her hips sway back and forth.

  Mesmerizing.

  “You’re installing arched windows.”

  Coffee in hand, I drift toward the plywood desk. “Lets in more light. So people can see how beautiful you are.”

  “But I won’t be here.”

  My stomach knots up at her words. I take big gulps from the mug to counter the gnawing in my gut and decide a joke’s the best course of action. “Delicious coffee, snookums.”

  She bursts out laughing. “Snookums?” Dark hair tousled over one eye, she playfully gazes up at me over her shoulder. “What pet name do I give you, then?”

  “Stud muffin is always in vogue.”

  She throws a pink eraser at me. “Put a shirt on, Tarzan.”

  No way was I putting one on. I’d seen her eyes move over my bare chest dozens of times, her eyes dilating.

  Elbows resting on the plywood, she studies the screen. “This software program is neat.”

  I smile. Elena says things like “neat.”

  Then she picks up her coffee and with the other hand, uses the mouse to move around the screen. Absently she blows on the top of the mug, and I remember the extent of talent those lips had.

  Hmm. Maybe it’s the little jolt from the caffeine or just her, but I feel a pesky little itch.

  I approach her from the behind. Tug up the shirttail and encounter a smooth, round buttock, no panties. It surprises me because Elena’s got Puritan modesty. I assumed she’d get dressed while she was upstairs, doing her sexy barista.

  Lucky, lucky me. I palm her left cheek, let my fingers span over the luscious mound and then cup it. She’s becoming more breathless. Steel pipe hard, my cock. I encircle her waist and pull her into me. Her head falls back on my chest, that black hair fanning across my skin. I slowly rub my arousal against her bare ass. Plant tiny kisses along her neck and reach up to tease a hardening nipple under the shirt, tracing circles. Flick my thumbnail under the nub until she groans.

  She’s crumbling, starting to writhe against my chest.

  I press my hard cock between her cheeks, the denim zipper of my jeans becoming uncomfortable.

  Next to the mugs are stain samples on the plywood desk, cedar to red oak. The hardest American hardwood is hickory.

  Next to mine.

  “Like those wood samples, baby?” I grind a little against her. “Want a sample of mine?”

  She’s gyrating against me, resting her head on my shoulder, letting me devour her. Elbows on my forearms, her fingers curve around my wrists, pale against my darker skin. “Are we hoping to set an Olympic record, Mr. Zaccardi?”

  “Last night was only the qualifying round.” My fingers slip between her thighs and begin to exquisitely explore. Light fingertips, back and forth, probing ever deeper.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Hmm. You’re soaking wet.”

  She hitches in a breath and turns around, facing me, and we kiss, our hands on each other. Building up a quick heat that’s going to become a bonfire. I unbutton the shirt, when—

  “Nicky!”

  There’s a patter, a pair of heavy shoe heels thudding on the wood floor. Both of us pull apart to see my father plow into the room, as noisy as a bulldozer. Dodging a support post, he weaves around the room, hands shoved into the side pockets of his dress slacks, part of a dark navy suit, a blinding-white shirt, and gold tie.

  Eyes widening, Elena falls back, bunching the open collar around her throat, retracting into a shell.

  “Who let you in?” I ask, standing in front of her. “We’re closed.”

  “I rang, and some dim-wit opened up the door.”

  “Chris,” she whispers, frowning slightly.

  Heat sears through me. “He’s got a name. It’s Chris, and he’s not a dim-wit. He served two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “Sorry.” That’s a careless apology, slung out there, an Asian carp tossed out of the boat. And he’s busy checking out Elena, every detail, bare legs and throat, pushed up sleeves, tousled hair. His eyebrows are raised and so is his horndog antenna. “Looks like I interrupted something.”

  “Elena Mufson, my father, Nick Zaccardi. Senior.”

  Face flushed, she stands back, toes pointed inward. “Mr. Zaccardi.” She nods once.

  My father’s grin resembles a jack-o’-lantern’s. “Now I know why Nicky bought the place.”

  She draws the shirt collar closer to her throat. “I need to get upstairs.”

  “Don’t leave on my account, sugar,” my father says smoothly.

  One hand white-knuckling the collar, the other hand tugging on the shirttail, she leaves, and we watch her rush for the stairwell.

  “Those real?”

  “Act your age, Dad.”

  His eyebrows spike upward. “You two look like you went at it. That dark hair reminds me of your mother. Nice gams, too. Gorgeous face. That mouth, Nicky. That pouty mouth.” He brings his fingers together on both hands and kisses the tips of them.

  I’m squeezing the handle of my mug so hard I might break it. I don’t like my dad talking about her that way, like she’s for sale. “She’s also class, so don’t talk about her like that.”

  He holds up both hands, palming the air. “Nicky, Nicky. This isn’t like you. Next thing I know, you’ll be following her like some lovesick calf. You’re losing your edge. Keep this up, and you’ll be shaving your legs and wearing day-of-the-week panties.”

  “Mine are thongs, not panties.”

  The old man busts a gut laughing, slapping a thigh. “One thing about you, son. You make me laugh. Just know this. That girl’s the kind you put a ring on. Better watch out, once she’s got the ring and she’s comfortable . . .” The old man puffs out his cheeks as though he’s obese.

  And it hits me as hard as a rock landslide. Mama sitting at the table, glancing over a fully cooked meal, my father’s chair empty.

  She sacrificed herself too much.

  They’d started out in love, my parents. She gave everything. Her heart, her time, her soul. Eventually, my father stopped caring and ran all over her.

  I glance over at the two mugs, Elena’s and mine. The coffee’s grown cold.

  She’s too soft. I’m too hard.

  We’re doomed.

  “Nicky?”

  I slam the lid to my laptop shut. “We’re not getting married.”

  “Good. Learn from me.”

  “Then explain the rock on Lexi’s finger.”

  “I bought it to keep her quiet.” He presses a finger to his mouth. “I’m still working out the last one. Thank God for prenups.” He claps his hands and rubs them together, warming up for something. “You called about a scarf? A damned scarf?”

  “It’s Elena’s. And your betrothed has it.”

  “Well, Alexandria says she doesn’t have it.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Come on. Why would she lie? She’s got a walk-in closet any woman would die for.”

  “Ask Bill, the guard. Watch the security cameras the day we were there.”

  “What the hell, buy her a new one. The scarf’s a catfight, son.” He lifts a hand and f
orms a claw, then mimics a cat hissing. “Allll-though, I wouldn’t mind seeing those two going at it, would you? In little silk teddies, nips coming through?”

  “Tell your girlfriend to send back the scarf. Or I’ll wring her neck.”

  “Whoa. Back the hell down.” My father snorts. “You got bigger problems than a scarf. I hear you sold the Aston.”

  How’d he find that out? I say nothing and walk into the storage room, where the black-coated steel locker unit’s pushed against the wall, and pull a t-shirt from a shelf. Something about a layer of clothing feels more shielding, and with the old man, I need chain mail. A full suit of armor.

  He waits for me, seated in the ergonomic chair in front of the plywood desk. “This is hard, what you’re doing, Nicky. Real hard.” He glances around as a snob would, lips turned downward, as though he’s in a tenement building that failed inspection. “It’s difficult to build something from scratch.”

  “Why are you here, Dad?”

  “I like that about you, Nick.” He turns to stare at me, face darkening. “You don’t like to waste time any more than I do.”

  I brace myself for whatever he’s going to hit me with.

  “All your calls to the contest committee. That stops immediately.”

  Gut punch. Feels like some ribs cracked. “They’re used to dealing with me. I came up with the concept. Everything. I’m not backing down.”

  My father pauses, chin tilted back. “If you do anything—any-thing—to interfere with the contest, Division One’s reputation or mine, you’ll be hearing from my attorneys.”

  Silence.

  “Are we clear?”

  “Yeah. Got it. Don’t let the screen door smack you on the ass; no love lost. Karma’s watching, Dad.”

  He gives me a condescending smile as he straightens the silk knot of his tie. “You think Karma’s choosy? Naw. Karma says, let me at ‘em. Nice or nasty. Nice people get screwed as much as the assholes, except the assholes have a cushion when they fall. You’re not going to have a cushion, Nick.” He stands up, rolls his shoulders and smoothes down his tie. “Better get used to those ten-dollar tee shirts.”

  His suit costs ten grand, easy, tailor-made, and I feel like a pauper, an idiot. My expensive condo and car, gone. Dropping a thousand to pay for group drinks, gone. My chin dips down, and I feel the rock-gut of shame, regretting my decision to leave the cushion of Div1. What the hell have I done?

  “My only son. My own blood.” He shakes his head and starts to walk out, waving an arm. “I give it six months. The girl and the dump.”

  While Elena helps her aunt, I try to salvage the contest. The most influential committee members are tucked inside my father’s wallet, along with his license, platinum cards, and politicians. Over the next few hours, I call committee guys closer to my own age. Tommy Fallon is a local TV affiliate producer, and “Third Wheeler” handles a big hotel’s food and beverage contracts. Third Wheeler, or Wheelz, gets his name because he always comes stag to parties.

  Tommy’s now my main contact, a straight shooter who won’t bullshit me on my chances to compete in the contest. It’ll be yes or no.

  We talk and he updates me, confirming who’ll be there to emcee NEW EATS, all the interest it’s generating. Saint Paddy’s will be the perfect day to televise the event. The parades wrap up by early afternoon, and the contest will be shot live, starting at five o’clock, Central Standard Time.

  “You sure your father won’t find out? You know, whenever he swings his weight around, it’s like getting smacked by the tail of a blue whale.”

  I laugh. “He won’t. Listen. My food’s so good, the committee will beg us to be a finalist.”

  “What are you going to do, then, to get past your dad? Hide your chef and his team in a Trojan horse?”

  “Cos has agreed to let me list him as the owner on the entry form. Look. I don’t want special treatment. I’d hate that. All I want is a shot at it. Bring my people in, let the judges sample the food. Tell me who else I need to convince.”

  “Start with us. The air date’s coming up fast, so we’re meeting tonight. How about you show up, like you’re having a drink or something and say hi.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. This was your idea, after all. One of the influencers will be there; I’ll swear him to discretion.”

  My eyes narrow. I’ll swear him to discretion came out a little too fast, too reassuring, and sets me on edge, but what else can I do but play along? It’s too late now, so I’ll have to be accommodating. “Where.”

  “You’re not going to like the answer. It’s a hide-in-plain-sight kinda thing.”

  He tells me, and I groan.

  On my way out, I almost bump into Chris, who’s carrying a grocery bag, celery stalks poking from the top.

  Elena’s right behind him, in her red pea coat, collar pulled up, her cell phone clutched in the middle of her black mitten.

  My heart lurches.

  Chris treks on ahead to open the door and holds it for her.

  We do a slow-motion walk toward the entrance.

  “Did your father stay long?” she asks.

  “No.” I’m tight-lipped. Impulsively, I lean over to kiss her but she avoids it, and my mouth lands on her cheek. I look down to avoid showing her that the deflection hurts.

  “You’re dressed up.”

  I’m in one of my suits. “I’ll text you. I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Contest stuff.”

  She says nothing, lips compressed together, and she continues toward the front door, moving past me.

  Elena. Elena, I’m crazy about you. But this is too fast.

  I’m ready to cross the street when I hear Chris shout my name. “Wait up!”

  “Elena go on up?”

  “Yeah. She’s upset.”

  “She’s a woman. When aren’t they upset?” I say over my shoulder, still walking. Pissed and uptight myself. I should’ve carried up the grocery bag for her, but she’d ask questions. Why are you so dressed up?

  Chris catches up, his breaths fogging in the chilly air. “Where are you headed?”

  “Merrymaking and mirth.”

  “Want a wingman?”

  I hesitate and think of Cos. No longer a wingman, but a wings-clipped man.

  Besides. Chris isn’t dressed for it. He’s wearing beat-up work boots and an old fatigue jacket. “Actually, I’m just going to talk to a couple of guys. Business contacts. In and out.”

  “Okay.” He turns away.

  “What the hell.” I take out my keys. The auto locks click inside the Explorer. “Get in.”

  Division One’s packed. The Bears game plays on multiple TVs, and Chris and I weave around bodies and coats. Although smoking isn’t allowed and the ceiling’s high, the airflow still feels constricted. Three hundred or so people mingle around two back-lit bars, guys in backward baseball caps, girls with open jackets to show off their cleavage.

  I keep pushing forward, acting as a defensive tackle for Chris behind me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Tommy in person. He’s got generic looks that blend in, whereas Third Wheeler has rock and roll spiky hair, but Wheelz isn’t the most reliable RSVP.

  One of the reasons they showed up here for their “meeting,” which I’m having some trouble believing, given the noise level, is because they might enjoy a free appetizer or two, maybe a round of drinks on the house, courtesy of the old man. Dad’s name is on the contest, so naturally, he wants his name on the winner’s trophy, too.

  I spy a waiter I hired. Beanstalk build, good-looking, so blond that he looks anemic. I wave him over. “You see Wheelz yet?” When I was running the bar, Wheelz would stop by twice a week.

  He shakes his head.

  I slip him a ten-dollar bill. Not a high-roller tip; it’s what I can afford. “He comes in, direct him my way. I’ll be over there.” I nod toward the bigger bar. “Hey. Keep an eye out for Lexi.” It’s gotten back to me that she’s here in
the afternoon, leaves by supper time. Not clocking in long hours that a decent manager would, but she’s my father’s problem, not mine. I clap him on the back. “Watch out for her winged monkeys, too.”

  He laughs. “Sure, Nick.”

  BAAAAHHHHH. Some idiot punches the button on a sports horn and it blares in our faces. Chris jumps, hunching up. Sharp noises can spook him; I’ve seen it happen back at the bookstore, during construction, the drills, and heavy machinery buzzes. It’s the PTSD. Damn. Maybe bringing him wasn’t the brightest idea. “You okay, man?”

  Chris nods once.

  We keep going, and I get a good look at some of Div1’s changes. The bar has a couple of new additions, a massive forty-foot HD TV screen, which seems the size of a tractor-trailer, spanning both floors. The bars are lit at the bottom in blue. And it’s not mine anymore. Not that it had ever been mine, but I’d taken pride in running it.

  Waitresses in striped ref shirts and short-shorts flirt to secure big tips. The male waiters, gym rats in stripes, wink at girls wearing expensive leather with fur collars. Guys peel off fifties and Benjamins from money clips to buy rounds.

  Affluent Millennials. My demographic.

  And suddenly my new sports bar feels spectacularly inadequate. A dozen embossed napkins are being stomped on the floor. What a waste. It’s not a matter of knowing the price of each unit, I knew that before. Except now I feel how much it costs.

  I see them all, customers, bartenders, waiters, and waitresses. Two guys shove against each other, and I remember what Mama said. In fifth grade, the teacher assigned vocabulary lists. One afternoon, I came home after school, confused. English wasn’t exactly my forte, and words had multiple meanings. I asked her what the difference was between an “adult” and a “grown-up.”

  “Well, Nicky.” She bent over the kitchen counter, sprinkling flour, her fingers disappearing in the puffy dough. “Adult and grown-up mean the same thing, but I think of ‘adult’ as more of a textbook term. It’s like this.” She dusted off her hands and motioned for me to sit next to her on a stool. “When you’re young, you watch one of your favorite movies and you identify with a certain character, let’s say a man you admire. You’ll see the movie through your young eyes. Then, you see the same movie twenty years later, after you’ve had kids and a few problems. The movie hasn’t changed, but you have. Maybe you relate more to an older character now, or you can see how other characters might feel. You see the same movie in a new way. Because you’ve grown up. And that’s what grown-ups do, honey, they grow.” She brushed the tip of my nose with a trace of flour. “Some people grow old, but they don’t grow up.”