A hundred years ago my great great grandfather, Lawrence Charles Delacroix, built the five-story French brick and limestone mansion a block from his namesake hotel to be his family’s private residence. Now the stately building was mixed use: first two floors housed a café, a few boutiques, and The Delacroix Historical Library. The top three levels consisted of condos. I occupied one unit, my cousin another, and my grandmother, Marte Bridget Delacroix, kept the penthouse.

Marte was eighty-three and sharp as shit, but her filter was long gone. She’d tell you if your coffee sucked, your underwear was jammed between your cheeks, or if she believed you’d voted for the wrong candidate. She topped out around five feet on a good day, thick, white curly hair crowning her head and high cheekbones framing her crystal blue eyes that twinkled mischievously, making her look like she was up to no good. Considering how many times I’d been told I was an asshole, I suspected I’d inherited my ‘no good gene’ from her.

I was her favorite grandchild, chaperoning her to family gatherings: birthday parties, weddings, and the occasional funeral. She’d hit the beauty parlor at the hotel, pick out something fancy to wear from her vast wardrobe that spanned Chanel to bargain store finds, and don a piece of pricey jewelry that grandpapa had given her. I’d escort her to the waiting town car, make sure she arrived safely at the event, and help find her designated seat. A few nights every week I’d take the stairs up to her place, make her something to eat, watch an episode of Golden Girls, and massage her arthritic shoulders when she complained that they ached due to the cold weather, warm weather, or just because it was Wednesday. My cousins were always nice to Grandma Marte at family and more formal events—as she was to them. But she never really sparked to them the way she did to me. I could live with that.

A casual observer might pull back the curtains framing my life, peek inside, and cast a judgmental eye, thinking I was an introverted trust-fund baby, waking up when I pleased, working out at a private fitness facility, attending black-tie events, and disappearing during the day at my family funded ‘jobs.’ As one of three heirs to the Delacroix family fortune, my life could be construed as cushy.

I wish it was that easy.

I didn’t work for six months after the accident. My family and friends accepted this as part of my recovery. But then nine months passed, and people who cared about me grew less tolerant. I made everyone happy by signing up at Loyola University, Chicago, finishing my MBA, and earning a Masters in Library Science. Two years later when the head of the Delacroix library left for greener pastures, Marte insisted I take the job.

I said no.

She said yes.

I said I’d think about it.

She said great because you’re starting on Monday.

And start on Monday I did. It’s hard to refuse her. I immersed myself in the job. Probably because it was the only thing I cared about. And was surprised when I found the energy to venture out and socialize once in a while.

I lived just blocks from Rush Street where there was a bar on every corner. There were always gigs in the social circles my family ran in. There were beautiful girls in every pub, willing, gorgeous women at every party and event. Now, three years after the accident I wasn’t ready to date but I was ready to get laid.

Bringing women to my home still felt too intimate. Instead, I used the library as my after-hours love shack. Aisle ten with the erotica collection was especially conducive to winning over hearts and minds. “I suspect you’re the kind of woman who appreciates a good book,” I said to whoever the beautiful girl du jour was.

I’d let her take my hand, watching as she laced her delicate, manicured fingers between my thick ones. “This place is amazing,” she’d say, eyeing the art on the walls, the stacks rising above us filled with books, new and old.

“Yes, it is,” I’d say, eyeing the same stacks where I’d fucked Megan McMalley last week, and Lauren Vanderveen three days before that, and Felicity Stein five days prior.

“But you know what would be more amazing?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I show you?” she’d ask, leaning in and kissing me, guiding my hand under her top until it rested on her breast.

It’s easy to let others take the lead when you don’t really care.

She’d run her hand across my dick that couldn’t help but strain against my pants, saluting her valiant efforts to seduce me and win the Delacroix fortune. The chances were excellent that each girl I brought back here fantasized she might be the lucky one.

She’d wonder if tonight would lead into us dating for eight months. Eventually I’d introduce her to my inner circle of friends. Take her to a family event. And then one magical evening I’d realize it was time to settle down and that it had to be with her. I’d bend down on one knee, extend a black velvet box with a huge ass rock inside, and ask her to be the next Mrs. Delacroix. The next Mrs. You Will Never Want for Anything Ever Again.

But first she had to win me over.

“I’ll make you happy, Joe,” she’d whisper, unzipping my pants, wrapping her hand around my cock and tugging it hard as heat flared between us.

“Sure,” I’d say, leaning her back against those musty old book stacks, lifting her skirt, pulling her panties down. I’d position my hands on her hips, close my eyes, and push inside her. For me the ride was hard and fast. I’d block out the gunshots I still heard in my brain with every thrust. I’d mute her moans, tune out the difference in the texture of her skin, the disparity of her touch, and I’d imagine she was someone else.

I always imagined they were someone else.

And after ten minutes or so of screwing the latest library girl, I’d disappear into my orgasm, time would slow for a minute, and that sweet release would be the good kind of explosion for a change. But reality would quickly follow.

Years ago I gave a fuck.

But I was all out of fucks to give.