Shane (Mallick Brothers 1)

“Alright,” he said before turning back to me. “See you around, Lea.”

The door closed behind him and I slumped back against the wall, fighting back the completely irrational sting of tears at the backs of my eyes. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t the crying type. I had left everything and everyone I loved to move across the country to live in fear, in destitution, and completely and utterly alone in the world and I hadn’t cried about it. That wasn’t how I was raised- with softness, with nurturing of my feelings. I was taught to nut-up and deal with whatever came my way. So that was how I handled things- with a stiff upper lip, squared shoulders, and a middle finger up.

I was pretty sure the last time I cried was in middle school.

And I was damn sure not going to cry over a little embarrassment and unfulfilled desire.

That was not the kind of woman I was.

But I was, apparently, the kind of woman to change her schedule to avoid a man she needed to not give into. Which was, in and of itself, a little pathetic. But that was a fact that I was trying to ignore.SIXShane“Was that Lea hightailing it out of here?” Mark asked when I walked back into the weight room. “What? Did she finally get a good look at that ugly mug of yours?”

“Fuck off,” I said, in no mood for the ribbing. My dick was still half fucking hard after that interaction in the changing room. She’d wanted me. Everything about her had been a testament to that fact: her breathing, her arms encircling me, her lips responding to me, her throaty moans, her wet fucking pussy. Everything. She wanted me. And nothing about Lea seemed to imply she was the kind of woman to deny herself things she wanted. So the issue wasn’t as simple as not wanting a good fucking. It wasn’t even her unexplained urge to try to deny the attraction between us. It was something else, that was clear.

Because she was a shit liar. Her eyes gave her away every time.

“Still not getting any, huh?” Mark asked, either oblivious to or unconcerned by my shitty mood. “Maybe she isn’t into the Hulk thing. I should give her a…”

“I swear to fuck, Mark…” I started, moving toward him, my body tight. Normal men would have shrank away from a man like me closing in on them in anger. But Mark wasn’t normal. Mark grew up in the same house with me where we weren’t exactly discouraged from using our fists to solve problems. I’d kicked his ass countless times; he had kicked mine just as many.

“Do you really think it’s good business to bring your personal shit in here?” Ryan asked from behind me, making me exhale hard. Partly because he was right and partly because him showing up in the middle of the day could only mean one thing.

“What’s up?” I asked as I turned to find him standing there in a gray suit, gray shirt, and red tie. That was Mark, a loan shark enforcer who looked like a fucking lawyer.

“Mo.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking shitting me,” I groaned, running a hand through my hair.

“Dad’s talked to him. So have I.”

“Me too,” Mark said, sitting up on the bench.

“So it’s your turn.”

“Yeah, but did any of you fucks spill blood? In case you’ve forgotten, Mo is a Henchmen.”

Ryan shrugged at that, bringing his arm up to check his watch. He was the only man I knew under sixty who still used a watch to check time. “Talk to Reign first. Reason with him.”

“Reason with a biker?” I asked, lips tipping up.

“He runs a tight ship. It doesn’t look good on him to have his men welshing.”

“How much does he owe Pops?”

Ryan shook his head. “Eight K.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. I’ll get changed and head over to the compound,” I said with about as much enthusiasm as I did when I got all my wisdom teeth pulled.

Navesink Bank had an interesting economy. Meaning, it was wholly dependent upon most of the criminal organizations. And we had our fair share. My family aside, there was The Henchmen MC who ran guns, Richard Lyon and his imports, V and his skin trading, the Fifth Street gang and their heroin and prostitutes, Lo and Hailstorm’s various talents, Lex Keith and his reign of terror, and the Grassi family and their docks. Then there were the independent players: Shooter and his contract killing, Breaker and his hired muscle, hell, even Barney and his forging. It was a delicate balance between all of us to know what lines could be crossed and which ones couldn’t. For instance, I’d go out for beer and skirt chasing with Shooter and Breaker any day and I would have a meal at the Grassis’ restaurant. But I didn’t get involved with the more volatile of them.