Shane (The Mallick Brothers Book 1)

by Jessica Gadziala

  I felt myself nod as I swallowed hard. “But I reserve the right to put that hostess in her place if she ever tries it again.”

  “Babe, I’d pay to see that,” he said, planting a kiss against my neck and I could feel his lips smiling there.

  Right.

  God, it felt so right.

  My gaze lifted, finding my reflection in the mirror of the backbar. The look in my eyes said it all.

  I knew that things feeling so right only meant that when they went wrong, it was going to really, really hurt.

  But as Shane said in that deep, sexy voice of his that it was time to get out of there and into his bed, I decided that that was something to worry about another day.

  —

  The next day when I woke up, Shane was already fully dressed, walking across the building toward me with a laptop in his hands. When my brows furrowed, he tossed it onto the bed. “I have a job,” he said, and the tone in which he said it implied it was of the illegal, knee-breaking sort, not the gym or apartment building sort. “I want you to hang here. Watch TV, search around online, order food. But be here.”

  There was a certain amount of need in his voice that made the sleep fog pull back suddenly. It wasn’t something that seemed to suit him. “Shane, I have work tonight.”

  He nodded at that, like he knew, as he sat down on the side of the bed and held up his arm, opening his hand. A key dangled from the loop he had around his finger. “Go to work. But then come back here, alright? Lock the door behind you and just… be here.”

  I felt my brows draw together, not understanding why he was repeating himself. I had barely seen my apartment in three days. It wasn’t a stretch for me to stay another night. “Okay,” I said, appeasing him, as I took the key.

  “Come over here and give me a kiss,” he said, eyes light again, smile wicked, like my agreeing to stay took a burden off his back.

  And, well, when a man as sexy as Shane freaking Mallick told you to give him a kiss before he left, you crawled across the bed, grabbed the sides of his face, and kissed him like he was going off to war. Which, in a way, he was.

  “I should be back by morning, he said, stroking his fingers down my cheek, then neck. “You have fun faking orgasms all night. When I get home, I’ll give you real ones.”

  With that, and just a smile, he got off the bed, grabbed a bag that was sitting by the door, and left.

  I sat there for a long couple of minutes, just thinking about his somewhat unusual behavior and what it meant. Maybe the job he had was a particularly unsavory one and he wanted some kind of comfort when he got back. Or maybe it was as simple as he got worked up on the job and needed an outlet for that energy before he got some sleep. So maybe he just wanted me for a good fuck.

  Whatever it was, I would be around to see.

  I wanted to see and know everything about Shane.

  I wasn’t sure I ever truly felt that way about someone before.

  But with Shane, I was greedy for every little piece. I watched and listened and catalogued the information for later. For instance, his family was forever calling or texting him. And, save for when we were in the middle of sex, he always got up and answered. But he wasn’t annoyed or angry; he always seemed genuinely happy to talk to them, even when they were calling with problems. He liked action movies and comedies and rolled his eyes at chick flicks. He was an early riser and a big eater and a workout freak. His dishes never piled up as he seemed of the ‘clean as you go’ mindset. Not much seemed to shake him, no matter how many small crises seemed to come along at once. He was unflappable.

  And, well, he paid attention. To me. I wasn’t sure I had ever experienced that before, but let me tell ya’, it was something else. When I talked, he listened. Even if he interrupted me mid-thought, he knew what I was saying. He got me. He knew my rhythms, even after just a couple days. He had coffee for when I got up, even though it was hours after him. He suggested food at my unusual eating schedule. He didn’t pounce on me when I got back from work, letting me get some sleep before he woke me up in inventively sexy ways.

  I got up off the bed and made my way to the kitchen to get more coffee, resisting the urge for maybe five minutes before I started looking around. I didn’t want to call it snooping, because I wasn’t looking for some buried secrets or hidden porn collection (especially since such a thing didn’t exist in the age of internet porn). I was looking for pieces of him, wanting a full picture. What I found was a photo album in a knick-knack drawer where I found dozens of childhood pictures of Shane and his brothers. In some, they had big Popsicle grins, in others they had bloody noses, in more still they were covered in bruises from recent fights. But in all, they were happy. I found out that he had far too many protein powder canisters in a cabinet above the fridge and that he didn’t seem to own even one baking item.

  I had learned already that the wall behind the bed and bath had a giant closed walk-in closet where he kept most of his clothes and his cleaning supplies. There was also a staircase leading up. But I hadn’t explored it yet. So, coffee in hand, and a bit excited to see what else his house had to offer, I started climbing. What I found was a finished floor with a laundry area, a small but well equipped gym, and an array of men’s toys: a kayak, skis, basketballs, hockey sticks, the works. What I also found was yet another staircase up. Curious, I went, but found an unfinished space with just cleaning supplies. I wondered what he had in mind for it… a living space? Extra bedrooms?

  Curiosity satisfied, I made my way back down to the main floor and went back to the bed, flicking around the channels mindlessly. Every once in a while, my gaze would move to the laptop and I would force the urge away, knowing it would only lead to bad things.

  But, several hours later, I had the laptop on my lap and was bringing up my email.

  See, when I left, I left. I didn’t keep in contact with anyone. I didn’t keep tabs on them on social media or even check my own email. Because a part of me knew it would mean disaster. It would ruin me.

  As such, I never bought a laptop and I didn’t even have a data plan on my phone. I avoided temptation whenever possible.

  I scanned through a seemingly endless amount of junk emails before I saw one from a name I recognized. My heart seemed to stop beating immediately, my stomach twisting painfully. But my hand moved without me telling it to, drifting over the email and clicking it.

  There were two attachments, one an image, the other a video. Then there was one typed sentence:

  Come back and it stops.

  Heartbeat going into overdrive, I clicked the image first. It was the obituary page in my old local paper and my stomach twisted into knots as I searched the images for those of my father and brother. I didn’t find them. I did, however, find a picture of a girl I knew. We hadn’t been close but we would occasionally go out and get coffee or manicures or other girly shit together. I had seen her the day before I left.

  And she was dead.

  Her grainy black and white picture didn’t do her justice. In real life, she was short and perfectly curvy with big gray eyes and long wheat-blonde hair around her sweet, delicate face. The obituary had obviously been written by the family she was estranged from, very generic and unfeeling. It only said that she died unexpectedly, no details. But I needed to know. So, I went online and started looking around. I found a police report about her, but the details weren’t public knowledge. A good twenty minutes later, I came across a Kill Club website for freaks obsessed with violent crimes. I put in her name, and there it was. The full police report plus the crime scene pictures.

  They had found her hung from a tree limb by her wrists, completely naked. She had been beaten badly, half her body looking blue with bruises. There had been cigarette burns on her butt, breasts, inner thighs, and crotch. She had been, it went without saying, raped. They had found she was severely dehydrated which implied that she had been out there a good long time. The official cause of death, though, was his typical style seeing as Ross had a thing f
or blades.

  Her throat had been slit so deep that her head almost detached.

  I swallowed hard, closing my eyes to try to force away the images.

  I knew my loved ones would be at risk when I left. But I had no idea that casual acquaintances would suffer for my leaving too. Though, that was Ross. He was vengeful and evil and merciless. There was no such thing as an innocent. If he was in a mood, you would pay for it.

  As such, as I clicked back to my email window and moved the cursor over the video, I knew it was going to be bad. And it likely wouldn’t be a stranger. I should have just shut it all down, saved myself any more guilt and horror. But I couldn’t bring myself to, knowing my imagination could be every bit as bad, or worse, than the reality.

  It was immediately clear that whoever was filming was not Ross because as soon as the video started, you could see Ross walking purposefully into the room. It wasn’t a room I was familiar with, white, dingy, a little dark. A bunch of men were standing around including my father and brother.

  Ross walked straight up to my brother who stood as he approached, brows drawn together like he was confused by the attention. I almost missed the motion it happened so fast. Ross’ hand went into the back waistband of his pants and the camera caught the flash of the blade just a second before Ross plunged forward with it, stabbing it into the center of my brother’s stomach.

  I cried out in the empty warehouse as my brothers face contorted with pain, half collapsing onto his attacker.

  The video cut out just then, leaving me completely unsure if it was just the one stab, just to get my attention, or if it kept going. If there was real damage. If my brother was even still alive.

  On that thought, I opened a new window and searched for any evidence that my brother was dead. I found none, but I also knew that that was not definitive.

  I slammed the laptop shut and threw it onto Shane’s side of the bed, curling up on my side and pulling my legs to my chest. It hurt. It was like I had been stabbed as well, like my insides were becoming outsides as I rocked my body, looking for comfort. My eyes stayed oddly dry, like no tears could be brought forth through the guilt and fear.

  I stayed that way as the sun hit mid day and then as the sun went down. Eventually, I forced myself to get up and changed for work. About a dozen cups of coffee and six hours later, the pain had turned to a dull ache that I could almost ignore if I set my mind to. I drove back to Shane’s to find he still wasn’t home, something I was thankful for as I slipped out of my clothes and into the bed.

  And then, for the first time in almost a year, I let my mind go there. I let it go back.

  My family was three generations deep in a one-percent, heroin-dealing MC in California. My grandfather had been in since he was a teenager. My father and brother both aged in at their own pace. As for me, well, girls weren’t allowed. At least, girls weren’t allowed in any capacity more than a scullery maid or set of holes for men to plug. Being that my mother died when she brought my brother into the world, I was literally raised in the clubhouse. I learned to be tough, to not show my weakness, to understand loyalty. The president, Rick, had been like an uncle to me and had actually, despite club rules about chicks not having bikes, bought me my first one when I was sixteen and taught me to drive it in the field behind the clubhouse.

  But as I got older and started to develop, I realized quickly that it was smart for me to start hanging out elsewhere except for on nights when my presence was needed. See, it didn’t seem to matter to the vast majority of the men that they had literally watched me grow up, that they had bought me Christmas presents as a kid and kept up the Santa Claus charade for me. As soon as my tits became more than a wish and prayer, I was prime meat and they were hungry dogs. I couldn’t walk through the clubhouse without having my ass smacked or my tits felt up. I worried for worse from men I had known as family so I stopped going.

  I didn’t know a whole hell of a lot about a normal view of womanhood in the world, but I damn sure knew that the life of a clubwhore was not for me. I wasn’t about to be passed around and fucked in all my holes at once while men got in line to take their turn.

  Granted, I learned from a very tender age to be comfortable with and to use my sexuality, as taught to me from some of the older clubwhores, I always knew that I wanted it to be my choice. I wanted to give it away to men I liked, not just because it was demanded of me.

  So from age seventeen on, I had very little to do with them.

  Around the time I turned twenty-three, the old president died and his son stepped up. I didn’t know much about Ross. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I could point him out in a lineup at that point. But he knew me. He had seen me. And when Ross saw something that he wanted, he put things into motion to make sure they became his. I was made to start coming around and Ross started showing me attention.

  And, well, Ross was hot in all the ways I liked. He was tall and a lean kind of strong, covered in tats, covered in scars, with somewhat shaggy brown hair, and almost black eyes. He had one of those smooth voices too, all whisky and molasses. I wasn’t exactly uninterested. If anything, I was flattered. When I was around, even though we were just talking, he never showed any interest in the clubwhores. He never flirted with anyone else. His focus was fully on me. Fresh off a breakup with a guy who seemed to be more interested in his Xbox than me, I was eating it up.

  We started fucking about a week after we officially met. The sex? Yeah, it was all kinds of dirty and amazing. Then, to not only my, but all the club members’ shock, he wanted exclusivity. Given that I was never the kind to fuck two men at the same time anyway, I already was. I knew enough about bikers to know they fucked around as much as they pleased, so I was distrustful. In the end though, Ross’ vow to be exclusive was the one promise he stuck to.

  On that thought, I figured that was enough for one night and I forced the memories away.

  Eventually, I fell asleep.

  FOURTEEN

  Lea

  The door closing startled me awake several hours later. I shot up in bed, the memories of the emails way too fresh in my mind making me paranoid. My hand had reached toward the nightstand for my phone before my eyes fell on the hulking presence of Shane right inside the doorway. His hands, shirt, pants, and shoes had dried blood on them, a sight that I was too familiar with to blanch over. But there was something else that had me stiffening.

  Everything I had accepted about Shane- his calmness, his joking nature, his impenetrability seemed gone. His gorgeous blue eyes seemed dead, flat, so unlike themselves. He was looking at me, but not seeming to see me.

  Whatever job he was on must have shaken him a bit.

  “The washer is empty,” I said, going for practicality. He was covered in DNA evidence and, even if they were careful about not getting caught in the past, preserving a life outside of bars was likely high on their priority list.

  “Right,” he said with a tight nod and moved off in that direction. I heard the water filling and the lid slamming before I saw him walking toward the bathroom in, well, nothing.

  I sat there for a long time, listening to the water run, giving him space. But then I remembered that he had wanted me there. He must have known that the job would be shitty and that he would be in a bad mood after it. Because of that, he wanted me in his place when he got in. He didn’t want me there to sit on his bed and watch him like a ticking time bomb. That wasn’t my style.

  On that thought, I jumped off the bed and made my way to the bathroom, finding him standing under the spray, one forearm planted on the wall, half leaned forward, just letting the water cascade down him. All the blood was gone; he was physically clean. But the dirt under the surface was still trapped.

  I had no idea what any normal girlfriend would do. But Shane didn’t want normal. If he wanted normal, he wouldn’t have chosen me. On that note, I lifted my chin, deciding to use a remedy that seemed to work for just about all ails from headache to heartache.

  Sex.


  I reached down and snagged the hem of my shirt, dragging it up over my body and discarding it to the floor. The motion caught Shane’s eye and, while his body stayed in the same position, his eyes were on me. My hands went behind my back, unclasping my bra, then sliding the straps down my arms. My nipples tweaked in anticipation, hardening, as my hands moved up my belly to cup my breasts for a moment, rolling my nipples, until I could hear Shane’s breathing get a little heavier. My hands moved back down my belly, snagging my panties, and pushing them down my legs. I stepped out of them, whispering my fingertips up my thighs then, eyes on Shane’s, slipped my hand between, running up my slick cleft and finding my clit.

  I let out a small gasp that had a growl escaping Shane’s chest. When my eyes dipped, I found his cock getting hard and a thrill of anticipation filled me, urged me on.

  “Get over here,” Shane’s rough voice demanded suddenly.

  When I didn’t immediately move to do so, running my fingertip over my clit and drawing a small moan from me, Shane stormed out of the shower and over toward me. One hand rose up, grabbing the back of my skull like he always did. The other hand dipped, slipping under mine and taking over. His lips slammed down on mine, hard, bruising. Like I liked. Like he needed. His fingers were equally rough, dragging over my clit for a long minute before two slid downward and slipped inside me, leaving his thumb to work my clit as his fingers curled and started raking over my G-spot.

  I moaned against his lips. He bit into my lower one hard.

  Just when I could feel myself tightening, getting ready for release, his fingers slipped out of me. I didn’t even get a chance to grumble as he grabbed me and turned me, slamming my hips against the sink cabinet. His hand went up, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking it back, making my back arch, as his lips went to my neck.

  His other hand was elsewhere, opening a drawer, I imagined, to fish out a condom. But what he slammed down on the counter beside my hip was a bottle of lube.