Lock You Down

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Of course," Krissy agreed, closing her eyes, in a place of bliss.

  There was nothing between my brother and my best friend. They'd always been like this together. I think the Universe knew better than to put two shameless flirts together. There would be wreckage in the wake.

  "Did you want to go get dinner together?" I asked.

  "Yes," they said in unison.

  "That way, we can gang up on her about her getting on the hot advertising guy," Krissy told Luis.

  "Sounds like a worthy mission."

  "She needs some stress relief."

  "I concur," Luis shot back.

  "Are you two done?" I asked, moving back behind my desk, dropping down into my chair.

  "Not nearly," Krissy assured me. "You should have seen him, Luis. He was a drink of water. And we both know Reagan has been dying for a sip."

  "Where do you guys learn to talk like that?" I asked, brows lowering, lips parting.

  "What about you, mami, did you want a sip?"

  "Oh, you know me. I'm always thirsty," she told him, the two of them sharing unnerving eye-contact. It was making me uncomfortable, and I wasn't even a part of it.

  "How thirsty are you, mami?" he asked, pressing his thumb in hard, making a whimper escape her.

  "Um... should I leave?" I asked, feeling like this was more intense than usual.

  Then, just like that, Luis casually let go of Krissy's foot, and she hung it back over the chair, both of them turning back to me with amused smiles, all the sexual tension gone.

  How they both managed to turn it on and off like that was beyond me.

  Then again, mine hadn't been turned on in a woefully long time. So I was clearly no expert in the situation.

  "So, what are we having? Sushi?" Luis asked. "My treat."

  "We can get sake drunk and have a sleepover," Krissy joined in on his plan.

  "Sounds like what I need," I admitted, even if I was inwardly wondering what it might mean if I missed a night.

  In the end, I pushed the thoughts away, trying to remind myself that it was healthy to miss a few nights here and there. It was necessary. To still have a life. See friends and family. I would need connections when all this was finally over. It would help the transition into a life not riddled by thoughts of Michael.

  Cue about ten hours later, all three of us crammed in the back of an Uber, Krissy draped over Luis to make room for me because I'd just maybe told her to stop freaking breathing on me because I was sweating to death.

  Alcohol made me hot and fuzzy, my brain the kind of unfocused that made me mildly uncomfortable. Enough so that I refused to drink to excess unless I was around really trusted people.

  I wouldn't have been so grumpy if my back window wasn't broken, so I could roll it down for some air.

  In the end, I reached for my phone for a distraction, thinking I would bring up a word game or solitaire or mahjong to distract me.

  My traitorous fingers, though, they had a mind of their own, dragging up my contents, scrolling to the Ns.

  Finding his number.

  Then, well, my brain decided to join in on the idea.

  - Can I be me?

  The answer was nearly immediate.

  -- What are you talking about?

  - When I meet your family. Can I be me? Or am I going to be someone you've concocted? Alison who teaches preschool. Or Nora who is a mobile dog groomer?

  -- You can be you. Just leave out the shit about being a client. King and Atlas will know, but I'd like to hold that information off as long as possible.

  - I can do that. Is there anything else about your family that I should know?

  -- Scotti, my sister, married into the Mallick family. They own the bar Chaz's in town. But that isn't how they make their money. They don't usually volunteer their personal information to strangers, but the truth might come up.

  - And that truth is?

  -- Charlie Mallick is a loanshark. Three of his sons work in the family business as enforcers.

  - You're serious?

  I couldn't wrap my head around the idea. An actual family of loansharks. I mean, I wasn't naive. I had been living in Navesink Bank for a while now. I understood that there was a bit more crime than you might expect from the otherwise very normal-looking area full of single-family homes and quaint mom-and-pop stores. There were The Henchmen with their guns and Hailstorm which, well, I didn't know what they did, but they had armed guards. Then I knew of Quinton Baird and his team of fixers. Fixers were something a lot of people in my parents' circle of friends used, and from what I heard, Quinton Baird was one of the best. And his people, well, they didn't always do things that were completely legal either.

  But it was hard to imagine sitting down to Sunday dinner with a loanshark family.

  -- Most of us have a very checkered past, Reagan. If it makes you uncomfortable, we can revisit the idea of you not coming, and me making a call to Michael about his stalker's identity.

  - No.

  No. God no. I couldn't let that happen.

  "Who are you texting?" Luis asked, fingers casually stroking through Krissy's hair as her head leaned on his chest.

  "No one. Nothing. Work stuff."

  I should have known better.

  Really, with these two.

  But I was slow and a little fuzzy.

  Krissy and Luis, however, were much more frequent drinkers, and were much faster with their reflexes.

  Krissy folded up, snatching the phone from my hands, as Luis snagged my hand so I couldn't snatch it back.

  - Hello. Is this Hottie Mc Advertisement Guy?

  Krissy talked aloud as she typed.

  "No. Stop. Please." I protested futilely.

  "Oh, he's fast. Well," she said, typing again. "I just want to tell you that our beautiful Reagan here is sake drunk and in desperate need of a lay."

  "Oh my God. You did not just say that to him," I shrieked, desperately trying to yank out of my brother's grip.

  "He knows it was me," she said, sounding victorious for having left an impression. As if it was possible for her ever not to do so. "He said to make sure we get some water in you when we get home. Aw. That's sweet," she said, giving my phone a bit of a bleary-eyed smile. "She's not a fun drunk in public, Mr. Hottie. But when you get her home so she can strip, she's a blast."

  Luis released one hand to reach for Krissy so she didn't fly off his lap when the driver stomped on the brake, giving me the advantage.

  I took it, slamming my fist into his arm as hard as I could before snatching the phone back from Krissy, seeing she had sent the last text. And that Nixon was as quick as before. Quicker even. And why wouldn't he be when the topic of stripping was on the table?

  -- Stripping?

  - I hope you haven't grown too attached to Krissy. I'm going to kill her.

  -- I am going to need an answer to the stripping question, babe.

  - I get hot when I'm drunk. Apparently, I take off most of my clothes. And that is when I become a happy drunk.

  -- Interesting. Just so you know... there is plenty of alcohol at a Mallick family dinner.

  Was he... flirting with me?

  No. That didn't seem likely. He wasn't really the sort. I mean, I guess everyone was the sort. If you ever wanted to get laid, you had to at least have a small propensity toward flirtation.

  - I promise to be on my best behavior at the Mallick's house.

  Thankfully, he let the topic drop.

  -- You guys have fun tonight?

  - Yeah. Luis is in town.

  -- Luis?

  Right. He didn't know about Luis. I guess I had maybe figured he would have looked into me by now. And my social media was full of pictures of me with my brother.

  - My brother. He's a model. He just dropped into town for the night. They dragged me out. I had too much sake. And sushi isn't exactly great drunk food.

  -- You'd think working at a whiskey company would make you have a higher tolerance for alcohol.

/>   - We don't exactly drink on the job.

  -- Pity.

  - You're a whiskey fan?

  -- My drink of choice.

  - Have you had ours?

  -- At that price-tag? No, babe. Plenty of good whiskey under two-hundred bucks.

  - Yeah, I agree. I have been championing for a lower price for a while now.

  -- Don't want to cater to the rich?

  - Well, there's nothing wrong with a luxury item. But catering to the rich lowers how many units you sell. If you cater more toward the middle class, you sell more bottles. It's good business. But my parents are a bit set in their ways.

  -- Your parents own the business?

  I hated texting because it was so hard to read undertones. Like if he was being condescending, if he was looking down on me because my parents had handed the reins of a company to me. If he was thinking thoughts on nepotism and how people like me never had to work to get where they are.

  I worked.

  In fact, I didn't work for the family business until two years before. I had set out to prove myself and had been steadily working on that until, well, life threw something horribly unexpected at me. And everything changed.

  Giving me Devil Tears had nothing to do with nepotism and a lot to do with trying to give me a distraction, so I didn't self-destruct.

  And it had mostly worked.

  - Yes. They are looking toward total retirement. They are divesting and/or stepping down from management roles of all their companies.

  -- Why pick the whiskey business out of the others?

  - It didn't have to stay in California. It was close to being in the red. I wanted to turn it around. I... needed a challenge.

  -- Except they are still butting in.

  - Yes

  I knew it was their company. And I was thankful they had trusted me with it, but it was difficult to make any real changes if you weren't given the full power to do so.

  -- Are you in control enough to run sales?

  - Short ones, yes.

  -- Do all your new promo shit the week you slash prices. If you can show them that the slashed prices bring in customers, they will listen to you.

  - Maybe you are Mr. Hot Advertisement Guy, after all.

  -- Think I'm hot, huh?

  Inexplicably, my cheeks heated further, making me almost unbearably hot. Thankfully, the driver was pulling down my road, and I could get in my apartment and crank up the AC to cool down.

  Though something was telling me this new round of heat had nothing to do with the alcohol. And everything to do with the man on the other side of my text conversation.

  - Yay. Home. Time to go.

  It was maybe the most awkward segue I'd ever given someone, but it got me out of having to answer his question.

  -- If that stripping thing happens, I'm afraid I am going to need evidence to believe it.

  He was definitely, definitely flirting with me.

  And I was definitely, definitely into it.

  I had a feeling that things were about to get rather sticky between Nixon and me.

  That was going to make the situation with me and Michael even more complicated.

  They were heavy thoughts.

  But we were suddenly in my house. And Luis was opening up a bottle of red. I was stripping a few layers off. Krissy was putting on some dancing music, and pulling me off the couch to move around with her.

  Things were light.

  There would be time for heavier thoughts tomorrow.

  An hour later, even more buzzed than before, but cool, happy, I fell back onto the couch, letting out a happy laugh as Luis pulled Krissy to his chest to show off his tango skills despite the music being DMX barking from the stereo.

  What was I thinking right then?

  Not about work.

  Not about the situation with Michael.

  No.

  I was thinking how nice it might be to have someone there with me right then.

  That someone immediately took the form of a certain grumpy somebody.

  And I couldn't help but wonder if it was possible to get a man like that to dance with you.

  Though, right then, I would settle for a chest to lay on and hands to stroke through my hair.

  I hadn't given the opposite sex any consideration in a very long time. There was no denying I was giving it thought now, though.

  And I couldn't help but wonder what the next Sunday had in store for me, what it would be like to be someone's--and maybe this particular someone's--girlfriend. Even if it was only for pretend.

  Pretty quickly, though, I wouldn't have to wonder anymore.

  Because Sunday came slowly and then all at once.

  Then he was there again, looking even better than I remembered, making me want to yank him into my office and rip that suit off of him.

  It was going to be an interesting night.

  SIX

  Nixon

  I was nervous.

  Which was fucking ridiculous.

  She was only doing it because I'd conned her into it.

  This was not - in any way shape or form--a real date.

  Yet all I could do was keep picturing the picture that had been sent to my phone much later the night she'd been out drinking with Krissy. And her brother. Who happened to be the guy from all the Facebook photos.

  It had been taken by someone other than Reagan, clearly, as she was completely in the picture, half the room away, dancing with Krissy, who was wearing a black dress that fit like a second skin.

  I barely spared her a glance, though, since my gaze was fixed elsewhere. On the woman next to her. With her hands thrown up in the air, making the white tank she was wearing slide up to expose her skin several inches above her belly button. Flat and smooth, though not toned, showing off a gentle flare of hip.

  Krissy had been right.

  She stripped when she was drunk.

  There was no way she had gone out in a tank without a bra. And, well, her pants were missing. Which only served to show off her long legs. She had on fancy panties in a rosy pink silk and white lace pattern that was soft and delicate and sweet. And made me itch to rip them off her body.

  Her brother must have taken the picture and sent it, likely in cahoots with Krissy, both deeming Reagan a little too rigid. Though, I was pretty sure most people would look rigid alongside Krissy.

  I'd been counting down the days until the next Sunday dinner. Not because of the spread of food that was both delicious and over-the-top, but because I actually wanted to see her again.

  So, yeah, while the rational side of my brain understood this was more of a transaction than anything, the other part was nervous.

  That feeling stuck with me as I let myself into the building, made my way up the stairs, this time hearing the bustle of office life, but interrupted by the bass of a stereo playing some early two-thousands pop song that hadn't even charted long enough for me to remember a title or artist.

  I moved into the space, immediately spotting Krissy sitting off the side of a desk, bare foot tapping along to the beat in the air.

  There was clicking coming from the desk in the back that was completely blocked off from view.

  And there were two figures to the far back, faces turned away.

  "Look who it is!" Krissy declared, smile immediately beaming as she hopped off her desk. "I knew that picture would work. I made Luis snap it when she wasn't looking, then totally used her finger after she fell asleep to override her password to send it to you. And here you are!"

  Yeah. That sounded like something one of my brothers would do to me.

  "We actually had this set up before then," I told her, watching as her eyes slit small.

  "That lying whore," she said affectionately, tsking her tongue. "She lied right to my face about you. Well, yay, you're here. Are you taking our Reagan somewhere fun, or just going right back to your place to fuck?"

  The me I had been years ago might have been thrown off by that comment. But this
version of me, the one that had been an extended part of the Mallick family for so long, was accustomed to women who made comments like that. Hell, Fiona said worse than that over casual dinner conversation if the kids were out of earshot.

  "Krissy, can you tell me when... oh," Reagan said, moving into the doorway of her office in wine-colored slacks and a white shirt, holding a flowing light yellow sundress by its hanger.

  "When your date--that you didn't bother to tell me about even though I am your best friend, but it's okay, I'm not butt-hurt about it or anything--arrives?" Krissy finished for her with a smirk.

  "I, ah, well, yes. When Nixon arrives. But he's here," she said, turning a smile in my direction, one that was tight at the sides. Like maybe she was nervous as well.

  "He looks handsome in his suit, doesn't he?" Krissy asked, moving closer to me, running a hand down the front of my black shirt. It was flirtatious, but not personal, if that made any sense. It was like flirting was her default setting, so she didn't know how to turn it off. I was more waiting for Reagan's response to that since she so clumsily avoided answering me the other night about if she thought I was hot or not. Which pretty much confirmed that she did, but I had to admit, I wanted to hear it from her lips.

  "You clean up nicely," Reagan told me, voice a throaty purr. "You didn't shave."

  "I like scruffy men," Krissy chimed in. "You get that little burn on your inner thighs when they go down on your--"

  "My ears!" another voice joined, higher, younger, belonging to a slip of a girl with long, wavy wheat-blonde hair and the cornflower blue eyes to go with it, all made even more wholesome-looking by the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

  Young.

  She had to be in her mid-teens.

  What the hell was she doing working at a whiskey company?

  "That's not even the raunchiest thing she's said today," yet another voice chimed in. He was around the age of the girl, tall, thin but not gangly, with brown hair and mischievous green eyes.

  "Nixon," Reagan offered, moving closer to make introductions. "This is Marley and Calvin. Our juvenile delinquents."