by Dani Rene
It’s Never Easy
Dani René
Contents
It’s Never Easy
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
The Boudreaux Universe
Acknowledgments
Also by Dani René
About Dani René
It’s Never Easy
A Boudreaux Universe Novel
By Dani René
Copyright © 2020 Dani René
Edited by Candice Royer
Proofed by Illuminate Author Services
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in the 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 owner.
Cover Design: Kari March Designs
Published by: Lady Boss Press, Inc.
For the broken hearts who don’t believe love is possible,
change your thinking because it most certainly is.
Prologue
Nea
Sixteen years old
You never think about your parents dying. But then, one day, you turn around and notice that the person who you believed would always be there is leaving you. It happened to me before, when my father decided he didn’t want my mother or me anymore. He walked out, leaving me with my mom, who had to be both parents while working. She gave me all she could, ensuring I was clothed, fed, and schooled.
And I loved her for it.
But as she walks into the room, I no longer see that Wonder Woman who’s taken care of me all my life. My heart aches because she’s become a shell of my mom; the dark circles under her eyes, the sallow hue of her skin, and the frail limbs that used to carry me for hours gone.
“You should go to school, Nea,” she tells me, but I shake my head. I’ve always been stubborn, and normally my mother would give me one look that would make me change my mind. But now, she can’t because I’m not leaving her side.
“What would happen if I left, and you weren’t here when I got back?” I challenge her, and she can’t dispute me. Even as the words leave my lips, I feel the familiar pain. It’s my heart breaking. My mother taught me about heartbreak when I was younger, and she said it feels like you’re physically breaking.
“I’ll be right here. You don’t have to worry, sweetheart,” she tells me with a sad smile, and I know it’s not the truth. I have to worry because my mother is dying, and no matter what we do, we can’t make her well again. She’s not coming home; I heard the doctor tell the nurse.
“I just want to be here. Can I please be here?”
Silently, she nods, settling back on the bed, and for some reason, when she pulls me in, I’m sure she’s about to say goodbye to me. My mother takes my hand and kisses it before she sets it back. Her eyes are watery, and I feel mine burning too. I don’t want her to see how much this hurts me because I know she would want me to be strong.
“I love you, Neacakes,” she tells me in a breathy voice. She used to call me that because I had an epic love of cupcakes, but my mom would put a large, buttery icing on top with the letter N. And they became Neacakes.
“I love you too, Mom, you know that,” I tell her, and she nods. She doesn’t say anything more as she lies back on the pillows. She’s tired. I can tell by the way her eyes flutter, but she manages to keep them open and on me. She watches me with so much affection, but the pain that’s mingled in those familiar eyes makes my heart lurch. I can hear the gentle breaths coming from her. “Tell me about one of your happiest memories?”
She smiles. I can tell the sadness has taken over her. “Besides having you?” she whispers, making tears burn my eyes. “My childhood was filled with excitement. Growing up in New Orleans was special. The city brings out the magic in everything. As if it can bring happiness to anyone. And there was never a dull moment.” Her breaths come out shallow, but the more she speaks, the deeper she smiles. “That house, Neacakes,” she says, looking into my eyes. “It’s special. It’s a home, and if you ever get a chance to visit, go there.”
“I will, Mom,” I tell her. “I promise.”
“I know you’ll love it. The city is . . .” Her words falter, her eyes flutter, and my heart stops for a second before she reaches for my hand. “The city is filled with places to fall in love,” she tells me. “Love will heal you from any heartbreak. It’s never easy getting over pain, but you will.”
I know she’s trying to tell me I’ll get over the heartbreak of losing her. I don’t want to say goodbye, not yet. I want her to stay, to grow old, and walk me down the aisle. But I know I can’t change what’s happening.
Even as I pray to a god I no longer believe in.
I know it’s time.
“I love you, Neacakes. Find love. Go to New Orleans.”
Julian
Twenty-one years old
I always saw my father as a hero. He was strong, responsible, and everything I wanted to be when I grew up. For a long time, I thought I would be like him, focused on my art, on making creative pieces that people would buy and hang in their homes.
But now that I see the man I looked up to stumbling into the house at almost two in the morning, I feel as if I’m living with a stranger. Yes, my dad had been rather eccentric when I was growing up, but he never did anything this irresponsible.
When he looks at me, I notice how his eyes have lost their soul, their fire. He doesn’t look like the man I grew up with; instead, he’s nothing more than a stranger to me.
“Don’t . . . you . . . ever . . . trust . . .” His slurred words are a knife to the heart, each one a stabbing pain right in my chest. For years, he would say things, but they were never filled with such venom that I no longer recognized his tone.
He glares at me. I don’t know who he is, but he’s nothing to me. I turn on my heel and walk away, needing my space. If I’m alone, locked in my stu
dio, then I can focus. Because right now, if I’m near him, we’ll only end up having a screaming match.
Over the years, I’ve come to recognize his destructive behavior. I’ve learned how to stop myself from fighting with him. It comes from a place of love. Seeing my father fall down a rabbit hole has made me angry because all I’ve ever wanted was for him to be here with me. The fear of losing yet another parent has a grip on me, and I don’t know how to tell him without seeing him get angry.
I know I’m meant to support him, show him how much I love and care for him, but I can’t when I’m watching him destroy himself. I can’t force him to go into rehab, he needs to decide for himself, which only infuriates me because I want so much to see the father that was around before his heartbreak.
The loud knocks on the door turn to banging, and the deep, drunken slur of my father is a familiar sound as he tries to coax me out. When I don’t open the door, he curses at me, calling me every name in the book. And all the while he does this, my hand moves with the paintbrush, creating violent strokes of black on the pristine white canvas.
I try my best to ignore him. I close my eyes and breathe. But there’s nothing that can take away the vileness of this house, of this situation. It’s been going on for too long, and nobody can help him now. He has to admit that he has a problem.
When I finally open my eyes moments later, I can breathe a sigh of relief because the banging has stopped, and the shouting has ceased.
Chapter 1
Nea
The sun shines brightly from a clear blue sky this morning as I make my way to the small coffee shop that sells the most robust espresso I’ve ever tasted. Thick scents of pastries and fresh brew hang in the air as I rush down the narrow, cobbled street.
I’m not late, but if I don’t make it to the shop on time, I’ll be in a queue for the next twenty minutes, which will ensure I’m in trouble with my boss. The art gallery where I’ve been doing my internship is a dream job, but the man who runs it is strict about tardiness. And I won’t hear the end of it for at least two days. This is my last week in the art-inspired metropolis, and I don’t want to spend it listening to him nagging me about being young and frivolous.
My love for art has brought me to the magnificent city of Rome. Since I was young, I’ve always wanted to spend time in the cities where the most famous of painters roamed the streets, and here I am. I’ve taken to the Italian way of life easily, enjoying food, wine, and the splendor life has to offer.
But not all life is perfect, and the moment I go home, the reality that my internship has come to an end will set in. Unless I can find something that will give me a reason to want to go home. Perhaps a job in another city far from where I grew up.
“Buongiorno.” I smile at the girl behind the counter. She’s about my age, early twenties, and has a happy grin on her face when she recognizes me. This is the one and only place I venture every morning before work.
“Come stai?”
“I’m well, grazie,” I tell her. I motion with my fingers for two coffees, and she nods, working the machine like a professional as she grinds the beans. The scent making every nerve in my body spark to life. It’s the only addiction I have. My morning just wouldn’t be right without good coffee.
Once I have the Styrofoam cups, I head farther down the long, narrow street. The gallery is not open yet, so when I reach the door, I have to unlock it before making my way into the air-conditioned space.
“Ah, here she is, finally,” Flavio, my boss, says in a resounding flurry of thick Italian-accented words. He’s seated at the welcome desk working on his laptop when I reach him. I set his coffee down in front of him. He takes a quick glance at it, nods, then taps a few more times on the keyboard before he stops and looks at me.
“Buongiorno,” I greet. “I’m not late. Am I?”
“Not today,” he grunts, turning his attention back to the screen. I turn to leave, but he tells me, “I want the new paintings up for tonight.” His order is gruff, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at his serious demeanor.
At times, he can be really friendly, but then there are those mornings where he and his wife have most probably had a fight where he drives me insane with his crankiness.
“Of course,” I respond, faking my smile before I head into the back room to hang up my jacket and purse. It’s been an easy job to get used to, up before eight in the morning, my early morning ritual of a yoga workout before my shower, and then racing down to get the coffees before spending my day surrounded by art.
Rich in history, it’s been a journey I would never have thought possible, yet here I am. Smiling, I take my drink and head into the gallery and make a beeline for the storeroom where the new collection awaits me.
“Ms. Kinley, I was impressed with your resume and would like to see you when you return stateside,” the man who’s thinking of hiring me says in a deep Southern drawl. I’ve spent my yearlong apprenticeship in Italy, studying art, learning about the greats. Now, as I get ready to head back home, I have to find work.
I’ve spent the better part of two months scrolling through online employment sites, looking for something that will allow me to use the knowledge I’ve gained from spending time in Italy.
“Of course. I arrive back in two days.” The excitement in my tone is palpable, and I wonder if he can hear it. Even though I’m young, I’m responsible, mature, and I can certainly complete the tasks he listed in the ad.
“Let’s meet on Friday. That will give you a few days to settle in.” The thick accent is syrupy sweet, and I wonder what he looks like.
“Thank you, Mr. Elliot. I’m excited to see the gallery,” I tell him earnestly. It’s been the most exciting thing that’s happened since I told my best friend I’m flying back. When I informed her I’m going straight to New Orleans, she just about squealed.
“Till then.” His voice is gruff, and then I’m met with a deadly silent line since he’s just hung up. He didn’t even say goodbye. I wonder if working with him will be as strange as that short conversation.
I know I’ll work my ass off to impress him. Being focused and dedicated, I hope to ensure my age doesn’t factor into his decision to hire me. Most of the companies I contacted responded with regret because they felt I was too young. Then again, most of them were old, stuffy suits who wouldn’t know what good art was if it hit them in the face.
A knock on my apartment door startles me from my thoughts. When I open it, I’m met with my best friend, who pretty much followed me all around the world. We’ve known each other since we were in high school. I’d been the nerdy girl who always had her nose buried between the pages of a book.
Phoebe is the complete opposite. One of the more popular girls, she would drag me along to parties and force me to have fun. Even with our differences, we spent every day of our school years together. When I went off to Yale, she followed along, getting a full scholarship. Those were our wilder years. I’d decided, since I lost my mom far too young, I wanted to live each day to its fullest. I never knew my father, and even though it didn’t bother me too much, I still wondered what my life would be like if I had him around.
Needless to say, I’d found a love of going out. Perhaps too much. But after losing Mom, I’d gotten back on the straight and narrow with Phoebe’s help.
“How are you, darling?” She pulls me in for a hug, and I catch a whiff of coffee and something sweet. When Phoebe steps back, she pulls out a small packet of candy and hands it to me. It’s my favorite. There’s a small boutique store down the way, and the old lady who runs it makes the most amazing sugary treats.
“This is so good, thank you. I just spoke to whom I hope is my new boss,” I tell her, popping one of the strawberry-flavored balls into my mouth. “He wants to meet me on Friday. I’ll have three days to explore my new home.”
“Nea, I’m so happy you’re taking a chance on this. You’ll love New Orleans,” my friend informs me happily as she flops on my sofa.
�
�Wine?” I ask her, picking up the bottle I took out earlier.
“Is that even a question?” Her brow arches as she regards me, and I can’t help but laugh as I pour us both a glass of the rich merlot, one that I’d been saving for a special occasion, and this is definitely a cause for celebration. “So, tell me about this amazing opportunity that my best friend is about to leap into?”
“I don’t have the job yet, but it would be an amazing opportunity.” I smile when I glance at Phoebe. “Are you really not coming with me?”
“I would love to, but I have one more month on my internship, and then I’ll be right there with you.” She bounds from the soft cushions and races to me, clinking our glasses. “You’re going to find happiness, Nea. I just know it.” Her words drag emotion from the back of my mind, and it settles in my throat. Thick and unyielding. I swallow the lump threatening to choke me and nod.
“It’s just a job for now, and that’s what I’m going to focus on. Apparently, the owner is one of the most well-known art critics, but nobody has ever seen him. He lives alone, doesn’t go to any media events, remains a stranger to the media, yet he spends his days in one of the most vibrant cities in the world.” I shrug, thinking about what he looks like and why he’s such a recluse. “Probably one of those depressed artists who didn’t make it, and now he hates the world because he’s stuck with a gallery or some shit.” Rolling my eyes, I glance at Phee. She’s giggling and watching me with one eyebrow raised. “What?”
