Mallicks: Back to the Beginning (Mallick Brothers Book 5) Page 4

  She was softening to the idea, I thought, the long hours of having to pretend to be well taking its toll on her morale, her resolve.

  She's getting old, my father had said as we watched her creak and shuffle her way out of the dining room after serving dessert.

  Yesterday, she flipped my mattress like it was a sack of feathers, I had shot back, quick to defend her. Maybe more so than I would even defend myself. And, sure, it was a lie. A bold one at that, not even being partially true seeing as she had been asleep on the chair in my room as I flipped the mattress - doing more huffing and puffing than I would like to admit. But, as it turned out, I was getting good at lying.

  "You've got to stop covering for me," Helga insisted that night when I came in from work, finding her in the kitchen, waiting on a batch of blueberry scones to bake for the morning, knowing it was hard for her to get moving first thing, and wanting to ease the burden off of me somewhat.

  "It won't be for too much longer. Then you can settle into a nice retirement. Let me take care of you like you have taken care of me all these years."

  "Oh, Helen. I knew from the first time I cleaned up that first bloodstain that I was never going to get a chance to retire. That there was only one way out of this job."

  She never talked about that with me.

  My father's dealings.

  The blood on his - and her - hands.

  Things were always skirted around, implied, but never expressly discussed.

  "Don't say things like that," I begged, reaching across the table to close my hands over hers, the knuckles made knotty and swollen from too much hard work for too many years, the skin rough and thin with age.

  "You're old enough now, Helen, have felt the touch of their rage often enough, not to be wearing those rose-colored glasses anymore. It's time to take them off. See things in the stark, ugly daylight they really exist in. I'll never leave here. Unless it is in a body bag. And you, I'm afraid, won't either if you don't stop fussing about me, and take off on your own now. Before it is too late."

  "Too late how?" I asked, brows drawing low, picking up on something guarded in her tone that I didn't like there.

  "You ever wonder why your father keeps you here? He doesn't enjoy your company. Doesn't realize how much work you have been doing. But he never talks about kicking you out."

  So maybe that was something I thought about. Often. Never coming up with any answers of my own. Aside from the fact that I tried never to cross his path, so maybe he forgot I existed at times.

  Which, well, was a rather naive thing to think. My father was a lot of things, but stupid or unobservant he was not.

  Conniving and backhanded, however...

  "What do you think he wants with me?" I asked, hearing hesitation in my own tone, almost not wanting to know. But ignorance would never do me any good.

  "I think he plans to use you to secure better contacts in Colombia."

  "But... how? I know nothing about the trade."

  "Think herzchen," she implored. "What use have daughters always served for their fathers? Historically speaking."

  There was only one answer to that.

  But it was ridiculous.

  Antiquated.

  Something of times - and customs - gone by.

  "I think that is a little far-fetched, Helga."

  "Is it? You think? You think your father wouldn't trade you for a more secure supply? A bigger income?"

  I didn't really even need to think about it when she put it that way.

  Money and power would always be more important than me.

  "Your father's contacts have been in and out of this house for years. And every last one of them watches you, eyes like hungry dogs staring down a juicy steak. In case you haven't noticed this lately, herzchen, you have turned out every bit as beautiful as your mother. More so even. And your father sees this. He sees how these men he wants to build relationships with look at you, and he is waiting for the chance to use that."

  "I would never date one of my father's men," I insisted, voice fierce even as goosebumps prickled over my skin at the idea of that reality, that this man who had participated in creating me would want to subject me to such a fate.

  "There are men, Helen, many men, who would very much enjoy your objections. There are men far worse than your father. And we both know how bad he is. You need to get away before one of them gets their hooks into you. Once they do..." she said, trailing off, shaking her head.

  The drive was there.

  It was the dominant thought every waking moment of my day. At night, I would wake up sweating, vividly re-experiencing the incident just last year when I had come home with two shirt buttons undone because I had needed to rush to change in the bathroom at work because some asshole had spilled coffee on me.

  But he thought I was out with a guy.

  And he refused to have a whore for a daughter.

  Then did something that made my gut churn just remembering it.

  He pulled me down the hall by my hair much like he had done so long ago to my mother.

  The fear had been overpowering, a crippling, sensation that made me curl into myself, prepared for the same end she had met, knowing I didn't have what it took to fight him off.

  In the end, he just screamed at me about not fucking around, then demanded I go up to bed, kicking me in the rear when I didn't move fast enough for him.

  I had closed myself in my room, locking the door, taking myself into the bathroom where I caught my reflection in the mirror, seeing the fear there.

  And it had done something to me.

  It woke a rage I didn't know I could possess, so big and heavy that I wasn't sure my frame could contain it all.

  I had been as lily white as a girl could be when he had accused me of sleeping around.

  The next night, I followed a guy into his backseat and lost my virginity in an act of utter defiance.

  It hadn't occurred to me before, but hearing Helga talk about my father's men - and his possible plans for me - I realized what that anger had been about.

  A woman was always "worth" more when she hadn't known the touch of a man.

  As if an intact hymen was a fucking selling point.

  As if our worth was determined by if we had shared our bodies with someone before or not.

  Losing my virginity had always been an act of power, something I never looked back on with regret. Even if it hurt. Even if it hadn't been the least bit pleasurable. Even if I didn't love the guy. Or even have any feelings whatsoever about him. Even if I only saw him once again, and he didn't even know my name.

  It wasn't about him.

  It was about me.

  And the right to make my own choices about my body, refusing to let any man dictate what I could or could not do with it.

  Even if I wanted to be the biggest whore on the east coast.

  I was doubly glad now, though, that that was a choice I had made. That he could never use my innocence to drive up my price tag.

  "Think about it. Sleep on it," Helga begged, groaning a little as she pushed down on the table to get to her feet, her bones creaking in objection. "Promise me," she demanded as she pulled the scones out of the oven.

  "I promise," I assured her, slinging an arm around her lower back, pressing a kiss into her cheek.

  Even though I had no intention of leaving her.

  At this rate, I didn't care if I had to drag her with me in the middle of the night.

  We were leaving.

  And soon.

  --

  The sun was an unyielding, cruel mistress, paying no mind to the striped pink and green awning meant to keep it from pelting down on me inside the wooden booth.

  The ice cream machines only aggravated the situation, blowing off hot hair as they ran, making the back of my shirt stick to me, the hair at the nape of my neck dampen, occasionally trickling down between my shoulder blades. The visor on my head - the same hideous stripes as my shirt and the awning - at least managed to k
eep any sweat from dripping down my forehead.

  Just another hour, I reminded myself as I fanned my face with a laminated menu of the twenty-one flavors of ice cream, and thirty different toppings. In an hour, the sun would be behind me instead of staring me in the eyes, making a mockery of the makeup I had applied before my shift.

  Seeing no one looking my way, I ducked behind the soft serve machine where the break room was situated. It could barely be considered one, being the size of a closet, literally just large enough to turn around in, but we had a light, a chair, and a mirror.

  Grabbing my purse off the chair, I dug out the baby wipes I had for just this reason, swiping off the remaining traces of makeup before tightening my ponytail, swiping some of the sweat off my chest and neck, then moving back out front to find a family of three waiting for me.

  "Sorry about that!" I said, smiling at the boy with his toothless grin as he rambled off four toppings he wanted on his sundae.

  "Think he's half in love with you," a voice said.

  A familiar voice.

  A voice that belonged in my father's office, not at my job.

  "What are you doing here?" I heard myself ask, tone a little sharp, making me grimace as soon as I heard it.

  "Been here weeks, and I haven't walked the boardwalk during the day," he told me. "Had the day off. Figured I would see what all the fuss was about. Saw you. Decided to come say hi."

  He decided to come say hi after avoiding me for weeks?

  He did have the day off, though, that was clear. Because he wasn't in a suit. My father demanded suits. As if dressing up drug dealers and enforcers somehow made them respectable citizens.

  He had on simple jeans and a dark blue tee, the color making his blue eyes all the more blue in his stupidly good-looking face.

  If possible, he looked better dressed down than up. Maybe because this material clung to his wide shoulders, his strong chest. I could even see the indents of his abdominal muscles through the shirt. His arms were on display as well, and never before had I thought a man's arms were sexy. But, yes, his arms were sexy, barely able to be contained by the sleeves of his t-shirt, the forearms corded and strong.

  "Hi," I said lamely, shaking my head at myself.

  "Hi," he said back, smiling like he found my clumsy attempts at conversation charming. "You work here a lot?" he asked, sounding almost surprised at the idea. I guess when you lived in a place like where I lived, you figured no one inside it must have to work at some ice cream stand on the boardwalk.

  "Well, this job is seasonal. I work here three nights a week. Then there is the diner. And I do some weekends at a bar."

  "Bartender?"

  "Waitress," I corrected. "But some of the bartenders have been giving me some tricks and teaching me recipes."

  That I would hopefully use in my new life. I'd make more money that way. Enough, I hoped, to support myself and Helga.

  "So, what is on the menu?" he asked, eyes pinned to mine, making a heat rise on my cheeks for a moment before I reached for the menu I had used to fan myself.

  "A boat, huh?"

  "That is for a family of four," I told him, shaking my head. "It has twelve scoops of ice cream. You can't eat that much."

  "Want to bet?" he asked, lips quirking up at one side at the challenge.

  "Bet what?"

  "If I win, you come with me after your shift."

  "Come where?"

  "From what I hear, they do concerts on the beach here."

  They did.

  They just started a few weeks ago, and I had yet to be able to go because my shifts usually ran through them. If the crowd on the boardwalk was thin enough, sometimes I could hear it though.

  "You know you want to," he added, smiling.

  "I've been hearing good things," I hedged, not wanting to come off as eager as I felt. "But there is no way you are finishing twelve scoops. With toppings."

  "Try me," he invited, eyes watching as I reached for the boat-shaped bowl.

  "Alright. What flavors?"

  "Surprise me."

  "Oh, that is not a good idea," I said, a wicked smile pulling at my lips as I scooped out ice cream in the oddest flavors we served.

  Cotton candy.

  Root beer float.

  Carrot cake.

  Caribbean coconut.

  Cherry pie.

  Pistachio.

  Two scoops of each.

  Topped with gummy worms, rainbow sprinkles, chocolate syrup, and whipped cream.

  "Jesus Christ," he groaned when I produced the finished product. "What the fuck is that pink flavor?"

  "Cotton candy," I informed him, sticking a spoon in the side.

  "I don't trust that smile."

  "You shouldn't," I agreed, watching him take the boat. "No one likes that one. They are going to discontinue it. It's too sweet even for the kids."

  "You're evil," he declared, moving off toward the side as someone else walked up, eyeing his ice cream like it was going to jump up and bite him.

  "You asked for it," I reminded him, smiling as I wiped down the counter. "Hey Connor," I said, giving him a genuine smile.

  Connor Collings was sweet on me.

  He had never actually said the words, but there was no mistaking it. We'd known each other for a few years, once working at the same place when his old man got sick of him lounging around on the couch during his summer break.

  I had figured it was something fleeting that would pass easily, but once he had found out where I worked this summer, he suddenly started showing up. Not every night. Not so much that it was creepy, but enough that it implied he was coming to see me. I'd see him maybe one night a week at the diner, or the ice cream shop. And since he found out about the bar, he came in there once in a while too, always staying until closing, demanding I let him walk me to my car.

  I didn't know why his attention was so focused on me. Especially since learning he was about to head off to the academy to train to be a cop. Like his father. Like his grandfather.

  What would a soon-to-be cop want to do with a daughter of a drug dealer?

  He was a nice guy too.

  And attractive.

  Maybe not Charlie's over-the-top kind of good-looking, but pleasing to the eye with his tall, solid build, leaning toward stocky, but not overweight, just big-boned, solid, brown hair he kept almost obsessively trimmed to perfection, and keen eyes.

  If I had any plans to stay, if I even had the mind to date, I would have considered him.

  He was sweet, attentive, with just enough of an alpha streak to make him appealing.

  He was just different than the men I had known, asking me about my day, actually listening to my answers.

  It was nice to have attention from someone you didn't have to fear.

  "How you doing, Helen?" he asked, head ducking toward his ear as it often did when he greeted me.

  "Dying of heat exhaustion," I informed him, grimacing. "Can I get you something, or are you just stopping by to chat?"

  "Both, I guess."

  "The usual?" I asked, knowing he had a preference for peanut butter with a little chocolate drizzle on top.

  He nodded, and I moved off to make it, smiling when Charlie let out a string of curses as he, I imagined, dug into the cotton candy.

  "Hurry up. It won't count if it is melted."

  He fell silent then as he ate, as I exchanged some pleasantries with Connor.

  "See you at ten," Charlie said, slamming the boat down in front of Connor before he shuffled off. Likely to get something to rinse it all down with, if not throw it all up.

  "At ten for what?" Connor asked, voice a bit guarded.

  "He won a bet. So I have to go to a concert on the beach with him."

  "Have to?" he asked, clearly picking up on the situation, and also plainly disliking it. "It's not my place, Helen," he said, the words spaced carefully, like he was trying not to say the wrong thing, "But I feel like I need to say that he is not a good guy."


  I caught myself before I could say He works for my father, not wanting to implicate him in any way since Connor likely knew all about my father.

  "I appreciate the warning, Connor," I said, genuineness slipping into the words because I did truly appreciate it. "He just won a bet. That's all."

  That appeased him.

  But the skittering, jumping feeling in my chest and belly let me know that the words were clearly a lie.

  That a bet was not all this was.

  FOUR

  Helen

  I cursed my uniform in colorful ways - as colorful as the godawful shirt itself - when the owner showed up to take over and close up, Friday nights always being a big cash night, and not trusting any of us to carry that large sum of money.

  I stood in the makeshift break room, carefully applying mascara and eyeliner, trying to fluff some life back into my hair before deciding the elastic band wrinkle would ruin the look no matter what, so just tied it back up, sighed at my shirt, grabbed my purse, and moved out the door at the back of the stand.

  "See you Monday, Helen," Brett, the owner, called to me as I rounded the front.

  "I'll be here, oh," I said, the friendly smile I had for Brett falling to one that felt shy as Charlie moved out of the shadows at the other side of the building, eyes moving over me for a short second before he shot me a smile that made my air catch in my chest. "Hi."

  I was never going to get any awards at this male/female interaction thing.

  But luckily for me, Charlie seemed to find it charming, his bright eyes dancing a bit. "Hi," he shot back. "You ready?"

  "Yep," I agreed even if my belly was flip-flopping like it disagreed with the word.

  "You're gonna want to kick out of those," he told me jerking his chin at my white Keds-clad feet, little splatters of red and brown on the tops of the toes from the syrups that always managed to get everywhere.

  My gaze went to his feet, finding them bare, a pair of thick sandals poking out of his back pocket.

  Bare feet.

  There was something so unexpectedly intimate about that. I wasn't sure I had ever seen the bare feet of a man in my personal life before.