Contents
Title
Rights
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
DON'T FORGET!
ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STALK HER!
LOCK
YOU
DOWN
-
Jessica Gadziala
Copyright © 2020 Jessica Gadziala
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations used in a book review.
"This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental."
Cover image credit: iStock/ hartphotography1
Cover design: Jessica Gadziala
ONE
Nixon
Michael Alexander McDermot, The Third, was the biggest douchebag I'd ever met in my life.
That was saying a lot since I'd known a lot of fucking douches.
Sure, my standards were high. I had an almost nonexistent tolerance for people as a whole. All you have to do is take a walk in a grocery store on a busy Sunday to see why most people missed the memo on how not to be a complete and utter pain in the ass to all of your fellow humankind. Was it so hard not to leave your cart in the center of the whole friggen aisle?
Anyway, yeah, he was a real piece of work.
I hated him.
Almost as much as I hated the phrase "piece of work."
It wasn't that he was rich. Most of the clients who walked through the doors were rich. Let's face it, the average person didn't have need of a personal security team. Or the pockets deep enough to hire them. I didn't begrudge someone their wealth. Though an argument could be made for some rich people being condescending pricks. Which Michael McDermot absolutely was. He'd somehow managed to mention his Porsche, his Rolex, and how many square feet his McMansion was in the span of a twenty-minute conversation.
It wasn't even that he immediately treated me like I worked for him--and was therefore beneath him--from the moment he stepped foot in the office. I would be working for him. And I had gotten somewhat used to being treated with a certain level of disrespect when it came to some clients.
No.
What bothered me most was the fact that he thought it was appropriate--in mixed company--to refer to his secretary as a "useless bitch" like it was completely acceptable to do so.
Were it not for the dozen or so lectures my brother Kingston, who happened to own the security business, had given me about my sometimes nonexistent manners, I would have tossed him out onto the sidewalk. Right onto the ass of his Armani suit.
But, if I was going to keep working for King, I had to toe the line a little better than I had in the past.
So I clenched my jaw and tried not to grab the asshole by the throat as he spoke.
I got all the paperwork written up, told him I would consult with Kingston, then get back to him.
I had every intention of dumping the whole case on his desk, washing my hands of it, and hitting the gym to sweat out my frustration at the entire interaction.
"I am already working two cases, man," Kingston said, shaking his head. "And Atlas is off chasing waves somewhere. Rush can't work at night. You're going to have to do it."
Just when I thought the day couldn't get any worse.
"I can't work for that asshole, King."
"You won't even need to be near him."
Technically, that was probably true. We didn't even really know there was an actual case to work on. The guy thought he was being followed. He had no proof of it. He just had a feeling. Most of the work would involve following Mike around to see if someone else was following him around or not. My money was on him being paranoid. Though, when you were such a colossal jackass, there was a chance you had a lot of enemies who wanted to--at the very least--scare you.
We got paid whether there was some stalker or not.
And I guess I could tolerate following the guy around for a week, so long as I got to keep the face-to-face contact to a minimum.
At least it was out of the office.
I had to admit, the walls were pinching in a bit.
I'd been trying to convince myself for the past few years that it was growing pains, that I just had to adjust to the new lifestyle, but the longer it went on, the tighter it got, and the more I wondered if it simply wasn't the place for me.
If it was the place for any of us, save for Kingston who built it. We all loved our brother, and helped him develop his business, but I don't think any of us were meant to be there for the long-term. This was why Atlas was always flying off to some new land, never getting his wanderlust under control, and why Rush was pulling longer and longer hours at his phone sex business.
The problem was, I had no fucking idea what else to do with my life.
So I stayed.
I was starting to wonder, though, if I was just one bad job, one shit client, away from throwing in the towel for good.
There was a good chance that if I had to deal with Michael McDermot for any extended period of time, he could be the final straw.
Then what?
I had no idea.
I had no backup plan.
Before King got the place up and running, I bounced around.
Let's just say that when you spent most of your adult life doing illegal shit with all your siblings, you didn't exactly have a solid work history. So I did some work for King's in-laws--The Mallick family who worked as loansharks, but had other legitimate businesses--or found my own odd jobs. I kept a roof over my head, but I had never exactly been rolling in it.
King's private security firm brought stability I hadn't realized was craving. And for a long time, that was enough. It got me out of my shitty apartment and into a house. Sure, it was a shoebox, but it was mine. It paid off my car. It allowed me to grow some credit, and sock some money into savings, some into investments.
Grown-up, boring-ass shit.
But grown-up, boring-ass shit was important too.
That was what kept me firmly planted where I was even though I wasn't passionate about it, it wasn't what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
Until I figured out what I did want to do with it, though, this was my work. And work sucked sometimes. Or a lot of the time. But anytime you got to get paid while not having to sit in the office all day was a minor win. I would take it.
"Fine," I said, taking back the file.
"He's that bad?" King asked, leaning back in his chair, giving me that look he'd given all of us growing up. The dad-look. Since we didn't have one. And then we didn't have a mom either, so he became our only parental figure, even if he was only a few years older than most of us. When he gave each of us that look, it meant something different. With Atlas or Rush, it was about them being immature, about not thinking shit through. When it was with our sister Scotti, it was typically about her guards and why she had them up. With me, it was about him doubting that the people I came into contact with were as bad as I said, a
nd that I was probably judging them too harshly.
"He called his secretary a 'useless bitch' to my face."
"You're shitting me," King said, brows scrunching up.
What could I say, times had changed. No one called women bitches anymore. Especially not anyone in our circle. We had a little sister. She meant the world to us. We couldn't fathom someone saying it about her, so we didn't say it about other women.
"Nope. And it slid right off his tongue. Like he called her that frequently enough that it wasn't awkward to do it."
"Another dick of a client. I wish I could say I was surprised at this point..."
"But a certain level of assholeness can come with the tax bracket, I guess," I agreed, shrugging. "It's probably just paranoia. I can tail him for a week, talk him into a security system, take his five-figure check, and call it a week."
"Hey," King called as I started out of his office.
"Yeah?"
"You good?" he asked, always having a sixth sense when something was off with one of us. Probably more of that parental figure nonsense. "You've been pulling a lot of hours lately. If you want some time off, I can ask one of the Mallicks to pitch in, or can just cancel the client. Not a big deal."
I could use some time off, but there was no reason to let that kind of money go to waste just because I was not feeling in the zone.
Beside that, I knew my brother. I knew that he wouldn't call one of the Mallicks. He would find a way to work the case himself. Which wasn't fair. He had just barely started a relationship with Savea, who he had been head-over for about as long as she had been head-over for him. And after waiting fucking years to get into a relationship, I figured they deserved as much free time together as possible.
I had to step up.
And since I had nothing else to do with my time, I figured I had to nut up about it.
"I'm good," I told him, nodding. "Just in a shit mood after that interview. I'll hit the gym and feel better tomorrow."
"Alright. If you're sure. I will call the client back and let him know things are all set up, that you will be tailing him, so he knows that if he sees your car following, not to panic."
"Sounds good. Say hi to Savvs for me," I tossed back at him as I made my way through the office, going for the front door.
I made my way to my car--a black Ford Explorer, one of the most common vehicles on the road, so people wouldn't pick it out if they saw it hanging around too often, which made it possible for me to be invisible--thinking about King and Savvs, thinking about how he'd practically been floating around since they shacked up.
I saw a lot of that.
It was in King and Savvs, in the Mallick guys and their women, even to the patriarchs of my extended family--Charlie and Helen Mallick.
They were placing their bets on me.
About when I would find someone.
I think it was proof that they all needed some goddamn hobbies. Especially seeing as I had shown exactly no interest in things like getting serious or settling down. Hell, I didn't even date casually all that much.
Maybe you wouldn't be so fucking grumpy if you were getting some on a regular basis. That was Shane, the youngest Mallick, a giant wall of a man who worked as a loanshark enforcer. And also happened to own the gym I worked out at. Charged full price, I might add. Shane didn't believe in family and friend discounts.
"You look pissier than usual," Shane greeted me from the front desk, shooting me a raised brow.
"New client," I shot back, shaking my head.
"What's the matter? He got an ex-wife threatening him because he doesn't feel like he should have to pay his child support?"
Shane had less tolerance for the suits than I did. Even though he had a brother who was undoubtedly one himself.
"He's a paranoid jackass."
"Aren't they all?"
"Fair enough," I agreed, grabbing one of the towels, so heavily washed in bleach that I could smell it from a few feet away.
"My Ma text you yet?" he asked, lips twitching, and I knew Helen was up to something. Sometimes, she got off on making "rules" for you to be able to attend her Sunday dinner. And, well, the meal was so fucking good that you just complied, no matter how idiotic you thought it was.
"What now? It better not be a theme thing again." I still had no idea what the hell to do with my Hawkeye outfit I purchased to go to one of her costume dinners a few months back.
"Nah, she's got something fun up her sleeve. An old-school one she used to pull when my brothers and I were younger."
I had a feeling I wasn't going to like what was about to come out of his mouth. "What?"
"You have to bring a woman."
"You're shitting me. Seriously?"
"I think she must be running out of time on her bet with Mark. She's trying to force your hand. She knows Atlas and Rush never have trouble finding a date, so you got to think this is directed at you."
It was.
I had never brought a woman to the Mallick family Sunday dinners. To me, Sunday dinners with my sort-of extended family was something like bringing home a woman to your folks. You didn't do that shit casually. Or, at least, I didn't. And since all I ever had with women was casual, it didn't leave me much else to do but skip.
"If it's any consolation, it's not for this Sunday. Think she knows your charmless ass is going to need a full week and a half to find a woman who would want to be on your arm for a meal."
"Says the man who paid a woman to be on his arm the last time she pulled this shit."
"Hey, maybe she's got something there," he said, pulling out his ringing phone. "I ended up marrying Lea."
With that, he answered his phone.
Dismissed, I made my way into the gym, going even harder than I anticipated seeing as I not only had to work off the frustration about the client, but the annoyance at the Sunday dinner rules.
I could skip it.
That was an option.
But when you did, Helen felt disrespected, and you didn't want a woman like her--the fearsome woman married to a loanshark who created an empire full of his five enforcer, and ex-enforcer, sons--to feel disrespected. But you could do it.
The problem was, short of having to skip because of work, I didn't want to skip.
Because I loved Sunday dinners.
I was not a man who loved much in life.
A good cup of coffee, some smooth as fuck whiskey, and a home-cooked meal.
The only time I got a home-cooked meal was at Helen's.
It reminded me of growing up, of sitting with my mom and siblings around a table. Of the laughter once shared.
We'd all taken our mother's death hard, Scotti maybe the most since she was the only girl and the youngest, but I felt the cut of that loss sharply even after all the years.
Sunday dinners and the ultimate mother figure that Helen represented, well, they helped soothe things over.
I didn't want to skip.
Which meant I would have to find a woman to come with me before then.
Shane was right, I would probably need the whole week and a half. I didn't have the charm and laid-back boyishness of Atlas or the cocky self-assurance and teasing nature of Rush.
Christ.
I might even have to take a page out of Shane's book and pay someone.
And if that wasn't a fucking depressing thought, I didn't know what was.
The thoughts nagged me through my shower, through my quick change, during my drive toward Michael's office building, knowing he said he typically worked until seven before heading out for the night.
They even clung to the corners of my mind as I sat there, scanning the road, looking for anything suspicious.
Michael worked in an upscale district a few towns from my Navesink Bank office. Which meant that the buildings were colossal, blanking out any bit of the setting sun. The lamps lighting the streets cast most of the cars in shadow, making it impossible to see what--or who--might be inside any of them.
It wa
s a long, frustrating twenty minutes with my thoughts racing around uncharacteristically until the client finally moved out the front doors, pausing there to check his phone for a solid five minutes, giving me just enough ammunition to call him a clueless idiot.
If you thought you were being stalked, you got your ass out of and into safe spaces as quickly as possible. He was practically asking to be shot if that was what his supposed stalker had in mind.
He finally got into his Porsche, turned it over, and pulled out without so much as looking. As though the rest of the word should cater to his whims.
I figured that was it, that I was going to call this a night.
And then another car shot out of its spot with a similar carelessness, but hung back several car lengths until Michael turned the corner, then carefully followed along after another car had moved between them.
That that looked suspiciously like a tail.
A bad one, since the whole point of tailing someone was to do it without anyone suspecting you.
Maybe the client wasn't so paranoid after all.
I followed suit several cars back, keeping an eye on the tail more than Michael since their moves were what mattered most. No turn signals. Rushing through yellow lights.
In ten minutes, I was sure of it, sure enough to jot down a hasty, nearly illegible note on an envelope balanced on my dash.
The final turn I knew to be the client's one.
Back to his house.
There was a pause from the other car--another black car but one that stood out because not many people drove a Tesla Model X's with their ridiculous Falcon Wing doors and uppity hybrid motors, and 100 grand price tags--long enough that it was suspicious since there was no stop sign or light in sight. And then it swerved suddenly to the opposite side, racing down the side street in the other direction.
I didn't see much save for very blonde--almost white--hair.
So long as they didn't spot me tailing them, then I would easily be able to pick out a Tesla X driven by someone with white-blonde hair the next time I staked out Michael's work.
Lock You Down Page 1
