Mallicks: Back to the Beginning (Mallick Brothers Book 5)

by Jessica Gadziala

  Because, quite frankly, I couldn't think of anything better than coming home after a day of work to see her in the kitchen waiting for me. I'd bend her backward, kiss her like I'd just returned from a war, then head upstairs to kiss my kids goodnight.

  That was the dream.

  No.

  The goal.

  Dreams were these watery, undefined wishings.

  This wasn't a wish, a hope.

  This was something I would work toward. Every day. Every night.

  Until I made it a reality.

  This woman, I decided, turning my head on the pillow - even such a small motion sending a shock of pain through my system - to look at her, her hair waving a bit now that it was fully dry, her lips parted ever so slightly, her dark lashes resting softly on her cheeks, my future wife, yeah, she was going to have the life she fucking deserved.

  "What do you mean no?" I asked the next morning over the free packets of plain instant oatmeal, and just as unappetizing instant coffee, watching her roll her eyes at me.

  Roll her eyes.

  Like talking about setting up an apartment was the most asinine idea she had ever heard.

  "I think that it's a waste of a huge chunk of that money."

  "A roof is a waste of money."

  "We have a roof here," she said, shrugging.

  "This is a sleep-and-fuck motel, babe," I objected, wondering if maybe she was still in a bit of shock. If she was just feeling safe here, and that was why she seemed reluctant to leave.

  "While I was making us this grand breakfast," she said, sending me a wry smile, "I had some time to think."

  "About?"

  "Options. One is what you suggested. The typical thing someone does in this situation."

  "But you have a more unconventional idea," I guessed.

  "Exactly."

  "Care to share?"

  "This lovely motel," she started, sarcasm heavy in her words, at least reassuring me that she wasn't losing her fucking mind, "costs thirty dollars a night. Thirty dollars a night is what I make serving tables. Sometimes more at the bar."

  "Okay," I said, brows drawing low, not sure where she was going with this. But it was sounding like she planned to work seven nights a week just to pay to have a roof and a bed. And... fuck no.

  "I managed to take two Rolexes, a set of diamond cufflinks, and a gold chain from my father's room while Detective Collings tied his shoe," she went on. "Which, I think, would be worth a good three or four thousand altogether."

  "Sounds about right," I agreed.

  "Why not put that money to work for us?"

  "What? Like in Atlantic City?" I asked with a smirk, never having been the best gambler in the world.

  "What did you plan to do for work, Charlie?" she asked, ducking her head so that her ear almost touched her shoulder. "Stock shelves at the grocery store? Pump gas?"

  "Whatever it takes," I said with a shrug.

  "Why do that when you could... put your particular talents to use."

  "To use how?" I asked, the idea of having to find yet another crime boss making my stomach pitch. I'd had nothing but bad luck with that.

  "Take that three grand And loan it out. With interest. If someone doesn't make their payments..." she trailed off, letting my 'particular talents' speak for themselves.

  "You want me to be a loanshark?" I asked, shaking my head. "Haven't you had enough of crime in your life?"

  "I've had enough bad guys in my life. Things that are technically a crime are not necessarily bad if you really think of it. Desperate people need cash. They need people to give it to them."

  "Yeah, baby, but if they don't repay it, they get their asses kicked."

  "That's a choice they made though, isn't it? There are other ways to make money. Or borrow money. They choose not to go that route. They choose to take those risks. They choose not to pay it back, knowing full-well the repercussions of that. You're not like a normal criminal, Charlie. You're not cold and heartless. It's a business, plain and simple. Your business."

  Put that way, I could almost see it, believe it.

  I'd never considered working for myself, never having the cash to start up, or the interest in dealing drugs or guns. Besides, this town - if we decided to stay here - had a strong street gang for drugs. And the ever-present Henchmen motor club dealing in black market guns.

  The mob was getting into imports.

  But as far as I knew, there weren't any loansharks.

  It was plausible.

  Possible.

  "I understand if you want out," she rushed to add, misinterpreting my silence. "If you've had enough of this life. I just wanted us to weigh all the possible options."

  "I have no problem with this lifestyle," I said carefully.

  "Then I think it's the best bet to work for yourself. Don't you? No one to beat you out or kill you if they are done with you. No one to answer to. And because our living expenses would be minimal, and I could cover them, any interest you get from loans, you can reinvest back into the business, keep building it until we are secure. Until we have a big enough surplus to move to somewhere more permanent."

  "You'd be taking care of me," I objected, thinking of her on her feet long hours serving drunks and assholes at the bar and diner.

  "We'd be taking care of each other," she corrected, reaching across the table to close her hand around mine, giving it a squeeze. "I don't mind working. I think it's not a good thing right now for me to just be sitting around in a motel room, letting my mind wander."

  She hadn't talked about it since she got up, had gone into the bathroom to take a long shower, then told me she would throw together some breakfast from the little basket the room offered.

  Not wanting to push her, I'd let it slide, figuring she'd open up when she was ready.

  I couldn't claim to have a lot of experience with female emotions, so I didn't even know if this was the right route. Or if I was supposed to tell her to talk about it, to open up, to let me in.

  Helen was an odd mix of hard and soft; I had no clue how to navigate her emotions. At least not as they pertained to something as huge as this.

  The loss of her mother figure.

  The murder of her father.

  The framing of her brother.

  Blood on the hands was not something new to me, but it was to her.

  Was she freaking out?

  Was she secure with her actions, given that she didn't have much of a choice in the matter?

  I was in the dark.

  And this was the first she had even hinted at it, at thinking about it, at worrying about it.

  "How you handling all this?" I asked, leaning back in my chair, figuring it gave her physical distance even if I was invading her thoughts and emotions.

  "Honestly?" she asked, cradling her paper cup between two hands like she needed the burn. "I don't know. I think I am a bit numb about it right now."

  "Shock," I agreed.

  "I hate that term," she told me, sighing out her air. "It makes it sound like I am too weak to handle what went down."

  "It's just your body's response to stress. It's nothing personal."

  "The police kept using the term with pity in their eyes."

  "Better pity than scrutiny, right?" I asked, knowing few others would be given the luxury of pity in such a situation. Everyone else would have been a suspect. But she was the long-suffering daughter. She had friends in high places, even if she hadn't realized she did. And, let's face it, she was fucking unbelievably beautiful. It was a factor. The police force might have been integrating more women, but it was still a male-dominated profession, with most of those men being middle-aged and sex-starved. A beautiful woman in their office with those big fucking eyes of hers and her wet hair and her fearful shaking? Yeah, their minds were not on cases. They were on bedsheets and making her feel better.

  I fought back a smile at realizing that was my place. That after months of getting to know her, easing her into physical things, I final
ly had her in my room. I'd even had her in my bed, comforting her with my presence because I was too jacked up to make the experience what it needed to be after the wait, the build up.

  And for the first time, there was certainty about that inevitability.

  Because we were free.

  Because we were discussing a future together.

  "I'm alright," she told me, shrugging a shoulder, misinterpreting my silence, making me feel guilty for letting my mind wander there when there were other issues at hand. "I think coming to terms with what happened with my father is easy to, um, compartmentalize. It's just..."

  "Helga," I supplied, letting the feet of my chair meet the ground so I could reach across the table, snagging her wrist, pulling until she got to her feet, moved around the small table, and lowered down onto my lap. My arms closed around her, smelling of strawberries even after a shower using the complimentary toiletries from the motel room as she nuzzled in under my chin, her fingers curling to bunch up my shirt in her hands. "I'm sorry, baby," I told her, pressing my lips into her hair, breathing in her scent as her air hitched, then evened out. Like she was fighting the grief. "You gotta let it out," I added, giving her a squeeze.

  "I'm afraid if I start crying, I'll never stop."

  "Eh, so?" I asked, hand running up and down the length of her spine. "We'll just tell the boys that mom is like a leaky faucet."

  She snorted at that, turning her head up to catch my eyes.

  "You don't know that they'll be boys."

  "They'll be boys," I told her with authority.

  "You'll be happy with girls too," she told me, voice a little firm.

  "Don't see how since they will be boys."

  "You're ridiculous," she declared, whacking her hand into the middle of my lower chest, forgetting that I wasn't at one-hundred-percent yet, making my breath hiss out with a curse. "I forgot!" she cried, eyes huge. "I'm so sorry," she said, jumping off my lap to grab the bottle of Ibuprofen, shaking three into her hands, then putting them into mine. I took them, gladly, because while I didn't want to make her feel bad by showing it, my fucking ribs were screaming still.

  "It's okay, babe," I told her, trying not to sound like I was gritting my teeth.

  "What can I do?" she asked. "Get some ice? Or..." she trailed off, shaking her head helplessly as her eyes studied the bed. When her gaze came back to me, though, her lids were heavy, eyes holding a promise. "I have an idea," she declared, moving forward until her legs brushed against my knees.

  Then I watched as she slowly lowered herself down in between my thighs, head lifted to keep eye-contact, to watch as realization crossed my face.

  Hell, she didn't even have to do it. The promise of it dulled the ache in my side as my blood rushed to my cock, hardening before she even reached for the button and zip of my jeans, working them down with slow fingers, her movements careful with insecurity.

  But there was determination underlying it as she reached inside, pulling my cock out of my boxers, stroking it like she had done many times before, often enough that she had long since learned how I liked it - hard and slow, finger stroking over the head at each pass.

  She stroked several times, watching me as my breath got more shallow, as need started to grip my system.

  Then and only then did she lean forward, tentatively rolling her tongue across the head, lapping up the first pearls of pre-cum, eyes on mine as she did before her lips closed around me, slowly sucking me into her mouth.

  A low whimper escaped her, vibrating through my cock, making it harden impossibly further as she fought against her gag reflex to take me a little deeper, her hand gripping the base.

  Her eyes angled back up then.

  I was buried deep, looking at the an unsure look in her eyes.

  "Fuck," I hissed, hand moving to frame her jaw. "Feels good, baby," I told her, thumb stroking over her cheek for a second before she seemed to find the confidence she needed, working me with her lips and tongue until my balls felt like they were in vice grips, threatening the inevitable. "I'm gonna come, baby," I told her, voice rough and holding a warning in case she didn't want me to come down her throat.

  But all she did was make that fucking sexy moaning noise again, her free hand moving to tease over my balls as she worked me harder, faster, until I couldn't - and didn't want to - fight the inevitable.

  I came with a curse, my hand crashing down on her shoulder, fingers curling in as I felt my cum leave me, taking way too much pleasure in the idea of it sliding down her throat, becoming a part of her.

  She worked me for a moment more before releasing me, planting a cute as fuck kiss to the head before looking up at me a bit timidly.

  "If that's how you're gonna nurse me, babe, I plan on getting hurt a fuckuva lot in the future," I told her, watching as the shyness vanished, making her lean her forehead to my knee as she laughed. "Gonna return that favor soon as I am moving without grumbling again," I told her, sifting my fingers through her soft hair as she shook her head, forehead rubbing the material of my jeans as she did. "Um, fuck yeah, I am," I informed her, reaching under to snag her chin, jerking her face up. "And I'll enjoy every fucking second of tasting your sweet pussy, baby," I informed her, making sure there was no way she could doubt my conviction. Her cheeks went pink at that, but there was no mistaking the heat in her eyes at the promise. "Until then, why don't you hop up here again," I suggested, patting my thigh. "Nope. Facing me," I told her when she went to sit across me again.

  With a furrowed brow, she climbed up, unable to brace her knees, so her whole weight fell to my legs, the bruises underneath smarting a bit, but my mind was on other things.

  Like watching her eyes get dreamy sweet as my hand moved between us, pressing down on her pussy over her pants and panties.

  "Can make you come just like this," I told her, finger sliding up her cleft, finding her clit even through the layers, smiling when her forehead crashed into my shoulder on a whimper.

  I worked her that way, like we were a couple fumbling freshmen, but there was nothing tentative or unsure in either of us, as I drove her up, as she shamelessly cried out as the need gripped her. Then moaned out my name as she came, shuddering against me.

  She was quiet for a long time, trying to even out her breathing before her body started shaking a little, making me think she was finally giving in, letting out the pain, finding catharsis through an orgasm as we were all programmed to do.

  It took me a long, embarrassing moment to realize she wasn't crying.

  She was laughing.

  "What?" I asked, confused.

  "You can't just use sexy things to distract me from our life stuff," she told me, pushing back to look at me, lips curved up.

  "Wanna bet?" I asked, shrugging a bit cockily.

  "Be serious."

  "Baby, there is nothing I am more serious about than making you scream my name."

  "We need to talk."

  "You'll learn to multi-task," I assured her, smiling when she rolled her eyes at me.

  "We'll never get anything done," she told me.

  "I'm okay with that."

  "Well," she tried, blowing her hair out of her face, prompting me to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. "Since you are laid-up right now, and you... we can't... do that. I guess this is the perfect time to hammer out the details then, since we will be too busy when you are feeling better."

  She wanted assurances.

  A plan.

  The stability of knowing what she was agreeing to.

  "I like your plan," I told her. "Working for myself. I think that might be a good plan. I have to put some feelers out, though, if we plan to stay here."

  "I'd like to stay here," she told me, words almost tripping over each other to get out.

  "Why?"

  "Because I stopped here for gas. And that is the only reason I saw your car at the motel. It was fate. I am taking it as a sign."

  Fate.

  Signs.

  I'd never really believ
ed in them.

  But if my woman believed in them, then I guess I could get behind them too.

  "Kinda works out. I worked the docks here before the mob took over," I told her. "Gives me an in. I left on good terms. I think Grassi will hear me out, agree to stay out of my way if I stay out of his. Then I just need to have a talk with the bikers and the guys over on Third Street. Throw my weight around a little. Let them know there is a new player in town."

  Her lips quirked up at one side. "What?"

  "It sounds like you are deliberately trying to get yourself hurt. You know... to, ah, endure my nursing ministrations."

  My lips curved to match hers, eyes dancing.

  "Woman, I will spend my life getting banged up just to feel your mouth on me."

  "What do I have to do to... feel yours on me?" she asked, trying her best to say it with some confidence, and mostly succeeding.

  "Breathe, baby. You just got to fucking breathe."

  "Well," she said, smiling. "I can certainly do that."

  EIGHT

  Helen

  It was the elephant in the room for the next few days, giant and in-the-face every moment we were inside the room. Which, given Charlie's condition, was most of the time.

  The bed.

  Looming large and suggestive there as we pretended to ignore it, to act as though all it was was a place to rest our bones when they got weary.

  For the first few days, that was just a saying for me as I was out of work for grief - something insisted on by all three of my bosses who had heard the stories on the news or read it in the papers.

  Brother shooting father.

  It was practically biblical.

  And, they thought, traumatizing for me, losing my whole family in a single night.

  They were both right and wrong, of course.

  I had lost my whole family.

  But that family consisted of one person.

  Helga.

  Whose body was sitting at the medical examiner's office, waiting for the investigation to close.

  And then for arrangements to be made.

  I had to find a way to handle that.

  I didn't exactly have credit to take out a loan. Or, obviously, the cash to pay it outright.