Mallicks: Back to the Beginning (Mallick Brothers 5)

So I took the extra meals.

I took the extra shifts when Vicky claimed she wanted some time off, when I really knew she just wanted to give me some extra cash.

And I needed it.

So I took it.

At the bar, a few of the regulars overtipped me. The bartenders took me under their wings more, teaching me the ropes, telling me they would put in a good word for me as soon as the owner came back from vacation, so I could make more money like they did.

I took my shift meals from there back to the motel as well, along with any of the food that 'died in the window.'

We were doing alright.

Our bellies were full.

Our room was paid for.

Charlie was mending.

And we were on our way.

"Helen, come to bed," Charlie called, voice sleep-slow because it was nearly four in the morning, and he had passed out a few hours ago while I sat at the small table that wobbled on the shag carpet, staring out the slit in the curtains, watching people drive in and out of the gas station.

Trying to avoid the bed.

And the way his body felt too good next to mine.

And the way my body refused to calm down when I got too close.

"I'm not tired," I lied, unable to meet his eyes as I did.

"Bullshit. You were nodding in and out. I saw you," he countered, making my guilty gaze shoot to his as he slowly pushed up in bed, making me painfully aware of the fact that he didn't have a shirt on because all of his t-shirts were in the wash that he was going to handle tomorrow while I pulled an afternoon shift at the ice cream stand. They were closing in a week. I figured I would get every last penny out of it while I could.

And Charlie without a shirt?

Yeah.

It was problematic for me.

Especially now that most of his injuries were healed, there only being a small smattering of purple on his left side across his ribs.

It was easier to control myself when his body was bruised, cut, and half-broken.

But like this?

Mostly healed?

With very little to mask the breathtaking way his abdominal muscles etched, shifted as he moved, never once losing any of their definition, yeah... this was a test to my self-control.

And tonight, I knew I was failing.

Which was why I was drifting off to sleep at the table sitting up instead of curled on the mattress beside him.

"I'm fine. Really. Go back to sleep."

"You're not fine," he countered, brow lifting at my obvious lie. "Something is wrong between us if you can't tell me what is making you sit as far away from me as you can get," he went on, making a stab of guilt pierce my stomach. "You changing your mind?" he asked, not looking at me, voice rough. Rougher than I had ever heard it, making my eyes shoot to him, worried.

"Changing my mind about what?"

"About the future. About me," he went on, gaze finding me, and there was raw pain there at the very idea.

"What? No!" I shrieked, shaking my head so hard that the room wobbled a bit when I stopped. "That's not it at all."

"Tired of busting your ass while I sit here and do nothing?"

"Charlie," I cut in, voice reasonable. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what? Tell the truth?"

"Don't put your insecurities on me, and try to make me own them too," I shot back, watching as his chin lifted a little, taking the hit. Like I had intended.

He'd once told me not to censor myself, silence myself like I had to do my whole life, that he was man enough to take whatever I was thinking, even if it hurt his pride a bit.

And I had been doing my best to believe him, to speak my mind when I thought I had something to say, to contribute. I'd found a power in that the likes of which I had never known before - this freedom to be a whole, functioning person with wants, needs, ideas.

And so far, nothing I had ever said had penetrated.

It was clear, though, that what I just did had.

I'd called him out.

That was new for him.

And me.

But it had to be done.

"I get that you hate this," I went on, keeping eye-contact, almost daring him to break it. "But this isn't some hardship to me. I am not 'carrying' you or whatever it is you have been thinking. I worked this much back when I lived at home too. This is nothing new to me."

"Then what is the problem?" My gaze fell then, studying the blue and white plaid pattern of my pajama pants. "Helen," he said, voice a little demanding, a tone he rarely took with me.

I swallowed hard, knowing I had to say it, knowing there would be no moving past it, not when he caught me like this, until we discussed it.