Lock You Down Page 9

  I was pretty sure we'd all been screwed over by a guy at her age. I sure had. And it had felt like the whole world was collapsing around me.

  "What do you think, Reagan?" Helen asked, grandma-bear eyes furious.

  "It certainly seems like a ball-choppable offense to me."

  "Penis chopping party!" Peyton declared, slamming a knife down hard on an innocent nearby green bean. "I'll bring the ball-less cock cookies. And we can drink Bloody Benjamins!"

  "What the hell is a Bloody Benjamin?" Autumn asked.

  "It's a Bloody Mary but we put some maraschino cherries in the glasses. You know. In homage to the chopped-off balls."

  I was thrown off for a moment when none of the women moved to wrap up Becca, offer her words like "He's not worth it, you deserve better."

  But I quickly saw that this group managed to make the tears dry up quickly with their gleeful talk of retribution they all knew would never take place.

  Well, I thought so until I saw the Mallick man nodding weirdly. Tensely. Over and over for a second. His mouth was set to a hard line.

  "I'll fix this," he said, a promise in his voice as he turned and charged out of the room.

  "Oh, geez. Off he goes to rile up all the boys," Lea said, shaking her head.

  "How did you leave things, babe?" Fiona asked, handing her daughter a paper towel to dry her eyes.

  "I just stormed out. Well, I called him an asshole. Then I stormed out."

  "Well," Fiona went on, smile positively wicked. "I think after dinner, we should round up all your uncles and father and maybe even some of your cousins, drive on over to your place, and help that dickhead move right the fuck out of your apartment."

  "Do you have any of those wee-wee pads I gave you for the puppy left?" Savvy asked, smirking. "I think you might need to set one under your ex-boyfriend when they all walk through the door."

  To that, Becca snorted, her family's support helping stem the flow of grief for the time being.

  "Come over here, honey," Helen invited. "Help me make the stuffing. I'll even share some of the fancy chocolates Reagan brought for me.

  I stood there, running the whole ordeal through my head as the women got back to work, feeling just the tiniest bit of envy for what they all had. This giant group of men who would literally stand by to silently intimidate a guy for one of their girls. Men who, I was sure, would do a lot worse than silently intimidate if it was asked of them.

  That was something I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around. I had a father, but he was never the protective sort, and certainly not the super masculine sort. My brother generally thought issues of the heart were none of his business. He'd never threatened a guy who'd screwed me over. That just wasn't our family dynamic.

  I loved my family.

  But a small part of me was a little bit in love with this family too, with the love they so clearly had for one another, with their over-the-top bluntness, their open affection, their fierce protectiveness.

  Feeling overwhelmed, I silently backed out of the kitchen, made my way down the hallway, and let myself out the front door.

  "Reagan, isn't it?" another of Nixon's brothers greeted me. This one had knowing eyes as well, but there was no amusement in them, no triumphant smiles like Atlas had shown. This one was older too. Likely the oldest. Kingston.

  "Hey Kingston," I greeted him, sending him a somewhat tired smile, feeling oddly drained.

  "You look like you need a drink," he observed. "I heard they were planning a neutering ceremony in there. Not that the ass doesn't deserve it, but I get that it might have been a bit much for a first introduction."

  "It was really sweet, actually. You know, that fierce protectiveness. Becca is really lucky to have that."

  His eyes, already sweet, went softer at that. "Yeah. This is a great family. We're so lucky they took us all in as a package deal when Mark claimed Scotti. What can I get you to drink, sweetheart?"

  "If there is a bottle of wine open..."

  "Always," he assured me, giving my shoulder a little squeeze before dipping inside to fetch it for me.

  "Hey," Nixon's voice joined me a moment later. "You okay?"

  "Sorry. I will go back in there in a minute and play my part," I told him, taking a deep breath.

  "That's not what I asked, Reagan," he clarified, moving across the front porch toward me.

  "I'm fine. That is just... it is a lot of love to take in," I told him. "It's actually a little overwhelming."

  "Yeah, I get that," he agreed, dropping down onto a rocking bench, patting the space next to him. "I came from a close-knit family to begin with, but that was a lot for me in the beginning too."

  "Those women are a--"

  "Trip?" he filled in before I could find the right word.

  "That works," I agreed, nodding.

  "I think Peyton and Krissy would be fast friends," he mused.

  The thought hadn't occurred to me, but he was right. "I didn't realize there was a biker in the family."

  "This incestuous town," he said, shaking his head. "Autumn and Peyton are sisters. When Autumn shacked up with Eli Mallick, Peyton got pulled into the fold. She ended up shacking up with a Henchmen. So now he is part of the family too. Savea is Peyton's best friend. She became family as well. Then she and King finally got their heads out of their asses and started something up."

  "I think Helen likes me," I told him, voice a little small, finding it actually mattered to me that the matriarch of this crazy, amazing family liked me. "I voted yes on the ball chopping," I added, smiling a bit at how that sounded, sure I never could have imagined those words would ever come out of my mouth.

  A low chuckle moved through Nixon at that. "Yeah, that'll do it," he agreed, putting a hand on my thigh just above my knee, giving it a squeeze. "Wouldn't have thrown you into a lion's den if I didn't think they'd be nice to you, babe."

  "Sure you would have. You wanted Helen to let you eat."

  "Well, that is true," he agreed, not even bothering to look apologetic. "Did they put you right to work?"

  "Well, when they learned I didn't really have any cooking skills to speak of, they let me stand by and soak up the atmosphere instead."

  "You can't cook at all?"

  "I mean... I can feed myself if I need to," I said, shaking my head. "I make a mean sandwich. It could win awards."

  "Yeah? Don't tell them that. They'll have you making them for the next event."

  "I really like them," I admitted.

  "I do too," he agreed, his hand giving my thigh another squeeze. Then staying there.

  I knew I should have told him to move it, or crossed my legs so it would fall. Something. Anything. Because I needed to remember that we were playing at a date. Nothing more. It could never be more. Even if my lips were still tingly and swollen from his hungry lips earlier. Even if that pulsing sensation was coming back full force once again.

  "Atlas and Kingston know."

  "Yep."

  "That doesn't worry you?"

  "King minds his own business. I'll probably get a lecture later about not fucking clients. And then will have to remind him that you're not a client. It will be fine."

  "And Atlas?" I asked, remembering the glee that seemed to be in his eyes.

  "Atlas will get his rocks off by ribbing me about this shit for the next year or two."

  "They won't tell your other brother? Or your sister?"

  "As you can see, Rush is wrapped up in his flavor of the week," he said, jerking his chin toward another guy who looked just like Kingston, Atlas, and him, who had his arms dangerously low on the back of a woman wearing a second-skin kerchief dress. "And Scotti, well, she's probably just happy I found a woman who could stand my presence for an evening. She's going to let it drop at that, so she doesn't run you off."

  "You're really not that bad," I told him, shaking my head, wondering who made him think he was so unpleasant to be around.

  "I can be."

  "What? Because you're a
little grumpy? I think it's kind of cute. Like a little old man stuck in a thirty-something body."

  "Think I'm cute, huh?" he asked, and his eyes were actually dancing. It was such a striking look on his otherwise rather severe face that I felt the odd urge to reach down and place my hand over his on my knee, gave it a squeeze.

  Luckily, Kingston suddenly appeared, giving my hand a purpose so I didn't make any more mistakes.

  Soon, I was missed in the kitchen, was ushered back into the chaos, drinking my glass of wine, laughing at the stories the women told, lending a hand when something didn't require actual cooking. Loading biscuits into a basket. Moving food from pots into serving wear. Sprinkling croutons on top of the salad. They were silly little things, but somehow made me feel very much a part of the family. And, well, I liked it a lot more than I ever could have anticipated, being taken into the fold, being treated as one of their own.

  My family was always loving, but in the distant sort of way it had to be when you only saw them a handful of times a year. The Mallick clan was a different kind of love entirely, the kind that made it clear these people spent much of their free time together, that made you see that this entire group of people showed up for kid's sporting games or school plays, that said they all got together for every birthday, for every holiday, for dinners in between.

  It was the kind of closeness I shared with my siblings before we all had life take us in separate directions.

  I had never felt the loss of that more acutely than I did as Nixon was walking me back to my car at the end of the meal.

  "Well, that went pretty--fuck. Are you... don't do that. Jesus Christ," he grumbled as the tears I had hoped to keep in until I was in my car and a block away started flowing freely and with their usual vengeance. A full-on hysterical episode.

  Right there on the street out front of the Mallick home.

  Right there in front of Nixon Rivers himself.

  "Shit. I'm really not good at... okay. Fuck," he stumbled around in his feelings of inadequacy for a long moment before I suddenly felt strong arms close around me, crushing me to his wide chest.

  "I don't have the words," he told me, tone helpless, apologetic, as his arms tightened, as one hand cradled the back of my head.

  I didn't need the words, though.

  Having someone there to keep the pieces from flying all over the place while I fell apart was enough.

  Surprising even me, my arms moved out from my sides, sliding around his lower back, holding on for dear life.

  I couldn't have known how desperate I was for a hug until I had one. A long one.

  Therapy was great. It was necessary.

  But sometimes you just needed a pair of arms around you, someone who gave a shit in a more human, personal way. If only for a few moments.

  The tears flowed like they usually did, in a startling, seemingly endless wave. Until they suddenly stopped, leaving me wrung out and empty inside.

  "What was that, huh?" he asked.

  They weren't eloquent words. But I was starting to understand Nixon well enough to interpret them in the way he intended them.

  That was his way of asking if you were alright, what the problem was, and trying to make light of a clearly heavy moment all at once.

  I appreciated all of those things.

  And that was the problem, wasn't it?

  I couldn't keep letting him niggle his way in. Even if he wasn't trying to. Even if he was just trying to be a decent person.

  I was starting to recognize something in myself lately that was new and foreign and made me incredibly uncomfortable.

  There was a neediness in me.

  Something that made me want to cling to him, want to invite him into my world, wanting to spill my guts about me, my grief, about Michael, about stalking, about everything.

  There were two problems with that.

  First, I didn't want to be that person. I didn't want to be weak and needy and the kind of person who would latch herself to some unsuspecting man just because he shows her a moment of kindness.

  And second, I couldn't tell him. Even if he genuinely wanted to know. He worked for Michael. His alliance was there.

  And I couldn't risk him screwing up my plans.

  It was too important.

  It was everything really.

  I lurched suddenly away, surprising him enough to release me, taking a step back, giving me just enough room to yank open my door, slip inside, turn on the ignition.

  "Reagan, wait..." he tried, reaching for the door handle.

  But I was already stomping on the gas.

  The car swerved up onto the Mallick's lawn to avoid taking another swipe at Nixon, and I made myself a mental note to send someone over to fix the damage to the lawn as I made my way down the street, across the town.

  I wanted to go to work.

  That was my safe space most of the time.

  But should he want to, he knew he could find me there.

  So I turned my car in the direction of home, feeling a heavy sensation settle on my shoulders, on my chest, a weight that was impossible to ignore.

  And one I could only name loneliness.

  EIGHT

  Nixon

  It probably said a lot that I had to talk myself out of dropping into her workplace to talk to her. More than a few times.

  Because for three nights in a row, I didn't see her at Michael's office.

  "That's a good thing, though, isn't it?" Kingston asked Thursday morning, brow furrowed. "It means she isn't stalking anymore. That's a win-win for everyone."

  Except if she wasn't stalking Michael, she was nowhere near me.

  "How the hell can I even close this case?" I asked, tossing a pile of paperwork about another case in my drawer, knowing I wouldn't be able to focus on it until I got my head straight. Which meant I needed to get her out of it.

  Not fucking likely.

  "Without telling him that your girl is his stalker?" King clarified.

  "She's not my girl."

  "She sure looked like your girl. Saw you two hugging like you were going off to war," he added, smirk toying up.

  I guess from far away it would have looked innocent enough. No one but me could have known we weren't embracing. Oh, no. I was trying to hold her together.

  I was probably the worst man for the job. Literally any of the other guys inside the Mallick home, including the goddamn teenagers, would have likely done a better job.

  But I was there, and she clung to me as her body jolted almost violently with silent sobs.

  Over what? I had no idea. But whatever it was, it was a lot, intense, something that she felt down to her core.

  Grief like that was secondhand traumatizing. I couldn't get it out of my head. I couldn't help but want to know the origins of it. Even if I had no right to wonder.

  "Look, if you still don't see her the rest of this week, I don't think she's going back. Tell the client you thought you saw someone, but after you hung around a while longer, they didn't come back."

  "You want me to lie to a client."

  That wasn't like Kingston. His business was too important to him.

  "Listen, I liked Reagan. I don't think she's dangerous. Maybe she was misguided. Maybe you got through to her. She took some time, reconsidered it, decided to move on. And, well, the client is a dick. Give him the half-truth. Offer him a discount."

  "A discount?" I asked. We didn't offer discounts. The people who paid us were the last people who needed discounts.

  "Just for the first couple nights. Back when you were truly on the job. Tell him you stayed on just to make sure, but we aren't going to charge him for that time. That should ease your guilt."

  "I don't feel fucking guilty. I just don't want shit to blow back onto you."

  "Look, he can't prove that you lied. It is a morally gray area, but we haven't exactly been Boy Scouts. It's fine. Wrap it up. Move onto something else."

  With that, he moved to stand, going back toward the door,
then turning back.

  "For what it's worth," he started, giving me a long look, if you can't get her out of your head, I think that says something. That's not like you. Stop being a pansy-ass and do something about it."

  "How long did it take you to seal the deal with Savea?" I asked, giving him a brow raise. "And it only happened because she needed your help."

  "You're a dick." There was no malice in the words. There rarely was when it came to King. "I'm just saying, if she likes your asshole self, that is something worth pursuing. I mean, who else is gonna want you?" he added with a big smile as he walked away.

  "Fuck," I sighed, rolling my neck, made sore from a night of tossing and turning.

  It had been a long week. And I still had Sunday dinner and all those questions to look forward to.

  I rose from my desk, making my way out into the office, going toward the coffee station, filling my mug.

  It wasn't until I raised it toward my lips, seeing the Devil Tears' logo looking back at me, that I got an idea.

  Was it smart?

  Probably not.

  Could it backfire?

  Almost definitely.

  But I couldn't seem to talk any sense into myself as I walked out of the office, got into my car, drove across town, parked on the ridiculous pavers, made my way through the basement, trudged up the steps.

  "There he is! Our savior!" Krissy declared, beaming at me as I moved into the office.

  "Hey Krissy. How have you been?"

  "Oh, you know me. Working hard. Breaking hearts."

  "Sounds about right. Kids," I greeted, nodding my chin to Marley and Calvin, who were both chuckling over something inside a file folder, all the malice from my last visit seemingly gone.

  "Are you here to look at the headshots?" Marley asked, yanking the file from Calvin's hand, moving over toward me.

  "Harvey's headshots," Krissy clarified. "You know... your idea."

  Right.

  The idea we were supposedly discussing over dinner last Sunday. The idea she had actually started to run with. It was stupid, but I felt a swelling of pride at the realization. One of my ideas was worth something.

  "Yeah, I think I'm going to need to see those," I agreed when I eyed a pissed-off Harvey looking over at me.