It's Never Easy: A Boudreaux Universe Novel

by Dani Rene

  “I’m sure you could find ways of curing his depression.” She winks playfully.

  “No, this is my career. Stop bringing sex into it.” I roll my eyes, but I have to laugh as well. Phee is one of those girls who takes chances, who enjoys risks, and I’ve always been one to overthink situations. Sometimes, I wish I were as carefree as she is. “And besides, I don’t even know what he looks like,” I tease. I haven’t found any information online, which, in a way, I wish I had.

  “You know, it’s been a while. You’d be less of a bitch if you get laid.” With another clink to my now-empty glass, my best friend laughs.

  “I’m not a bitch. I just . . . well . . . men are assholes. They don’t stick around for very long, so what’s the point of falling in love?” I mimic her sugary-sweet tone.

  “Nea, honey, don’t let that asshole you were dating put you off finding a good man. They are out there. Somewhere. Not all men are like your father, either.”

  “Uh-huh, sure they aren’t. Can we drink wine and not talk about men?”

  She nods, grabbing the bottle and topping up our glasses. Today was one of those days that took its toll. I’m tired, being on my feet from early morning to late evening, and even though I should be sleeping, my mind is racing a million miles a minute.

  “So, what are you supposed to do if this guy is a mean boss? I mean, if he’s as bad as you say, surely he’s not going to be nice to you just because you work for him?”

  Shrugging, I take a long gulp of the fruity red wine, then lift my gaze to Phee. “I’m supposed to go in there and convince him to hire me. I think he’s probably just not very trusting of people. From what I read about him, the property is meant to be exquisite, and I don’t see it as being overly difficult to make people visit. Also, he inherited the plantation house from his father—”

  “He inherited it?”

  I nod.

  “Then perhaps he’ll be happy when it does well. I mean, maybe he’s just an asshole when he does reviews. Who knows?”

  “Maybe there’s another story that we don’t know about. I mean, everyone has their secrets.” I’m almost certain there’s heartbreak in this man’s life. Knowing he inherited the gallery from his father is an indication that his folks may no longer be around. And I know how much that can hurt. It’s not something you get over after a few months or even years. It’s a lifetime of sorrow that only dulls, but it’s still present.

  “Perhaps. If I know anything, Nea, you’ll get under his skin, and he won’t be able to refuse you. You’ll get the job, and you may even make him learn how to be nice.” Phee winks playfully as she sips her wine.

  She’s right. If I land this, I’ll have an amazing job. I’ll be living in one of my favorite cities in the world, and I’ll gain experience so one day I can open my own gallery.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Chapter 2

  Nea

  Groaning as I roll over, I try to hide my face from the bright, golden sunlight streaming through the window. Sunday mornings are my favorite because I’ll lounge around the apartment, eat junk food, and just be a slob. It’s the one decadence I’ve given myself.

  After my mother passed away, I drove myself into a depression so dark and so scary I almost admitted myself to an institution. Phoebe was the one to pull me out. To slap me back to life. She was right; my mother wouldn’t have wanted me to close myself off, to hurt myself because I was sad.

  My mother, Patricia, was strong. She fought that fucker called cancer for months, and even in the end—when she knew her time was up—she didn’t waver.

  Thinking about her always makes me sad. Remembering how she’d always know how to cheer me. She was there through every milestone of my life—playing both mother and father.

  I was nine when my father walked out. At the time, I didn’t know what had happened. I waited for him to come home, to walk in from a long day at work or from a holiday he decided to take, but it never happened. After I’d turned fourteen, I finally had enough and forced my mother to tell me what happened.

  The asshole up and left to live with another woman. When mom fell ill, he didn’t even bother calling me. Even if he did, I would have informed him that if he ever set foot in my life again, I’d get a restraining order. I didn’t hate him, not anymore. I was merely guarding myself from the pain.

  The heartache of losing someone you love, someone you believed loved you. Nothing can prepare you for that kind of agony. It started with my father, and each boyfriend I had since I started dating, when I turned sixteen, had been the same.

  Men are creatures of habit. They surge into your life like a hot summer breeze, whip you around in their storm, and spit you out like the remnants of a tornado, leaving you just a shell of what they found.

  That’s why I’ve vowed off the male species. And even my best friend can’t sway me. If I grow old with fifty cats, then so be it, but I’ll never allow myself to have my heart broken again.

  I need to focus on my new life. My new journey that starts with a long flight home and preparing for an interview that could change my life. New Orleans has always been on my bucket list of places to live one day, but it was nothing more than a pipe dream since my foster family lived nowhere near there.

  They were good to me, giving me anything I needed to further my studies, and when they surprised me with tuition to Yale, I was speechless. I will forever be grateful to them for taking me in.

  My foster mother used to tell me I was a miracle. Even at sixteen, which is normally older than most people would adopt, they took one look at me and knew I was special. They’d lost their child too young. A drunk driver, who sped off after knocking her off her bike, was never found.

  When the opportunity came up to live in Italy after I’d finished my studies and got my degree, I jumped at the chance. A one year paid apprenticeship at an art gallery in one of the most picturesque cities in Europe. Thankfully, it’s given me more than enough savings to be comfortable until my first paycheck. And when I get home, I can pay my own way.

  Opening my laptop, I click on the browser and immediately type Elliot plantation house. Not far down the search results, a five-star rating grabs my attention.

  Owned and operated by the Elliot family for more than thirty-five years, this picturesque property is in a league of its own. The gardens are filled with some of the finest botanicals and a small maze to keep the little ones busy.

  Mr. Elliot says of his home: “This will one day be my son’s. Julian will take over and make me proud. All my hard work, all the time and effort I’ve put in, is for him. When I lost my wife, Julian’s mother, I had to focus on the little time we’re given on this earth, and that made me want to dream big. And here I am.”

  If you’re in NOLA at any time of the year, this is one place you wouldn’t want to pass by. Rated five stars by our critic on both quality and service.

  My heart goes out to Julian Elliot in that moment. Losing his mother and then his dad. Granted, my father is alive and well somewhere, but to lose a parent is something I’d never wish on anyone. Perhaps I was right. Maybe he’s hurting. I know when Mom died, all I wanted to do was hide. To lock myself away and never see the sun again.

  Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to make him see that his father is right. You never know when your time is up, and sitting around in a state of depression is not the way to live.

  After a far-too-long flight and another connection, I’m finally here. I didn’t expect it to be so warm, and I have to shrug off the sweater I’m wearing as I make my way out of the arrivals section of the airport.

  With my suitcases on the cart, I sneak between people greeting their loved ones and others welcoming guests holding placards with names written on them. I’ve always loved airports, the excitement of either going on vacation or returning to find people you love waiting on you.

  But the moment I stop, the innate pain in my chest reminds me that I no longer have anybody around to wait for me. Sig
hing, I focus on the here and now, the reason I’ve made it all the way to New Orleans. I promised my mother one day I’d make it here, and I did.

  The rental car Mr. Elliot hired for me is waiting at the curb. A handsome young guy hands me the keys with a smile, and I can’t help but think of my best friend. Knowing Phoebe, she’d probably ask for his number, but Phoebe’s in Italy, and I’m here, nervous because I’m about to drive on the other side of the road again.

  Behind the wheel, I think about what I’m heading for. This hasn’t been easy, having the world at my feet, and now, coming back here, filled with memories of my mother. She spoke of this city with so much love, so much fondness, and my tears well up being here.

  I flick the button to turn on the stereo, and I find a station that has some classical music, which sets me at ease. The roads aren’t too bad once I get a few miles into town, and soon I’m smiling as I pull up to the building, which is so close to Bourbon Street I can hear music when I push open the car door.

  Stepping out of the vehicle, I take in the rich opulence of the architecture, and my stomach somersaults wildly realizing I’m here. I’ve made it.

  And it’s charming in the most delightful way.

  The door of the apartment building slides open when I walk up to it, and I’m met by a man who offers me a smile. He looks to be in his fifties, with an eccentric shirt that reminds me of the photos I’ve seen of Hawaii or some far-off island.

  “Hello, I’m Nea Kinley,” I tell him.

  “Ah, yes, welcome. I am Rico. I’ll be here every day if you need anything, except Sundays,” he informs me with a smile. “Mrs. Bishop told me you’d be moving in today. Here are your keys,” he tells me as he hands me the set with a small gold lock that he continues to explain is for my post box. “You’re welcome to use it or not, but we like to make sure all residents have privacy.”

  “Thank you. This is wonderful.”

  It doesn’t take me long to get my suitcases out of the car, and soon, Rico and I have my luggage outside the apartment door. My fingers tremble as I unlock it and step into one of the most stunning living rooms I’ve ever seen.

  A sofa sits against one wall, while opposite is a television cabinet with a flat screen. There are plush throw rugs in deep orange, and at the French doors that lead to the balcony, a tinkling of wind chimes dancing in the breeze.

  The windows offer a view over the city, and the sun that streams through into the furnished space provides light and warmth. There’s a small dining table off to one side, which leads to the open-plan kitchen. The white tiles aren’t clinical; instead, it makes the place feel like a beach house.

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “One of the pretty ones,” Rico states with a grin. “Let me know if you need anything more. I’m in apartment one eleven.” He gives me a wave before shutting the door behind him, and then I take in the apartment once more.

  Excitement bubbles in my stomach, twisting and turning as the thought of being on my own in New Orleans finally sinks in. I settle on the armchair at the balcony door and stare out at the city. I should unpack, but right now, all I can do is bask in the excitement that’s taken over.

  Chapter 3

  Julian

  I’ve never once needed anyone.

  Even my best friend, Eli Boudreaux, tells me I’m an asshole, but he’s the only one who can say that to me. The house is empty. All the staff have gone home for the evening, and I listen for any sound at all. Silence greets me back, reminding me I’m alone. That even though I had it all for a moment in time, now I’m left with nothing but an empty house and far too much alcohol to consume.

  I do this almost every day, when the silence becomes too much. I’m nothing like my father though, I watched him deteriorate, and I vowed I wouldn’t become like him.

  I wallow in self-pity, which I know is terrible, but I can’t help it. It’s as if she’ll appear if I’m quiet. Even though we fought every day for the two months right up until she finally moved out and left me for someone else, I still miss the company in this large, empty house.

  My wife was right. I’m a selfish bastard.

  Now that I’m finally doing what my father always wanted me to—running the gallery—I feel as if perhaps my life isn’t meaningless. I should’ve done it while Shay was still here, but we were far too volatile.

  I think about the girl I spoke to on the phone, which was a preliminary interview before actually meeting her. She is nothing more than a young, excitable student who is looking for her big break in this industry. The reason I asked to meet her before offering her the job is because I don’t need some pierced, tattooed goth chick walking around my gallery.

  That makes me sound old. But the clientele that frequented Elliot Gallery and Estate in the past were rich, pompous assholes. My father knew how to entertain them. Me on the other hand, I hated it.

  Dressing up to smile at strangers wasn’t my forte, hence the reason it took me so long to finally take the step into reopening the gallery. Tomorrow, I’ll decide if she’s worthy of working here and if she’s able to be the face of the company.

  I’ve always enjoyed sitting back and running things from the office. And if she’s as enthusiastic as she sounded on the phone, I’m sure she’ll be the perfect hostess.

  Heading into the studio, I pull open the cabinet and pour a double shot of bourbon into a tumbler before settling behind my desk. Eli wanted me to come over for dinner tonight, but I can’t face being around him and Kate. Not that I don’t care for them deeply, and not because I’m not happy for my friend, but seeing people gushing over each other reminds me of how alone I am.

  I’ve spent months in hiding. Not showing my face at events, not attending art shows because I couldn’t smile when my life was falling apart. Taking a long gulp of the strong alcohol, I swallow it down, letting the burn take hold of me as it slithers down my throat. I focus on the canvas before me. Empty, void of color, just like my life.

  I really should give up all hope of getting this thing done, but it was one of my favorite things to do—getting lost in my art.

  After Shay walked out, I stopped painting. Even though I spend every night in here until the sun rises again, I’ve not picked up a paint brush. My fingers itch to do it, to create something breathtaking.

  But how can I create beauty when my life is filled with darkness?

  I swallow back the rest of the bourbon and get up to pour another shot. I shouldn’t drink so much, but since I have nobody to answer to, I enjoy the numbing sensation that trickles through me after a few doubles of amber liquid.

  Numb.

  That’s what I am.

  It’s a phantom ache in my chest that hasn’t left, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to ease it away. Grabbing the bottle, I make my way back to the comfortable armchair, which I’ve positioned facing the empty canvas, and flop onto the cushions.

  Setting the glass and bottle down beside me, I pick up the remote and turn on the stereo. The speakers surrounding the room fill the space with the melancholic sound of Lucas King, and I close my eyes, getting lost in the darkness.

  A loud banging on the front door rouses me from a dreamless sleep. I’m not sure who the fuck is at my house this early in the morning, but I pray to all that’s holy they leave. The incessant sound stops, and I sigh a breath of relief, but not long after, it starts back up.

  Shoving myself from the sofa where I passed out last night, I call out to whoever it is to “Hold the fuck on.” With a quick glance in the mirror, I make sure I look halfway presentable before I pad over to the door. When I pull it open, there on my porch is a woman who looks far too bright and cheery for this ungodly hour.

  “What?” I bite out, noticing her smile fall as she takes me in. The girl must be about five-four because I have to look down at her. She can’t be more than twenty. With her long, dark hair that’s got strange purple streaks and large, brown eyes the color of warm chocolate, she regards me with shock.


  What the fuck?

  I don’t notice shit like this unless I’m taking her home for the night, and that’s definitely not happening with her. She’s too young, and there’s far too much hope in her pretty face. Jesus, I need another drink.

  “I-I . . . Uhm . . . I’m Nea Kinley,” she stutters at me in a soft, melodic voice, wincing when I growl and step back to allow her inside.

  “You’re early.” My voice comes out gruff, and I have to clear my throat to stop her effect on me from showing. “I don’t like tardiness, but being too early can also be frustrating since I live onsite,” I bite out, releasing the door handle and leaving her to shut the door behind herself.

  “I’m sorry.” I hear her from behind me, but I don’t turn to look at her. With my hangover pounding in my skull, I can only handle so much light at once, and this girl, even dressed all in black, is far too bright.

  In the kitchen, I grab a mug and shove it under the Keurig, then turn to regard the waif of a woman. She’s dressed in long, black pants and a long-sleeved blouse, and even though I’m sure she’s trying to hide her tattoos, I can see them through the flimsy material.

  “You have a lovely home,” she tells me. A small, shy smile dances on her full, pink lips, and I can’t stop myself from being entranced by them.

  “Do you drink coffee?” I ask her, not commenting on her observation.

  “Yes, Mr. Elliot.”

  Nodding, I place a second mug under the drip and wait for it to fill. Once it’s done, I take them over to where she’s nervously standing at the breakfast counter. She’s shifting from one foot to the other, and her hands tremble when I hand her a coffee. For a split second, her fingers brush along mine, causing my body to jolt from the gentle touch of her skin.