Mark (The Mallick Brothers #3)

by Jessica Gadziala

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  RIGHTS

  DEDICATION

  - ONE

  - TWO

  - THREE

  - FOUR

  - FIVE

  - SIX

  - SEVEN

  - EIGHT

  - NINE

  - TEN

  - ELEVEN

  - TWELVE

  - THIRTEEN

  - FOURTEEN

  - FIFTEEN

  - EPILOGUE

  - TIMELINE

  - DON'T FORGET

  - ALSO BY JESSICA GADZIALA

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  - STALK HER!

  MARK

  A Mallick Brothers Novel

  --

  Jessica Gadziala

  Copyright © 2017 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: Shutterstock .com/Arthur-studio10

  DEDICATION

  To Chloé Sanossian -

  For helping keep me sane through an insane time and

  discussing awesome TV shows and feminism.

  Pomegranates ... amiright?

  ONE

  Mark

  "Whose blood is that?"

  This wasn't an altogether unusual greeting in my family, especially among me and my brothers. Being in our line of business, it was a valid question. On any given day, it could belong to one of fifty people who had defaulted on a loan Pops gave them. Most days, the answer wouldn't be what mine was right then.

  "My own," I said, lifting up my hands to look at them, seeing the dried blood there like I had forgotten it existed. I had. What can I say, when you lived a rough and tough life like we did, bloodstains were as normal as sweat stains. "Fucking engine on one of the machines didn't want to start today. Guess I got a bit overzealous with the wrench. Whose dog is that?"

  Eli was a lot of things- an artist, good with words, laid-back, dangerous as fuck. But a dog owner he was not. Yet there he was, standing outside Chaz's with some ugly as fuck mutt on a bright orange leash. See, I was a dog person. But ugly was ugly, even if it was man's best friend. And this beast looked like he had lived a rough life. You know, all ten weeks of it. His hair was sticking up in patches, a mix of colors like that of a border collie, but with a flatter snout, straight-up ears, giant feet, one bright blue eye, and one gray one.

  "Some asshole left him next to the dumpster out back last night." Eli's voice was low and livid and, given that it was dropping down to twenty at night and the dog was too young to be away from a mother, let alone withstand that kind of temperature drop, that shit made sense. "So I guess he's mine now. It's fine. You can pet him. It's not mange. I had him at the vet. He's just got a fucked up coat like that." I bent down to pet him, surprised when he rolled over and invited it. "Best bet, he's like some fucked up border collie and husky mix. Really lost the genetic lottery."

  "Hey even ugly dogs are a chick magnet," I said, shrugging. "Did you give it a name?"

  "Coop."

  "The girls are gonna be over all the time seeing him. Were there any siblings left that you could drop on Hunt's door? He'd really appreciate it," I added with a smirk, knowing Fee wasn't a huge dog person, though it was likely because she had three wild animals in her house already, also known as her three daughters.

  "Only one we could find, and we looked all over just in case. Last I heard, Becca wanted a snake, not a dog anyway."

  "It's fluffy and it has four legs, they're gonna be all over him. Did you get the text from Pops?" I asked, bringing it back to business. "Shane already talked to the asshole last week. You're up."

  "Yeah," he agreed, nodding, knowing the drill. He was the last resort. He was who made men really, really wish they had paid off their debt before he darkened their door. And, for the most part, he was the most underutilized of the whole team.

  Pops made the deals. Ryan had a mostly-civil visit with you if you are due to pay and you haven't yet. Then I was called in to get a little more firm, sometimes shed some blood, but just as often not. Then if I wasn't enough, in came Shane who stained your carpets with your own plasma. Chances were, you paid up after Shane was done with you. Who would sign up for more of that? So Eli was free and clear most of the time to do whatever he wanted, run his businesses, do his art shit. If he had one call a month from Pops, that was a lot. Which, in all of our opinions, was for the best. When Eli raged out, it wasn't pretty.

  "Pops said he is tagging along this time. He fucking hates this bastard."

  Eli often needed a babysitter when he was on a job, someone to call him off before shit got too out of hand. Usually, it was me. Occasionally, Shane would step in. Rarely, Ryan. Pops almost never went out on the job anymore. But this asshole was supposedly using the money he got loaned to take care of his sick daughter, making Pops a lot more lenient on the interest and the timeframe. Turns out the fuck didn't even have any kids.

  Pops had been loansharking long enough to know that shit came up and people didn't always make their payments. It was part of the job and he wasn't bothered by it. But being lied to? Yeah, he didn't tolerate that shit.

  "Interesting," Eli said, still as calm as ever. That was the thing with him. His rage was a switch that could get flipped. It wasn't a part of his daily persona. "Alright, well, I have to dog proof my place. I'll see you at Ma's tomorrow."

  Sunday dinner.

  No excuses.

  All five of us, all in our thirties, and our asses still were scared of what a woman like Helen Mallick would do to us if we didn't show. Scared enough that none of us ever attempted it. Also, what red-blooded man would turn down a home cooked meal?

  I went into the bar for a few, bullshitting with Ryan over the books, and getting the ever-elongating "honey-do" list for the woman's shelter that I was convinced was built on an ancient Native burial ground or something because the goddamn place was cursed. Something was always fucking breaking. And I was always the one the work was pawned off onto, being the best with home improvement shit like that.

  Then I took myself out into the back lot, admiring my new baby as I walked up to her. Brand fucking new pickup with titanium body, a sparkling black pearl paint job, and every single bell and whistle the dealership could con me into.

  What can I say, I am a sucker for bells and whistles.

  Backup camera? Check. Satellite radio? Check. Butt warmers and coolers? Check and check. You name it, I had it.

  But I spent a lot of time in my truck. Within a year, it would be scratched and dinged and busted all to shit thanks to the constant loading and unloading of tools, the tendency I had to use my personal vehicle to pull trees out of the ground instead of one of my landscaping trucks, and all matter of crap that happened when you were a truck guy because you used your truck, not just liked the look of it.

  So I enjoyed the pristine look for the short period of time that it lasted.

  I was barely in the seat before my phone was buzzing in the cupholder. "Yeah, Ma?"

  "Sticker books, dishwasher detergent, and wee-wee pads for th
at new dog of your brother's."

  So yeah, my mother did shit like that, calling and demanding things. That being said, she also was the type to drop off baked goods when she was in a good mood, so the occasional errand wasn't a big deal.

  "Got it."

  "Six," she said, hanging up without waiting for a response.

  My plans for a beer in front of my TV would have to wait since the only place I could find that odd assortment of items was a goddamn box store where I was bound to get lost for three and a half hours and come out not only with those three things, but about three-hundred dollars worth of other shit that I probably didn't need.

  The last time I hit a box store, I somehow ended up with three bag's worth of As-Seen-On-TV items that had been cluttering up my closet ever since. Why the fuck I ever thought I would need a zucchini noodle maker was beyond me.

  They pumped drugs through their fucking ventilation systems, I swear.

  But at least I could get another case of beer and maybe something to make for dinner.

  One hour later, I was elbow-deep inside a discount DVD bin. Why? That was a good question. Literally every single DVD in the damn thing was available for streaming which meant I wouldn't even have to get off the couch to watch the damn thing which, as we all know, is the goddamn dream. Those were hard days those 'get up to put a movie in' days.

  Finally shaking myself out of the box-store stupor I was in, I put back the copy of Bad Boys 2 and made my way out of the belly of the beast and back toward the registers.

  Even at mid-day, literally twenty minutes from school-let-out which was when I did all my shopping in the hopes of avoiding the crush, it was relatively busy; full of poor souls who lost track of the hour, day, week, and their life as a whole thanks to the vortex of stark fluorescent lights and an endless maze of aisles.

  I followed the lights for the check-out, promising to empty my wallet of a good three-hundred bucks for shit I didn't need, when it happened.

  The lights cut out.

  And being that it was March and that meant there were no AC-drains on electric lines like we occasionally got in the summer, there were no storms going on, and stores like this had a whole-store generator back-ups for this kinda shit, I stopped short.

  Maybe there was no actual, concrete reason for me to feel this way, but there was an unmistakable tightening in my gut, like there usually was before a fight broke out inside Chaz's or I was about to do a job for Pops. But there it was regardless. My body was preparing for something.

  Feeling a bit like a sitting duck in the middle of the main path, I pushed my cart down an aisle, walking quietly toward the back of it toward the wall, standing beside the end-cap, and waiting for some sign, any sign that my body wasn't being ridiculous.

  A shadow moved its way down the aisle in front of me. Even as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could make out the long, lean frame of a woman with long, dark hair. Her back to me, that was about all I could make out. Well, that and the fact that she was walking carefully, lifting and putting down her sturdy combat boots like the touch of the rubber soles on her feet might give her away.

  Maybe having the same stomach-tightening thing I was having and wanting to get herself more hidden.

  Obviously oblivious to me, she backed up almost into me, leaving barely four inches between the both of us.

  The silence was oddly heavy as her scent filled my nostrils. It was nice too- nothing too chemical-smelling. It was herbal, hints of lavender and maybe some citrus. Unique, alluring, and just a hint, as perfume should be. I had come home far too many nights out with women and needing to strip and throw my clothes in the wash immediately because I couldn't stand the smell of the crap they practically bathed in.

  I was pretty much convinced it was just some grid-problem or wiring problem or some other random shit, resigning myself to the fact that I would have to abandon my items and then head to another big box store to get the shit my mother wanted when it happened.

  Even if you were unfamiliar with the sound, if it wasn't a constant part of life in a criminal underbelly, even if you didn't know because you had heard the sound caused by your own hand and finger before, you knew the sound of gunfire when you heard it.

  My blood went cold as my gut tightened harder.

  What followed for me was instinct, maybe because I had sisters-in-law who meant the world to me, maybe because I plain loved women, maybe it was just some primal neanderthal instinct long-buried. But one second I was standing there, ears aching with the loud, close sound of guns going off within a closed store. The next, my hand was clamped down on the random woman's mouth.

  "Sh," I demanded as my other arm went around her stomach, pulling her back flush against my chest, dragging her out of view if someone did pass by.

  Who the fuck fired guns in big box stores?

  Crazy fucks. Guys off their meds with sawed-offs and a grudge against their ex-wives.

  But they wouldn't be smart enough to cut the power.

  No.

  That was professional shit.

  And professional shit meant that they were likely there to rob the place.

  Know how much cash was around in the twelve or so lanes of check-out at a big box store? Enough. Enough to take the risk to pull off a daylight robbery. Enough to figure out how to cut the lights. And if they knew how to cut the lights, they knew to cut the cameras.

  As if lining up with that train of thought, I saw a dark-clad figure from between two of the displays that were currently blocking myself and the woman from view of the registers. They could cut the light, but there was nothing they could do about the sliding doors of the entrance, bringing in streaks of sunlight. Just enough of it to really be able to make out the men in the beginning stages of a robbery.

  And those men, yeah, they didn't even have fucking masks on. Not one of the three that I could see.

  It was dark enough that it likely worked to their advantage, cast enough of their features in shadow that not even I could properly give a description to a sketch artist, let alone the men and women at the registers who were too busy choking on their own fear to pay any attention to things like brow structure or eye color.

  All I could say for sure was they were all tall, dark-haired, and fit. That was it. And I was close enough to make out more, to make out it all if there was better light.

  "No one is going to get hurt," one of them called, making me let out a slow breath, taking some of the tension with it. Because they didn't say 'if you do what we say, no one will get hurt.' They didn't put everyone's safety in the hands of the other scared idiots around them who might try to get some grand ideas. Maybe it was naive to take a criminal at their word. That being said, being who I was, doing what I did for a living, I knew a lot of criminals. I knew them well enough to know when they were bullshitting you. These guys weren't bullshitting. They were there for the money that was carefully being emptied into store bags at the three registers that men were standing near.

  "Fifteen," another of the men called to the others. Then, several seconds later. "Ten."

  Because, as I said, they were professionals. They knew that chances were, a silent alarm was triggered and at least ten calls had already come from scared shoppers to the NBPD.

  "Scott. The fuck are you?" The one who spoke first, seeming to maybe be the leader, called out, looking around a little worriedly.

  They were missing a member somewhere.

  "Five, four, three," the other one kept calling out as he collected bags.

  "Scott!"

  "One. We got to go," the other called, grabbing the leader's arm, pulling hard. "You know the drill. We got to go."

  Then, with that, they did.

  Where?

  I had no fucking idea.

  One minute they were standing there by the registers. The next, all I heard were boots running.

  All I did know was that they did not leave out the front doors that were literally five feet away from them.

  Against me
, the woman yanked against my hold. "Not yet," I said down close by her ear, voice barely more than a whisper. And, hand to fucking God, a shiver coursed through the woman, making an unmistakable and completely inappropriate spark of desire shoot through me. It was the adrenaline, for both of us. The whole near-death thing was always an aphrodisiac I had heard once. People in situations like that always got horny, always wanted a fuck to reaffirm life.

  Lord knew I would likely be hitting up Chaz's later, or maybe going through my contacts and finding a female buddy who was always up for a casual thing.

  You know, after the statement-taking of the cops and the countless calls I'd have to make to my family to tell them. This shit was juicy. They would eat it up. Professional store robbers in the area? That was a new one.

  Distracted, I was caught completely off-guard when one of those combat-booted feet of hers slammed down hard on the top of mine. It wasn't the hesitant, careful way most women would do it, programmed from the cradle by society to be softer, sweeter, acceptably weaker. I heard somewhere that that was the biggest problem women had in self-defense training, the cringe-factor, the bone-deep instinct to never hurt anyone, to always be accommodating. This woman though, yeah, she didn't suffer with the need to be soft, sweet, or accommodating. And if I weren't hissing and genuinely wondering if I maybe needed to get my damn foot X-rayed, I would have found that sexy as hell.

  And literally during the course of her spin around to face me, the lights cut back on, making my own hurt at the sudden change of contrast, making her blurry for a long second until my eyes adjusted.

  And fuck.

  She could break my foot any goddamn day.

  Even in the dark, with her body plastered to me, I knew she was long and lean, but seeing it in light just cemented the idea. She was all legs and torso with just the barest hint to hip and chest, dressed in black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a black t-shirt. Her shiny, thick dark brown, almost black, hair cascaded down her back and arms, framing a face that belonged on magazines, not in a random cheap-laundry-detergent store.