Hard to Love

by W Winters

  It looks ridiculous. Derrick is jacked. He works out constantly and he was already built to be a big man.

  He grunts a laugh and says, “The girl I’m seeing likes it. Fuck off.” My chuckle is deep and short lived.

  “Must really like this one,” I comment. I’ve never known him to settle down or even remember the names of the different chicks he’s with every week. Not until now. Times are changing, though. For all of us.

  Standing in the middle of all this construction, of what will soon be my club, change is all I can think about.

  “Girlfriend material?” I ask him.

  “Something like that,” he says, keeping his answer cryptic. Landing a hand on my shoulder, Derrick gives me a squeeze and adds, “Finally coming together, brother.”

  “That it is.”

  He squeezes again, commenting that the couch in the corner is too fucking girly for our club, as if he has any taste at all, and heads past me to the bar. It’s not stocked yet, but the guys keep a stash on hand in the fridge. Drills are going, the TVs are being mounted, and the furniture is set in place now that the floors are down. The crew we hired is fast and on point.

  Laura picked out the furniture, well most of it, including the sofa Derrick’s not a fan of. It’ll all come together. She shares my vision, and the guys will get on board.

  Cracking open a bottle and tossing the cap into the bin with a clink, Derrick’s voice echoes as he asks, “Where are the fights going to be?”

  Selling guns is how we got this far, old business that was set in stone when we took over, but the fighting and betting? That’s a steady flow of cash I didn’t know was possible. A bar to push the dirty money through is the cherry on top.

  “It’s called underground for a reason,” I answer him and steal his beer before he takes his first swig.

  “Fucker,” he comments when I tell him thanks.

  “Grab yours and follow me,” I tell him just as Connor comes in. He’s got his sleeve rolled up and I can see the shamrock tat on the inside of his forearm. He’s Irish through and through. He even gave me shit about having Mexican beer in the bar. What Irish pub carries Dos Equis? Ours does, because it’s damn good beer.

  I’ve got five guys in my crew. We started this shit together; we’ll always be together. Growing up in this town, we saw how things were run. It took one too many blows but now it’s ours. Simple as that. Connor’s got a scar on the left side of his jaw to prove it. He’s the shortest of us, the leanest too, but he’s the one I’d pick in a knife fight. Ten out of ten times. The Irish in him, that crazy bastard side, gives him the edge he needs.

  Together, the five of us own this town. And this bar is going to be the crowning jewel of our empire.

  Connor takes a look around and I watch him, waiting for his reaction. He moves the pack of beer in his right hand to his left and then back again.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “Legit cash flow in the bar, fight club downstairs. It’s perfect.”

  “You like that girly-ass sofa? A fucking sofa in a bar?” Derrick says and regards Connor, who looks in his eyes and then at his shirt.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” Connor asks.

  “Screw both of you,” Derrick says and shoves his beer into Connor’s chest then starts unbuttoning his shirt. He tosses it on the back of a sleek steel barstool, its seat lined with cobalt velvet.

  Wearing just his white t-shirt on top, he leaves the button-up where it is and snags back his beer.

  “Don’t feel peer pressured now,” I quip and make my way to the back left of the large open space, past the bathrooms that are being renovated and I head down a narrow hall. The sound of construction dims until it’s nonexistent as we hustle down the steel stairs. It’s nothing but luxury on the first floor, or at least it will be, but down here, it’s raw and primitive.

  With a flick of the switch, the lights come on; thin rails of white light form stripes along the ceiling. They go from wall to wall so nothing will be missed. Spotlights will be installed next. Everything’s on schedule.

  “Ring in the center. Stage at the back for security to watch over everything. We’ll be here at the head, calling the shots.” I can see it all play out. It’s only cement floors and drywall with spackle at the moment, but I can already hear the bell going off, the cheering, the crunch of bone.

  “Vale Tudo,” Connor says as he makes his way around the back of the basement. It’s nearly a two-hundred-foot square.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Derrick asks; he has to speak up as Connor’s halfway down the room and Derrick’s coming up beside me. He’s my right-hand man. My best friend. I wouldn’t be here without him. He wouldn’t be here either. And we both know it.

  “Anything goes… It’s Portuguese fighting.”

  My answer comes without a second thought, “Oh, fuck that.”

  “Eye gouging and nut kicking… No, sir,” Derrick comments.

  Connor laughs and bellows from the back of the room, “Pussies.”

  “Seriously, though,” Derrick says and holds up his beer as if he’s toasting, “it’s going to be killer.” Derrick looks around even though I hadn’t broken eye contact with him and I take him in. It’s been a long damn time since he’s been like this. Carefree and relaxed.

  “Things are finally looking up,” he comments as he looks around the room and Connor makes his way to us.

  “You need a beer,” he tells me, taking out a beer for me and then cracking one open for himself. It fizzes and he curses as he sucks the head from the top of the beer to keep it from spilling.

  Derrick laughs at him and I take a moment to open mine carefully so I don’t suffer the same fate.

  “This is it, boys. We have the legit business from the bar, but this gets us in deeper, so we know what’s going on and we have the cash to stay in the thick of it.”

  “That it is,” Derrick says and then asks me, “Speaking of the thick of it. You hear from Wright?”

  “That’s why I wanted you two here, away from the construction crew upstairs.”

  “Figured as much,” Connor comments.

  My shoulders feel tighter as I lift the beer to my mouth but stop short of taking a sip. “He said Mathews is storing everything at the docks.”

  “All of it’s there?” Derrick asks just beneath his breath.

  “All but the cash. That he keeps in a safe in his house.”

  “We don’t need to go for the cash, right?” Connor clarifies.

  “Right. Just his drugs. He’s growing too quickly, taking up too much territory and getting too close for comfort.”

  “Time for him to take a hit,” Derrick says.

  “And then another,” I add.

  “Where in the docks?” Connor questions.

  “Roman staked it out last night. He knows right where it is. He said two men stayed there all night. A pair of dogs too.”

  “Fuck, not dogs,” Derrick groans and grimaces. He got his leg torn up pretty good by a dog a few years back.

  “It’ll be taken care of. Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “In and out. We grab the haul and go.”

  “You think he’ll know it was us?”

  “Nah, we’re throwing it out. We don’t need his shit supply. It’s laced up and cut so much it’s hardly worth a dime. He’s going to be looking for someone selling.”

  “Good,” Connor says.

  “When are we going?”

  I look at Derrick to answer his question. “Tonight. Let the girls come here and we’ll have Roman keep an eye on them. We’ll go out and take care of it. Come back when we’re done and no one will be the wiser.”

  All three of us grew up in this life. All three of our fathers died going against the men who took over. Men who didn’t belong here and didn’t give a damn about the people who live here. It was only a matter of time before we took this place back.

  Revenge was sweet, but cleaning out this place the last two years has been hard as he
ll. People like Mathews need to stay back and this is how that happens. They inch closer, we steal their shit, wreck their warehouses, kill their men. We make it unprofitable and violent. We do whatever we have to in order to never go back to what used to be.

  “No one owns Tremont but us,” Derrick declares.

  “Damn right,” I tell him and clink my beer with his.

  Connor lifts his beer and Derrick and I follow suit as he starts our toast. “Here’s to the money, the dirty and the clean.”

  Derrick goes next. “Here’s to the women, the ones who please us and the ones who make us scream.”

  I finish it out. “And here’s to chaos, may we make that bitch our queen.”

  Laura

  “Three hundred is left over,” Cami tells me and points to the spreadsheet on her computer. Her chipped pink nails are a sign of the stress I know she’s feeling right now. She put it all together, accounting for every cent of the money coming and going.

  With my shoulders relaxed, I play off every bit of anxiousness that’s been pulling me down, hoping to give her a little lift up. She doesn’t need to carry my burdens. Damn do I love her for doing it though.

  “So that’s three hundred for the next two weeks to live off of after all the bills. That seems good, right?”

  “After gas and food… that’s tight, but it’s workable,” she confirms.

  “And you’re sure they’re okay with just fifty a month?” I ask her again and then I want to kick my ass for second-guessing her and bringing in “bad mojo,” as she’d call it.

  “The hospitals?” she questions. Nodding, she makes her voice seem more chipper than it has been. “Yeah, they’ll settle for what you can afford. Fifty a month for these bills is… appropriate. Insurance doesn’t cover it. Eight bills total, so four hundred a month to cover someone else’s medical bills. That’s what you can afford… Barely.”

  “At least the new bar is coming.” I’m trying to be optimistic as I sit back at the kitchen table. I stare through the threshold to the large bay window at the front of the living room. It needs new trim and the whole house could use a fresh coat of paint. Everywhere I look I see dollar signs and evidence that times are changing.

  “Right. When the new bar comes, you’ll make more money bartending. For now, you have the Clubhouse… and… and Seth… if you ask him.”

  I move my gaze back to Cami. “I don’t want to ask him.”

  “He’s—”

  “Not yet,” I say to cut her off. “I just… just give me time to figure everything out,” I plead with her to understand. I don’t want to be indebted to Seth more than I already am. Even if I love him, I still need a sense of independence. Especially now.

  I have nothing but this little piece of independence. As small and shitty as it is, it’s mine still. If it’s gone, all I am is Seth’s girl. If I don’t pass this test, I’ll never be anything but his girl. His burden too.

  I don’t ever want to be anyone’s burden. Not like my father was. I will always love him and I hate to think ill of the dead, but it is what it is. He was a burden to my grandma. Hell, he was a burden to me. I won’t be that. I won’t allow it.

  “I get it,” Cami says. Breathing in, she taps her empty can on the table at the same time as I see a bright red shirt on my porch.

  “What the fuck?” I can feel confusion line my face and then recognition when what’s happening dawns. My heart races. “Who the hell is that?” I whisper the question and Cami turns to look out of the window too.

  I see the guy’s profile; I don’t recognize him or his shaggy hair. And then I see my bike. In his hands.

  “He’s stealing my bike!” I jump out of my chair so fast it falls onto the floor, clattering as I rush past Cami and make my way to the door.

  Bat, bat, bat. It’s a mental reminder I scream in my head with every step. It isn’t the first time in this neighborhood I’ve needed an edge on my side.

  I keep a baseball bat between two umbrellas in the entry stand. Hating the feel of it in my hands, but damn grateful to have it, I snatch it and then unlock the door. Feeling a wave of disgust and anger rush through me, I watch the guy walk out into the middle of the street, both of his hands on MY bike and surrounded by a man on each side of him.

  “Hey!” I scream out in the street, hearing my front door slam open and then shut behind me. “Hey fuckers!” I yell louder, my footsteps pounding down the uneven stone steps as I hustle my ass toward them in the middle of the street. The bat is in my hand, swaying heavily, but my grip is white knuckled on it.

  It doesn’t escape me that if it was just one of them, he could get on the bike and take off, but as it is, all three guys turn around and face me.

  One of the assholes has a broad and gorgeous smile on his baby face. Freshly shaven or incapable of growing hair on his chin, I don’t know. And I don’t care. The asshole is smiling at me. That’s when I notice his eyes are red. So are the guy’s next to him. With blond hair down to his shoulders, the second guy looks like he doesn’t give a shit about anything. He’s just here for the ride.

  The one holding the bike looks me up and down like, “What are you going to do about it?” with the same bloodshot eyes.

  They’re young. Young and dumb. I may be around their age, but age is a number, while youth is inexperience. The shit we’ve gone through—Seth, me, the crew—it’s enough to age someone decades. We’ve been through more than some people go through their entire lives. These guys in front of me? I can see in their eyes that they haven’t experienced the turmoil life is.

  Three assholes out for a walk, high as fucking kites and taking what they want along the way as a joke.

  My life isn’t a joke. They don’t get to take from me. No one gets to take from me.

  The adrenaline causes the blood to course too fast through my veins. I can barely breathe, barely keep from shaking I’m so furious.

  “Laura!” Cami’s yelling my name from the porch, but I don’t turn around. I’m not taking my eyes off these bastards.

  “That’s my bike.” I grit out the words, my chest heaving.

  “Looks like it’s his now,” the first guy says, and the others laugh. They laugh at me. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” one of the others says. Even glancing down at the bat in my hand, the bat that sways slightly and brushes against my leg, they continue to laugh.

  Taking one deep inhale full of rage and disbelief, I whip the bat above my head and crash it down onto the bike. I don’t think twice. I just do it.

  It’s all the hurt and bitterness inside. I let it out. There are times to contain and times to explode. I’m hoping this is one of the latter, because I do it again. Screaming incoherently all the while.

  I land the bat down with tired, aching muscles that somehow find explosive energy in the single act. The wooden bat is raised and swung.

  Crashing down upon the bike my dad taught me to ride on before he died.

  Smack! The wood hits the asphalt and the shock from the impact travels up my arms.

  I used to ride it to his grave after the car accident. The memory brings a prick to the back of my eyes. Maybe this is what I get for thinking ill of him. Instant karma. The universe decided I wasn’t allowed to have the bike anymore.

  I lift the bat again, hearing the men back away. Calling me crazy. With both hands on the bat, I swing with everything I have, hitting the gears, smashing the handlebars again and again.

  All I can hear is my frantic breathing and Cami telling me to calm down, saying that I’m all right.

  With hot tears streaming down my face, I look up to see the three men looking more awake, more sober than they were when they stole from me.

  “Now it’s no one’s fucking bike,” I spit at them, tossing the busted bat at their feet then moving to walk away.

  “Get out of here!” Cami screams at them. Her hand on my shoulder is soothing in some ways. I don’t think I can speak right now.

  “Are you deaf?” Cami urge
s them on when they hesitate, staring at me like I’m a sight to behold. Sometimes when you take from people, you take more than just a dumb bike.

  They don’t care. Or at least they didn’t.

  I wonder if they’ll laugh and grab something off of another person’s porch again.

  The tears keep coming, but I don’t brush them away; I won’t give them that satisfaction of watching me clean myself up. I’m fine like this. I’m just fine.

  I watch them leave, picking up their pace as they get closer to the street corner. Occasionally, they turn around to see if I’m still here. And I am. Standing right where I was when they left and waiting for them to disappear.

  I don’t even realize Cami’s cleaning up my bike until I hear the clink of the broken gears against the metal trash can she dragged into the middle of the street. I’m grateful that this time of day isn’t busy. Because heaven forbid a car come down this road now and beep at me or tell me to get out of the way. I can still feel the thrum of anger.

  It’s a good thing I put that baseball bat down. I don’t like it. I just want it to go away. I don’t like this side of me.

  “I lost it,” I say then finally swallow the sharp pains in my throat and wipe under my eyes. Falling to my knees I help pick up the mess, the tiny bits of metal and the bent wheel, the splinters of wood. All the small pieces go in the trash can.

  There are also some pieces under my knees. They dug into my skin. I guess with the adrenaline, I didn’t even feel it.

  “Those guys were assholes,” is all Cami says. But she knows, just like I know, that I lost it.

  “And to think, I thought my anger issues were dealt with,” I joke and that makes her laugh although the sound is choked.

  She hugs me tight, both of us still on our knees in the middle of the street. “You okay?” she whispers.

  Although I nod and pull away, hurrying to clean up, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for a while now.

  I feel hot and my head is light when I finally stand up and drag the bent, broken bike to the curb. Sniffling, I wipe the rest of the tears from my heated face.