Lock You Down Page 8

  He'd looked like he wanted to throttle me when I had insisted on taking my own car. Whether that was because he thought our 'date' would be more convincing if we showed up together, or because he wanted to corner me and talk about what happened in my office was beyond me.

  As for me, well, the reason I chose my car was because I needed time and space to think, to get my head straight.

  I wasn't, almost as a rule, a slave to the impulses of my body. Much to Krissy's complete confusion, my body rarely ever ran the show. I figured that was how I was wired. I didn't even get a tingling of physical attraction until I thought I had a pretty good idea of who a person was. I was turned on by traits of the mental kind instead of physical.

  There was no denying, though, that there was a tingling. There was more than a tingling. There was a bomb that ignited in my system just by feeling his knuckle graze my spine. I had been so unprepared that I couldn't have talked sense into my overwrought system if I tried. I got too far too fast.

  One second, I was fretting about running late. The next, every inch of my body felt overly sensitive, felt desperate for touch.

  I hadn't gotten nearly enough.

  Even after a ten-minute drive, I could feel a pulsing sensation in a very personal place, could feel the adrenaline skittering over my nerves, could feel a warmth across my skin, and this oppressive, borderline painful pressure on my lower belly.

  But at least I got a chance to take a couple deep breaths, get some blood back into my brain where I desperately needed it.

  Because, really, what the hell was that?

  I didn't let men practically maul me at work.

  Hell, I wasn't sure I'd ever properly been mauled at all if that overwhelming surge of need was what came along with it.

  I was pretty sure I left scratch-marks on his neck for goodness sakes. From a kiss.

  I needed to get it together. Things were complicated enough with Nixon and me. We didn't need to throw sex into the mix. I mean he was the private security to the guy I had been stalking. I was his date to a family event. My coworkers thought he was going to be working with us in advertising.

  It was a spider's web of lies.

  I couldn't help but wonder if I was going to be the one stuck in it in the end, trapped, devoured by an impossible situation.

  The rap at my window had me jolting, turning to see Nixon's abdomen standing there, waiting for me.

  I'd parked on the street instead of the massive driveway, giving myself an easy escape should I need it.

  Remembering myself and the plan, and my need to appear a normal girl to his family, I cranked down the volume, making Ja Rule nothing but a grumble in the speakers, then cut the engine, waiting for Nixon to move out of the way so the doors could do their fold-upward thing.

  As a whole, I wasn't awestruck by things that money could afford you. I had been raised in a well-off family who were friends with even more wealthy individuals. I had seen it all. But, yeah, those doors still always got to me a bit.

  "Hold on," I said, moving around to the trunk. "I got a hostess gift."

  "You brought a hostess gift," Nixon repeated, like he was trying to make sense of those words.

  "It's good manners," I insisted, pulling out the boxes.

  To that, he shook his head, running a hand across the back of his neck. "Babe, we are from completely different worlds," he declared.

  There was some truth in that, of course. He'd been, well, I don't know. Likely middle class. Or lower if it eventually led him into a life of crime. I knew enough about wealth disparity to admit that, yeah, in a way, we did come from completely different worlds.

  "Of course you wouldn't bring a hostess gift. You are family. I'm not. Besides, I figured you would want me to make a good impression."

  "What did you get them?" he asked, eyeing the boxes.

  "For Mr. Mallick--"

  "Charlie. Call him Charlie."

  "Okay. For Charlie, I have Cedros Deluxe Cervantes."

  "Cigars?" he clarified.

  "Yes. And I got..."

  "Helen," he filled in for me.

  "Helen La Maison Du Chocolat."

  "That sounds stupidly expensive."

  "They're not so bad. The chocolates, I mean. I think they were like seventy-five."

  "For a box of fucking chocolates? Do they give you an orgasm when you eat them or some shit?"

  My smile was immediate and wide, finding myself oddly charmed by his attitude. "Practically, yes."

  "Wait... you clarified that the chocolates weren't expensive. Does that mean the cigars were?"

  "I mean, I guess that depends on your budget."

  "Reagan..."

  "They were only about two-hundred."

  "Only," he scoffed.

  "It is a nice gesture," I insisted.

  "I'm not disagreeing with you," he said, holding up a hand. "It's just a little over-the-top."

  "Over-the-top is the fifteen-hundred-dollar cigars my father and his friends smoke during think tank meetings. These are just, you know, a little taste of luxury. I mean, not that they don't know luxury. This is a beautiful home."

  It was, too.

  I wouldn't quite call it a mansion, but I felt justified in referring to it as an estate with its beautifully managed grounds and the pristine outside of the home.

  Loansharking paid well, it seemed.

  "The Mallicks have very diverse portfolios," Nixon told me as we started walking, reading my mind. "They own something like a dozen legitimate businesses. And, lately, a fair amount of real estate. They could go fully legit if they wanted to."

  "Why don't they?"

  "I guess it is a legacy thing. The only reason they got all of this is because of how hard Charlie and Helen worked for it in the beginning. I get that."

  "I do too, I guess," I agreed, feeling myself stiffen when his hand pressed to my lower back. I couldn't just move to the side like I did back at the office. We had to appear like we were comfortable touching. Even if his palm felt like it was burning a hole in my dress.

  "Fair warning," he said as we came up to the front door. "It is going to be loud as fuck in here. And not just because of the kids. Doesn't sound like you have a big family, so I thought I would prepare you."

  I didn't. It had been my parents and my siblings only. Both sets of grandparents had passed in my early childhood. There had been no siblings for our parents, no distant cousins.

  "I am warned," I agreed with a little nod as he reached for the door with his free hand, then ushered me inside.

  If I thought the exterior was nice, the interior put it to shame.

  I'd always been raised in very carefully curated homes. Everything was white. All the pieces of furniture and art were carefully chosen and placed. It was, if I was being objective, a bit like living inside a catalog shoot full time. Lovely, but not exactly comfortable.

  Helen, on the other side, had chosen her home for comfort, for long evenings spread over the living room sectional with her children and grandchildren, for giant family dinners in the massive dining room. Family pictures littered the walls and the mantle. It was beautiful too, but still homey.

  I immediately wanted to kick out of my shoes, grab the blanket on the back of the couch, and cuddle up to watch a show.

  It never occurred to me until that moment that my life was lacking that homey feeling.

  "You weren't kidding," I said when a chorus of voices--surprisingly, mostly adult- met my ears as soon as we moved inside.

  The door closing behind us seemed to mute one voice in particular, the man who must have been the patriarch Charlie Mallick himself with his handsome face, bright eyes, and black and silver hair.

  "You made it," he said, smile inviting as he moved away from the men he was standing with, all of them younger versions of himself, one of them I was pretty sure I recognized from my occasional trip to the gym for a cycling class when I needed to clear my head. "And you brought a girl. Helen will let you eat now," he said,
moving to stand before us.

  "Charlie, this is Reagan. Reagan, Charlie Mallick."

  "It's so nice to meet you. Thanks for having me to your home," I said, holding out the box of cigars.

  I knew it was the right choice when his eyes lit up. "I'm going to have to sneak outside with these, or my wife will have my head. But thank you, sweetheart. You'll want to bring her in to see the women," he added to Nixon before moving off to show his sons his gift.

  If I wasn't mistaken, as Nixon led me through the house, I was pretty sure I saw four black-haired heads following one silver-and-black one out the front door. Likely to open the box. Which gave me a warm feeling as we closed in on the back of the house where female voices were raised. Happy, laughing.

  "Nixon!" a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman to whom the resemblance was too striking to be anyone else than his sister. Scotti. "And look, Nixon brought a girl everyone!" she added, making conversations stop, heads swivel.

  "Well, he better have," a woman, older than the rest, beautiful as all of them, broke away from the crowd, wiping her hands on a rag as she went. "That was the rule," she added, giving Nixon a warm smile as she stood before us. "Do I need to school you on your manners?" she asked when he didn't immediately begin introductions."

  "Helen, this is Reagan. Reagan, Helen."

  "Tell me, Reagan. Are you here against your will?" she asked, trying to make her voice grave, but her eyes were dancing. "Blink twice if you are," she added, making a laugh bubble up and burst out of me.

  "Our Nixon here hasn't had the best track record with the ladies," another brunette declared as she rolled something out on the counter.

  "Lea," Nixon supplied, voice near my ear.

  "Thanks for having me," I said to Helen, holding out the box of chocolates. "You have a lovely home."

  "Ohh," another woman said, moving in closer. This one was blonde and heavily tattooed. Her hand was reaching out toward the box.

  "They're not for you," Helen scolded, whacking the woman on the hands with the box. "Alright. You go hang out with the men who are trying to pretend they're not smoking cigars in the backyard," Helen told Nixon, making me smile even wider. "Leave the girl with us."

  "Will I get her back in one piece?" he asked, raising a brow at her.

  "If she is strong," Helen told him, making him chuckle before leaning down by my ear.

  "They're nice. Just overwhelming. I'll be back in a few."

  With that, he sauntered off, and I turned back to face shocked expressions. One woman, a black-haired beauty wearing a shirt that declared I'd Rather Be With My Dog was clutching a hand to her chest. "Aww!"

  "Down, Savvy," a mermaid-haired woman with tattoos demanded, shaking her head. "For all you know, they might just be organ grinding."

  "Can you cook, Reagan?" Helen asked, placing her chocolates above the refrigerator before going back to snapping green beans.

  "I am a really sufficient stirrer," I declared, earning a smile from a few of the gathered women.

  Seven in total were my age or older, likely the girlfriends or wives of the Mallick and Rivers brothers. Another was younger. A late teenager, by my estimate. Pretty like her mother--the one with tattoos.

  "Quick introductions. We have... Scotti, Savea, Peyton with the crazy hair, Dusty over there washing potatoes, Lea, Autumn at the stove, and then that is Mayla by her mother, Fiona."

  "I promise to try to remember a third of those," I told them as I moved closer to the island, looking for some way to make myself useful. But as I was decidedly not a cook of any sort, I had no idea what to do.

  "I know, it's archaic, isn't it?" Fiona asked, rolling her eyes. "The men get to be out there smoking cigars while we little ol' ladies have to be in the kitchen slaving away at a meal."

  "She's just bitter because she has been banned from doing any of the real cooking."

  "I burned the sauce once. Once."

  "And by 'burned the sauce,'" Lea chimed in, "she means she set Helen's stove on fire."

  "Well... who left me unsupervised?" Fiona shot back, nudging her daughter to the side so she could help roll up what looked to be croissants.

  "So, Reagan, what do you do?" Scotti asked, clearly the one who had more of a stake in who I was as a person since I was supposed to be dating one of her big brothers.

  "I run a whiskey company."

  "Shut up," Fiona said, shaking her head. "That is too rom-com-y. Isn't it?" she asked. "Nixon loves whiskey, she..."

  Fiona trailed off as the back door flew open, ushering in a man who had to be one of Nixon's brothers. The same height, similar build, same hair, same eye color. Only this one was a bit tanner than Nixon. And his smile came easily and fully.

  "Ladies," he greeted, walking up behind Autumn and biting a noodle out of her hand as she lifted it to taste it herself. "What are we all... oh," he said, trailing off when his gaze landed on me. His smile faltered, changed a little. His eyes went knowing. Like... knowing knowing. "Hey Reagan," he greeted, something in his tone confirming my thoughts. That he knew who I was. Not Reagan, Nixon's date. But Reagan, the stalker.

  "I, ah, hey," I greeted.

  "You've met Atlas before?" Scotti asked, sounding a little put-out, like she was upset she didn't get first approval.

  "No no," Atlas said, shaking his head. "We just know of each other, right?" he asked.

  "Right," I agreed even if my knowledge of him paled in comparison to his knowledge of me.

  "She drives a nice car. Rush is going to want a tour of it when he sees you're here," he added.

  "Oh, when you see Rush," Lea started, eyes mischievous, "ask him if he's read any good books lately."

  There was a collective snicker, shared smiles, and I was clearly out of an inside joke.

  "Stop book shaming him," Peyton piped in.

  "You don't get to play innocent little librarian with the horror porn you read, you perv, you," Fiona teased.

  "Girls in glass phone sex operation buildings don't get to throw dildos," Peyton shot back."That doesn't work out logically, but it sounded cool," she added.

  "Babe," another male voice joined, making me turn to find a good-looking guy with a leather biker jacket on. "How the fuck long has there been a pink vinyl pussy stuck to the back of my bike?" he asked, holding up the sticker in question.

  "You put Janice right back where you found her," Peyton demanded.

  "Janice?" Autumn asked, smiling.

  "That's Sugar," Fiona offered. "He's Peyton's guy. And he puts up with a lot from her."

  "I don't see the problem," Peyton insisted, shrugging. "Isn't that the ultimate chest-banging, dick-swinging, biker thing to have?"

  "Baby, guys don't think pink pussy stickers are masculine at all."

  "Fine. I'll stick her on my car instead."

  "She'll be right at home beside the cock sticker," Sugar told her, sticking Janice to the back of his woman's arm before rounding the counter again.

  "He knows his name is Herbert," Peyton said, tsking her tongue as she moved to slip the sticker into her purse sitting on one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

  "You'll get used to it," the blonde who had been introduced as Dusty told me, offering me a warm smile. "I know it feels like a lot at first. Sometimes, I still get overwhelmed."

  "It was worse when all the kids were little," Autumn added.

  "Don't remind me that all my kids are pretty much grown now," Fiona pleaded, running her fingers through her daughter's hair.

  "Speaking of your girls," Lea said, nodding her head toward the back door where a pretty early-twenties-something girl was charging up the back deck. Everything about her gait and the tightness to her jaw said something was wrong.

  A second later, she flew in the back door, long hair waving behind her, eyes sparking off as she slammed the door behind her.

  "Uh oh," Dusty said under her breath.

  "I. Am. Going. To. Chop. His. Balls. Off," she declared, tone sharp; if words could cut, we'd all be bleeding.


  "I have a really sharp butcher's knife," her grandmother supplied calmly, casually, not missing a beat, actually gesturing toward the drawer where I imagined it lived.

  "I have handcuffs you can use to restrain him," Autumn offered.

  "I got a garage you can string him up in," one of the Mallick sons- the biggest of them, I would imagine, with his rippling muscles- chimed in, walking in the room, face serious.

  "You don't even know what this is about," Lea, presumably his woman since he moved in behind her, objected.

  "Heard something 'bout chopping off balls. That's all I need to hear. I've never shied away from a little bloodshed."

  Surely that was the case with his profession.

  "As much as I love the wrath and vengeful badass look on you, Becca," Fiona started, head dipped toward her shoulder as she looked over her daughter, "perhaps we should know the situation before we start talking about neutering a man."

  "So, you know that job I have been busting my ass trying to get interviewed for over the past three months?" Becca asked, hopping herself up on the counter, jaw ticking.

  "Yes," Fiona agreed.

  "The job I was born for? The one I have been dreaming of for, oh, I don't know, ten years, give or take?"

  "I am aware of the job, honey," Fiona agreed. "What happened? Did the interview guy grab ass? Was he a creep?"

  "The interview never freaking happened. They called and cancelled. The position had been filled. You'll never guess by who," she added, and I was sure her eyes were getting a little glassy.

  "Oh, Beccs," her mother said, clearly starting to put the pieces together. "No."

  "He didn't even want the job!" Becca shrieked, running a hand through her long hair, making it fall a little messier than before. "He didn't want the job. And he laid there in bed with me night after fucking night listening to me talk about how much I wanted it. And he swooped in and he stole it from me. And then, the best part. You want to know the best part?"

  "There is no good part to this story," Fiona said, choosing her words carefully. "But get it all out."

  "The best part is he came home bragging about it like he wanted me to be happy for him."

  The tears were flowing openly now. I didn't even know the girl, but I wanted to wrap her up in my arms.