I climbed out of the truck, taking a long, deep breath. This was it. I should have been terrified. Shit your pants worried. But I felt nothing. Just numbness and a vague imprint of misery I tried to snuff out. Keeping any kind of attachment to the city, to Fee, wasn't going to do me any good here.
I swear as I walked, if you listened close enough, you could hear the wind whispering “dead man walking”. The front door made a familiar groan as Shane opened it, walking through first so he could show off the big fat mouse he brought home to his master.
The inside of the bar was sleek and upscale, not the typical dirty, disease-ridden joints most bikers frequent. The bar itself was located to the right of the door, a large blue felt pool table next to it. The walls were painted a gray that reminded me a lot of Fee's walls, but here they felt cold and unfriendly. The wood floor was stained to almost black and the walls were free of any clutter. Just tables. Small, black with matching chairs. I had spent months making them all after finally convincing my father the old ones needed to go.
“Dad,” Shane called and the voices in the room quieted immediately. Everyone knew. They knew all the Mallick boys.
I saw my other brothers, various ages and looks but all tall, dark haired, and light eyed. No one would mistake our family resemblance. They moved away from the table where I knew my father was sitting, where he always sat, facing the door with a gun on the table in front of him. My oldest brother's face gave nothing away. Silently intimidating. That was Ryan. The second oldest, Eli, softer, gentler, but with a fierce temper sent me a sympathetic look for a moment before dropping his eyes. Then Mark, glancing at me then back at our father.
Shane slammed into my shoulder as he went to stand near the others, watching me with a sneer on his face.
My father looked up slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if my disappearance hadn't been the single most important thought on his mind for the past six months. Charlie Mallick. He was an older version of all of us. Tall, lean, light eyes, dark hair with a bit of gray at the temples. He had wrinkles between his brows, but otherwise had aged well. In plain ole jeans and a black t-shirt, he was the most intimidating sight I had ever seen.
“Hunter,” he said, raising a brow at me. “It's so nice of you to come pay us a visit.”
“Wasn't as if I had much of a choice, Dad,” I said, sending Shane a sideways look.
“Where was he?” my father asked Shane whose spine immediately straightened at getting to be the golden boy.
“New York. In this shithole of an apartment, all gaga over some woman.”
God, he was such a dick. As if my running away wasn't bad enough. Now I got to be the pussy who had fallen for the first skirt who came my way in my new life. Great. Just great.
“Is that so?” my dad asked, his tone almost amused, motioning me toward the chair across from him. “Why don't you have a seat?”
“Why don't you cut the bullshit and stop acting like I have a choice in any of this?” I asked, sitting down, lounging back in my chair and making the front legs pick up off the floor.
“Shane,” he said. “Why don't you invite our guests to come back at another time?” he asked and Shane rushed to kick everyone out of the bar. I heard the shuffling of feet, the grumbling, the slamming of the door, the sliding of the lock, then finally... the silence. Shane walked back over to stand closer to my father. “Did you really think you would get away with it?”
“Get away with living my own life? As a grown ass man? Yeah, I thought I might,” I shot back, beyond caring that all I was doing was provoking his anger.
“You know the deal here, Hunter,” he said, his voice calm. “You work here. In exchange you get a nice place, cars, a certain amount of protection from your actions...”
“A life sentence doing something I don't enjoy...”
He smiled then, a slow, strange smile. “Hunt... don't even try to tell me you don't enjoy it. I've seen you. I've seen how much you like the job.”
He wasn't wrong. That was the scary part. The part I was running away from. The part that made me promise myself I would stay away from people in the city. Until I could get it under control. The anger. The anger that he had instilled in me. The anger that made me enjoy all the awful things he made me do.
“Not anymore,” I said back, choosing not to think about the time outside my apartment. The guy with his hands on Fee. The guy who would need a lot of plastic surgery to have his face look like it had before I got my hands on him.
“Well that's an easy enough fix,” he said, shrugging. “You'll be back in shape in no time.” He took a deep breath then, looking almost sad. “I'm afraid you know what happens next,” he said.
And I did. Oh, I did. And I hated him in that moment. For making it be this way. For pitting brothers against each other.
Beat-ins were common when we were younger, to find friends who were strong enough to take a beating from all of us, and therefore could be a part of our twisted little family.
Beat-outs weren't as common and were as close to lethal as possible to discourage disloyalty.
What I was about to get was somewhere in between. Something we didn't really even have a name for. This was what you got when you fucked up. When you lost money. When you got an outsider involved in our shit. And, apparently, when you tried to escape. If it had been as easy as a beat-out for me, I would have endured it a long time ago. But that couldn't happen. Not to one of his sons.
I slowly got up out of my seat, watching my father. Shane got closer, his voice taunting. “Want to take a minute to tape up those artist hands of yours? We'll wait,” he said, close to my ear.
“Fuck you, Shane,” I said, holding my arms out wide at my sides, palms out. It was clear to him, to them: I wasn't going to fight back. They could beat me. But it wasn't going to get them anywhere because I already accepted my circumstances.
There was a tension in the air as they all looked at me, at each other, then my father. This wasn't done. I didn't have a choice. I had to fight back.
My father sighed, closing his eyes for a second, then waving a hand.
I tensed for the first punch which I knew Shane had been waiting years to give me. The others hesitated, Ryan breaking free of his shock first to join in. Mark next and lastly, Eli. I couldn't blame them, not even as I felt myself fly back onto the floor, had a boot land in my side and feel my ribs breaking. This was what we were raised to do.
A call to fight was like the bell to Pavlov's dogs. We salivated for it. We could feel the anger rise up in our blood, some like mine and Eli's stronger than the others. Maybe because we weren't by nature fighters. Because he was softer, because I was resistant. Maybe the need to fight to gain validation from our father had warped us to become monsters.
So I knew it was his fists that took to my face. Just like I knew it was Ryan, with his cool, detached temper, who eventually pulled him off.
Because we knew each other. Even though we were forced into hurting each other. Even though our lives felt like a competition for our father's attentions and affections. Even though we were all cold and hard- we knew each other. Ryan knew that Eli would bash my face unrecognizable. He also knew that Eli would never forgive himself for it.
I rolled onto my side when my father finally called them off, spitting blood out onto the floor. It was bad. It was worse than I had been expecting. My face was on fire. My ribs were throbbing. I could feel soreness and stiffness in every inch.
My brothers stepped away, walking out the front door and leaving me alone with our father. “I understand why you left, Hunt,” he said, coming up next to me, kneeling next to my blood stain. “And I know you understand why I couldn't let you leave. Not like that,” he said, touching my knee then standing up and following my brothers outside.
Through the pain, I felt hope. He couldn't let me leave... like that. Which meant that maybe I could leave. Somehow. Under his terms. When he was done punishing me. When he w
as done proving to everyone that he still controlled me. Then and only then, he would let me go. But it was something. Something to cling to.
I tried to curl up on my side but my sore ribs sent white bursts of pain through my body. I ended up laying flat on my back, starting up at the ceiling, still tasting my own blood for a long time.
A while later, hours. It had to be hours. I heard footsteps. A set that didn't belong to my brothers or father, but still familiar. The click-clicking of heels, heavy and deliberate. “Mom,” I grumbled.
“Hunt,” she said, walking up to stand next to me, her heeled foot brushing my leg as she stared down at me. Now, my father was terrifying. He was a scary man to know. It went to follow that the woman who spent her life dealing with him would be submissive and kowtow to his whims. This was not true of my mother.
Helen Mallick was five-foot-nine inches of steel. She was also always one of the prettiest women in the room: long legged, thin, with sharp features, hazel eyes, and long black hair. She also had the distinction of being the fiercest human being I had ever met. Which, given all the unsavory characters I met in my line of work, was saying something.
And my father loved her. He loved her with a passion that I had always found uncomfortable. A passion that was evidenced by the five sons she gave him in under a decade. Boys she raised to be rough and tough and loyal. Boys she let beat the ever loving shit out of each other over toys, or girls, or cars. Boys she let run wild and get into all kinds of trouble.
Boys she would knock across a room if they ever dared to smart-mouth or disrespect her rules. Even as teenagers. I distinctly remember “falling” (or at least that's what we told the doctors at the hospital) out of a window when I was seventeen and thought it would be a good idea to skip out on Sunday dinners. Which was unacceptable in our household.
“Having a good homecoming?” she asked, kneeling down on the floor by my stomach and pulling up my shirt. Her fingers pressed into the bruised skin over my ribs and I let out a string of curses that had a smile toying at her lips. “Glad to see they didn't break your spirit even if they did break a rib or two.”
“So what's next?” I asked, shaking my head. “Gonna throw me down in the basement? Chain me up like one of the scumbags who don't pay back their loans?”
“Don't be silly,” she said, reaching down to grab my arm and help me up. “You'll be back at your old place. You brothers should have your new crap all unpacked by the time you get there. I suggest slapping on some elastic bandages and some triple antibiotic because your dad is probably going to have you out on a job tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I growled, the sound coming out jumbled with my swollen lips.
“He thinks it will be good for you to get right back in the thick of it. Wont leave you time to get all resentful.”
“More so than I am now?” I asked, reaching up to touch the side of my face which felt particularly damaged and feeling the swollen flesh underneath my hand. “I don't think that is possible at this point, Mom. But thanks for the warning.”
“Hunt,” she called as I slowly wobbled toward the door.
“Yeah?” I asked, half turning to her.
“Talk to your father. I know you think he's just a monster, but he's a man. And though it's hard to see sometimes, he's not a bad man either. He wants you boys to be happy.”
“Yeah, maybe I'll give that a try,” I said, lying through my teeth and she knew it. No fucking way was I showing that kind of vulnerability in front of him.
“Hey Hunt,” she called again and I stopped but didn't look at her. “Please tell me she's not some meek shrinking violet,” she said walking and opening the door for me.
“How did... did Shane...”
“No, baby,” she said, shaking her head and giving me one of her rare motherly smiles. “I can see it in your eyes. I am your mother, you know.”
I nodded, stepping outside. “No, Mom. She's a fucking blonde haired, green eyed spitfire. The second time I met her, she was breaking in and stealing my tools so I couldn't wake her up anymore.”
“Good,” she said, nodding and closing the door.
Why it was good that I had a woman my mother approved of when she damn well knew I would never see her again was completely beyond my comprehension. But it mattered to her. It always had. Any time one of us would show interest in a girl or woman who seemed timid or altogether too average, she would make a big deal about it. Because boys like us needed women who could handle us. So she became best friends with every juvenile delinquent, every drinking/smoking/ fighting trouble maker, every purple haired, pierced and tatted girl we brought home. And she shunned the ones who cheered in high school, or worked at a tanning salon, or wore demure knee-length skirts.
She really would have liked Fiona. She would approve of all the skimpy dresses, the tattoos, the phone sex job, the selling her dirty panties, hell... she would have even liked the scars. And Fiona wouldn't put up with her shit... or my brothers for that matter. She would fit right in. But now they would never get to meet her.
The walk back to my old place was long. Painful and exhausting. I could barely get five feet without having to stop, bend forward and curse the entire fucking universe. It was a walk that should have taken me fifteen minutes, but took me the better part of an hour and a half.
My old place was an apartment above a liquor store that my parents and I owned. One of their many legitimate businesses to fund their less than legal one. I wondered who they got to keep an eye on it while I was gone since each of my brothers had their own gigs: a gym, a lawn service... whatever niche my father wanted to get in on next.
The stairs up the side of the building were steep and dangerous on a good day so I let myself in through the store, grabbing a huge bottle of whiskey off a shelf, and slowly made my way up the staircase in the backroom.
My apartment in my hometown is a lot like my apartment was in the city. I had spent endless hours trying to get it right. The walls were painted a cappuccino brown, the furniture all stained a perfect antique walnut shade as were the kitchen cabinets. It was a studio and I used bookshelves to divide my bedroom from the main area. My brothers had piled everything from my other apartment into a corner next to my dining set, making the space feel cramped and claustrophobic and full of old memories.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, grabbing the plastic container of medical supplies out of the closet and dropping them onto the counter. I twisted the top off the whiskey and took a long swig before starting the cleaning up process. This was nothing new. It's impossible to tell how many times I had stood in this bathroom and fixed mine or one of my brother's busted faces. That was the business, the life.
I took as deep a breath as my ribs would allow and looked into the mirror. It wasn't pretty. My lip was busted and swollen, one whole side of my face raised and bruised, my nose was bent slightly out of shape and I grabbed it and pushed it back where it was supposed to be. It wasn't my first broken nose and it probably wouldn't be my last. I grabbed the alcohol and dabbed at the cuts, cleaning the blood away. I glued the worst of them, swapped antibiotics on the others. I chugged a fifth of the whiskey, wrapped my ribs, and fell into my bed.
The pounding in my head was what eventually woke me up, the sun shining brightly in through the windows that had the blinds drawn when I had gone to sleep. I blinked past the pain behind my eyes, turning my head to the side and seeing my father sitting there on one of the dining room chairs from the city beside my bed.
“So what's her name?” he asked leaning forward.
“Fiona,” I said, trying to rise up off the mattress and falling back with a curse. “Mom told you?”
“Shane might have mentioned something about a cactus,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “What's the deal there?”
“She gave it to me... because she's prickly.”
“Prickly,” he repeated, smiling a little. “Sounds like someone I would like to meet.”
“F
at luck with that, Dad,” I said, finally sitting up and nearly throwing up all over my feet from the pain. “She'll never forgive me for leaving without a word.”
“I think you'd be surprised, son, what a woman can forgive a man who loves her.”
“Speaking from experience?” I asked, taking the whiskey off my bedside table and tipping it up for a drink.
“You're not falling into a bottle over this,” he said, snatching the bottle from my hands.
“Good luck stopping me,” I said, shaking my head. “there's an entire liquor store downstairs.”
“Look, Hunt,” he said, his voice softer than it usually was. “I know you think I'm a real dick, but I really do want what is best for you.”
“Which is a good solid beating?” I asked.
“Once in a while, yes,” he said, smirking and I almost laughed. “You cant just run away, Hunt,” he shrugged. “It's bad for business and you know it. But if you had come to me and talked about this like men, we could have figured something out. I don't need you. I ran this business all by myself while you and your brothers were still pissing yourselves. I don't need all five of you here. And I know Ryan and Shane can hold things down. And, what's more, they want to. If this wasn't the life you wanted...”
“It's not.”
“Then you can consider this,” he said, gesturing toward my face. “your beat out. For lack of a better term. You're out. But you're still my son and I want you around.”
“What's the catch here, Dad?” I asked, knowing that when things sound too good to be true, they usually are.
“I don't know if you can call it a catch,” he said, shrugging. “Call it family obligation. I want you to be in touch. Not sneaking off to some city and not even calling your mother to tell her you're alright. She was worried sick.”
“Mom has never worried a day in her life,” I countered.
“She worries about you boys. Mostly you and Eli. She knew you guys weren't meant for this life. You had your art thing, Eli has his books. We were just waiting for you to come to us.”
For A Good Time, Call... Page 17
