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

  My hand moved to slide over hers, and back.

  Her body stilled completely, anticipating it, then whimpering out as two fingers curled inside her, raking against the top wall as my cock got harder, faster, more insistent.

  Her fingers started working her clit again as her body soared up, her walls tightening, her ass grinding back against me as I slammed forward.

  Minutes.

  It was maybe two short minutes before I felt it start.

  "Charlie," she hissed a second before the triple-zone orgasms ravaged her system, would have sent her face-planting onto the bar had I not caught her, held her to me, as my cock and fingers kept working her, milked it for all it was worth before I pulled out, bent her forward, and came on her handprint-pink ass.

  I almost face-planted myself, my fist slamming down onto the bar to hold myself up as my system emptied, as I cursed out her name.

  "Fuck," I growled a long moment later after we had both regained some of our composure. "Stay," I demanded, giving her ass a squeeze before moving off to find a rag, getting it warm and soapy, then cleaning her up before I did the same for myself, discarding the rag, gently pulling her jeans and panties back into place, then pulling her back up, turning her, jumping her up on the bar, and moving into the space between her legs.

  "I needed that," she admitted, giving me a warm smile, eyes still a little dazed and dreamy, a look that a man could be proud of.

  "Me too," I agreed.

  "No kids pounding on the door. No one screaming for food, brawling, or whining about someone stealing something..."

  "They won't be this young forever. Then I can fuck you any way I want, anywhere I want, and as loudly as I want," I told her, smiling as my mind wandered to the night that Hunter had asked what I was doing to mommy to make her cry after we came out of the bedroom. We'd learned to be a little quieter from then on. Or sometimes, I would come back home from work in the middle of the day when the boys were off in school, walk up behind her while she scrubbed the floor, fucking her on her hands and knees, or jumping her up onto the dryer as it spun, finding that added a fun new element, and even once, throwing her into the open trunk of her new SUV, surrounded by bags of groceries, and eating her out right there in the driveway - not giving a single fuck about someone possibly seeing.

  We'd needed to get inventive over the years, suffered periods of droughts when life got too chaotic, but we always found our way back to each other, to the bliss we found in each other's bodies.

  "We should call home," she told me after I had leaned in and kissed her until our mouths felt swollen and oversensitive.

  "We have four babysitters," I remind her.

  "Charlie..." she said, dragging out the end sound, giving me a brow raise.

  "You're right. The house might be on fire," I agreed, moving away from her to find the phone that had just been installed that morning.

  It turned out there was no house fire.

  Just a minor concussion and a bloody nose.

  And four babysitters who would never come to our house again, no matter how much we offered to pay them.

  Helen - 18 years

  When my boys would someday talk about me and my mothering, I had a feeling they would focus on the times when I went a bit apeshit, when I had lost my cool, when I had gotten a little inventive with my punishments.

  They would not, however, explain how I had told them ten times to stop doing something before I whacked them with a spoon I was mixing pasta with. Or how they missed curfew four times in a single week before I locked them out on the front porch. Yes, in the dead of winter. Yes, risking frostbite. But out of ideas on how else to drive the point home that there were rules that had to be obeyed out of respect for the people who made them.

  Did I occasionally worry the neighbors might call child protective services on me when the windows opened up in the spring, and they could hear me screaming like a banshee about putting the seat down, getting the dishes into the sink not just piled on the counter, or quit pounding on each other? Yes, yes I did.

  But any social worker who spent ten minutes with my teenaged boys would completely understand why they needed to spend a night out in subzero temperatures or get a whack here and there.

  Charlie and I had always considered ourselves firm, but fair. Respect for their parents and other adults was the number one rule. After that, Sunday dinners. After that, not getting expelled from school, though we conceded that a few detentions and suspensions were unavoidable. Then, as they got to those ages, respect for the girls they dated. Somewhere way way down at the bottom was not killing each other.

  So they got away with a lot based on the hierarchy of rules, but the big ones that they broke, yeah, those got swift and ruthless punishment.

  I wasn't the raving lunatic some of their stories might paint me to be. I was just a woman who could only take so much from her children, a woman who understood that if they didn't fear and respect me, they never could respect and care for other women. A person who was outnumbered, overworked, and in constant need of a wine refill.

  I had once thought that once they got past the needy, fit-throwing toddler stage, things would be smooth sailing.

  I had not, clearly, been prepared for teen boys whose fists started to cause a lot more damage than they used to, who threw themselves into every dangerous or potentially illegal situation after the next, who itched at the confines of adolescence, yearning for the freedom of adulthood.

  "That sure sounds a lot like bitching to me," I said, back to Mark as I stirred pasta sauce for the lasagne I was making for dinner.

  "I told Colton I would go with him."

  "And you should have consulted your work schedule before you agreed to go anywhere with Colt," I reminded him, shrugging a shoulder.

  "You're the one who makes the schedule."

  "Yes, I am."

  "You could change it."

  "I could. But I'm not going to."

  "That's not fair."

  "What's not fair is changing the schedule on Andrew who has a wife and baby at home who are expecting to see him Wednesday night. You don't get preferential treatment just because you're our kid."

  "Then what the hell is the point of working at Chaz's?"

  "Watch it,"I snapped, turning on my heel, chin lifted, jaw firm, in full-on Don't fuck with mom mode. "You don't want this job, you put in your two weeks like you would any other job. But no matter what way - stay or leave - your ass will be in that fucking bar with a bus tub on Wednesday night. Understood?"

  "This is bu..."

  "That sentence better be This is exactly what I deserve for not having forethought and work ethic, and I will attempt in the future to make sure the plans I make work around my work schedule, not the other way around."

  Venom had slipped into my words, something he wisely picked up on.

  "Un-puffing that chest would be a good idea right about now," Charlie said as he walked in, not having a clue what we were having words about, but not liking seeing his sons going full-posture to their mother. Mark shrank back a bit as his father kissed my temple on the way to wash blood off his hands. Someone else's. It was rarely his own these days. "Is there a problem?"

  "Your son's work ethic could use some... reinforcing," I agreed, watching dread flood our son's face, and not being such a good person that I didn't enjoy the hell out of it.

  "Is that so?" Charlie asked, turning slowly as he wiped his hand on paper towels.

  See, Charlie had to bust his ass all his life to get to where he was now. The idea of his sons thinking they were entitled, that they wouldn't have to work hard to get ahead in life, brushed him the wrong way. "It sounds like you need to do a double this weekend."

  "Ryan works on weekends."

  "And he never complains about it," Charlie agreed.

  He wasn't wrong. Ryan was on the fast track to being a workaholic once he graduated. Like Charlie, he wanted to prove himself. He wanted to work hard for what he got. He hadn't so muc
h as asked for gas money since he turned sixteen and started bussing tables at Chaz's.

  Eli had done his duty as well before giving his mandatory two weeks so he could get a job more suited to his personality, working at a local art gallery. The money was nothing compared to what he made at Chaz's thanks to servers sharing tips with the bussing staff, but it wasn't about that for him. It was about his passion.

  He wouldn't be like Ryan, ambitious. But I had no worries that he would find his way eventually either.

  Hunter maybe got distracted on the job, scribbling pictures on the placemats or napkins, but he did his part with a little reminding here and there.

  Mark wasn't a problem child per se. He was just young, popular, more interested in partying than his brothers were. He wasn't known for slacking on the job. This was an isolated incident. But Charlie wanted to make sure that was all it was.

  And Shane, well, he hadn't started yet. Soon though. I didn't worry about him either. More so than any of his brothers, he was out to gain his father's approval, wanted him to think well of him, whatever the cost. He would bust his ass, be the best busser we had ever had.

  "Pops..." Mark tried, going for charming. Unfortunately, his father was immune. His fate was sealed.

  And Ryan would likely be pissed that he was getting the weekend off.

  But luckily, we were under the belief that if at least half of our kids were unhappy with us, we were likely doing our jobs right.

  "Mark, can..." I started to ask, the phone suddenly screaming from the wall, demanding response.

  With a sigh, knowing all the men in my life would likely answer the phone with a very rude Yeah? - Charlie included - I walked toward it.

  Not knowing.

  What would be said.

  What repercussions would come.

  What ghosts I would have to face up.

  "Hello?" I said, half-distracted by Charlie telling Ryan his fate, actually feeling my lips curve up at the utter outrage on his face at the idea of getting some days off.

  "Hello Helen."

  I shouldn't have even known that voice.

  Not after all the years.

  Not after how time had changed it subtly.

  But I knew it.

  I knew it and my hand flew out, slapping Charlie in the chest, watching as he turned, concern tipping his lips down.

  My lips formed the name that made his eyes go hard, as hard as my heart felt right that moment.

  Michael.

  "What do you want?" I asked, careful to keep the odd pit of fear out of my voice.

  Time had blurred the edges of those memories, replaced them with better ones, happier ones, ones that I was happy to have in my head.

  I never forgot what had happened all those years ago, but I could go weeks now without having them flooding back, making me full stop in the middle of my day, remembering where we had come from.

  And Michael in particular was the least of my worries. After radio silence for close to two decades, there was no reason to think about him. He was serving time for all the evil he had done, even if the crime he was imprisoned for wasn't one he was guilty of.

  "So you haven't heard the news. Those contacts you have in the force don't have your back anymore, huh?"

  The news.

  I hadn't heard it.

  I had heard nothing.

  But that wasn't surprising.

  As Charlie grew the business, Connor had kept his distance. I saw him in passing at times. Once with a little girl with pretty blonde hair, dressed in a football jersey with her hat turned back, the perfect little tomboy. But we never spoke. Not since that day he suggested we open a legit business.

  I had no one to tell me anything even if there was something to tell.

  "Get on with it, Michael," I suggested, putting a boredom I most certainly didn't feel in my voice.

  Because I knew.

  I knew exactly what he was about to tell me.

  "I'm out, Pudge. And I'm on my way back to claim my place. You and that fuck you no doubt shacked up with, your life is about to be a whole lot different."

  The line went dead before the words even fully sank in.

  "Boys, give us a minute," Charlie said, voice barely more than a whisper, but they all jumped and walked out, seeming to sense something going on.

  "What'd he say?"

  "That he's out. And he's coming back. And our lives are about to be a whole lot different."

  Charlie took a breath, nodding. "We'll close ranks," he said immediately, meaning him and the men who worked with him. The enforcers he had needed to employ. "We'll be more careful around here. I'll get some ears on the street. Grassi will know what is going on. Lyons will want to know about a cocaine dealer trying to break back into the area."

  Lyons.

  It was a somewhat sad day when your best ally in a fight was a cocaine dealer who employed a small army.

  But we would have to take what we could get.

  "Everything is going to be fine, Helen."

  "You don't know that."

  He couldn't.

  He didn't.

  And it wasn't.

  A week later, two of Charlie's enforcers were dead, shot execution-style while on jobs.

  The following week, the final one was taken out.

  Grassi had informed us that Michael had set up shop back in Alberry Park, actually buying out the current owner of our old house with money from our father he must have had stashed away somewhere.

  Lyons told us we were on our own because Michael didn't come after the cocaine trade, or even the heroin trade that Third Street was known for. No. He dealt in the specialty stuff, the harder to find stuff, the stuff young kids would pay out the ass for. Acid. Mushrooms. Even fucking opium. Party drugs. Psychedelic drugs. The market wasn't saturated. And since people who were into drugs like heroin and cocaine were not into things like shrooms and acid, there was no competition.

  He wouldn't help us.

  We were completely on our own against someone who had assembled his own army in weeks, had already decimated our numbers, who had a cross to bear against us.

  The scariest part was that he hadn't made a move. The threat of his was a heavy fog over our lives, making me jumpy and paranoid, making Charlie tense, spending every spare moment trying to gather information about Michael's rapidly building empire.

  Would he come after me?

  Charlie?

  The business?

  Or, heaven forbid, the boys?

  The boys who didn't even know he existed, who we had kept in the dark about the whole ugly ordeal. We meant to tell them. Someday. When they were older. When they understood our lifestyle more, had more life experience, would understand how terrible things like that were necessary.

  They would never look at me the same again.

  I think that was what it all boiled down to.

  They understood what Charlie did, why he did it, the honor code he had about it.

  But me?

  I was just mom.

  The cooker.

  Housekeeper.

  On-their-ass dictator.

  And, sure, the lifestyle touched me in the way that it touched them. By association.

  They had no idea how deeply entrenched in it I was. How I had been baptized into the drug world, raised by monsters, forced to learn to fight back when they rattled my cage.

  Their mother was a killer.

  There would be no coming back from that revelation.

  Sure, they would still love me. There was no stopping that. We had their whole lifetimes of memories.

  But they would view me through a different lens, would question parts of our lives they never would have thought to before, would think about what it meant to be related to a killer.

  That was my cross to bear.

  I didn't want it to be theirs.

  At least not until life had thrown them some punches. When they had made their own mistakes, been backed into their own corners they had needed
to fight their way out of.

  It was selfish to keep them in the dark.

  But I had been selfless my entire life, had chosen their best interest over my wants, needs, or comforts.

  Just this once, this once I was going to be selfish.

  And I didn't regret that decision.

  Not at first.

  Not until two weeks later when I came home from picking up stamps at the post office, never thinking anything of it, that anything could go wrong while I did such a silly errand.

  Ryan, Mark, and Eli were at work. Hunter was off with Colt somewhere raising hell, no doubt.

  Shane had been the only one home, stuck there because his teacher had threatened him with a D in language arts, and was forced to do a book report for extra credit.

  Charlie and I would accept an honest C, knowing not all kids excelled at all things. But a D was unacceptable, was a sign of utter laziness on Shane's part.

  Lazy was another thing we wouldn't put up with.

  So he was inside reading Great Expectations whether he liked it or not.

  Or so I thought.

  Until I pulled open the back door into the kitchen.

  And fucking died.

  There was no denying it.

  My heart stopped.

  I flatlined.

  For how long, I don't know.

  But it had happened.

  Because there sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hands... and my son beside him was Michael.

  "Your son has good manners," Michael said, eyes on me. Eyes so much like my own except there was not a hint of warmth in them, anything at all to make them truly human. Just a monster in a flesh suit. "Invited me in and offered me coffee."

  I could feel Shane's eyes on me, so much like his father's, brows lowering down as he took in my tension, likely worrying that he had done something wrong.

  It wasn't his fault.