Hard to Love

2. Seth

"What's up with this girly shit?" Derrick's voice bellows from behind me. He's not even through the front doors of this place and he's already being a prick.

I give it a moment, letting my eyes settle on his pale pink button-up paired with dark jeans. "You talking about that shirt you're wearing?"

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.