Malcolm (Henchmen MC Next Generation 2)

I was conflicted about that.

On the one hand, I was glad Malcolm wasn't going to get in trouble for helping me. On the other, one, though, I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be okay with the idea of the justice system so easily being thwarted.

"Say it," Malcolm demanded. "I can take it."

"I... I don't know if I like the fact that strings can be pulled. Those strings are in their places for a reason."

"You're not wrong," he agreed, reaching up above my head to grab mugs. I did not, absolutely did not, check out his arm muscles as he did that. Nope. Not me. "But I think it's naive to think our system has ever worked like it was set up to. The rich and the powerful have always been able to buy their way out of crimes much worse than the ones we commit."

"I guess that's true. I mean it was in the news a couple weeks ago that some guy who belonged to a wealthy family somehow got away with no charges when he'd been caught with child pornography. Which is a lot worse than selling guns."

"Exactly," he agreed. "Shame that bastard doesn't live in the area. He wouldn't have made it through the night after getting off on those kinds of charges."

"Because of you guys?" I asked, stomach tightening. I mean, did I believe the world would be a better place if all sexual predators were dead? Yes. But did I condone people killing other people? Not really.

"There's a lot of organizations in this town. Not one of them would be okay with those charges being dropped."

"There are other people like you in the area?" I asked, not quite believing him.

"Well, not like us. There is one other biker club. But there is the mafia and loan sharks and a paramilitary camp. And a dozen or so other groups or individuals who wouldn't be able to sleep knowing someone like that was allowed to walk around our community, with our loved ones or kids."

"Oh, wow. I didn't realize."

"You're not from here?"

"No. Well, sort of. I'm from this general area of New Jersey. Originally. But I moved away with my mom when I was eighteen. My older brother, Shep, he stayed here because he had this whole life by then. I actually just moved back a few months ago."

"Any particular reason?"

"My brother, he rode a bike. Or, he did. He was driving. And someone came out of nowhere and hit him."

"Shit."

"Yeah, it was bad. It could have been a lot worse, but it was bad. He broke his back and wrist and shattered his leg. He'd been using a wheelchair ever since. He's in a back brace all the time. That's actually where I was coming from. I dropped him off at physical therapy."

"That's why you work that shitty shift. You take care of your brother during the day."

"Yeah," I agreed, nodding. "He's mending. But it has been a long and slow road for him."

"I bet."

"We are quite a pair," I said, shaking my head.

"Except you have no one to take care of you when you're down," Malcolm said, pouring us each a cup of coffee.

"I'm doing okay."

"Are you, though? Or do you have to be okay?"

"That's the same thing."

"Not really. One means you are actually okay. The other means you feel like you have no choice but to be, so you are faking it as well as you can."

"Can it be a mix of the two?" I asked, not wanting to lie, feeling more seen than I had in a long time.

Caretaker burnout was something else Shep's doctors had warned me about during those grueling first few weeks, when I was losing weight and sporting dark circles from lack of sleep and swollen eyes from crying in private.

It was a lot to have someone dependent on you. Especially when that someone was fully grown and resented needing assistance.

"If that's what it is."

"It is. Things are better than they were. This aside," I said, waving at my face. "Shep is getting some more independence. He's not in as much pain. And he's not lashing out at me in frustration for needing help. And work, well, I just keep reminding myself that staying there isn't for forever."

"You're going to go back to baking?"

"I hope to. If I can find a job doing it."

"Just bake the interviewer some of those cookies," he told me, smile sweet. "They will hire you on the spot. My ma, she's got a lot of skills, but cooking and baking aren't included. I ate a lot of charred cookies cut from a tube as a kid," he admitted, but did it with a smile, clearly a fond memory.

"You're close?" I asked.

"Yeah. With both of 'em. You with yours?"

"My father kind of drifted out of the picture after the divorce when I was seventeen. Shep probably talks to him more than I do. My mom actually had a bit of a, well, mid-life crisis, moved to Italy, and has been enjoying a string of boyfriends ever since. I hear from her a lot. But I don't think she's coming back."