For A Good Time, Call... (24 page)

Shane
slammed into my shoulder as he went to stand near the others,
watching me with a sneer on his face.

My
father looked up slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, as
if my disappearance hadn't been the single most important thought on
his mind for the past six months. Charlie Mallick. He was an older
version of all of us. Tall, lean, light eyes, dark hair with a bit of
gray at the temples. He had wrinkles between his brows, but otherwise
had aged well. In plain ole jeans and a black t-shirt, he was the
most intimidating sight I had ever seen.

“Hunter,”
he said, raising a brow at me. “It's so nice of you to come pay
us a visit.”

“Wasn't
as if I had much of a choice, Dad,” I said, sending Shane a
sideways look.

“Where
was he?” my father asked Shane whose spine immediately
straightened at getting to be the golden boy.

“New
York. In this shithole of an apartment, all gaga over some woman.”

God,
he was such a dick. As if my running away wasn't bad enough. Now I
got to be the pussy who had fallen for the first skirt who came my
way in my new life. Great. Just great.

“Is
that so?” my dad asked, his tone almost amused, motioning me
toward the chair across from him. “Why don't you have a seat?”

“Why
don't you cut the bullshit and stop acting like I have a choice in
any of this?” I asked, sitting down, lounging back in my chair
and making the front legs pick up off the floor.

“Shane,”
he said. “Why don't you invite our guests to come back at
another time?” he asked and Shane rushed to kick everyone out
of the bar. I heard the shuffling of feet, the grumbling, the
slamming of the door, the sliding of the lock, then finally... the
silence. Shane walked back over to stand closer to my father. “Did
you really think you would get away with it?”

“Get
away with living my own life? As a grown ass man? Yeah, I thought I
might,” I shot back, beyond caring that all I was doing was
provoking his anger.

“You
know the deal here, Hunter,” he said, his voice calm. “You
work here. In exchange you get a nice place, cars, a certain amount
of protection from your actions...”

“A
life sentence doing something I don't enjoy...”

He
smiled then, a slow, strange smile. “Hunt... don't even try to
tell me you don't enjoy it. I've seen you. I've seen how much you
like the job.”

He
wasn't wrong. That was the scary part. The part I was running away
from. The part that made me promise myself I would stay away from
people in the city. Until I could get it under control. The anger.
The anger that he had instilled in me. The anger that made me enjoy
all the awful things he made me do.

“Not
anymore,” I said back, choosing not to think about the time
outside my apartment. The guy with his hands on Fee. The guy who
would need a lot of plastic surgery to have his face look like it had
before I got my hands on him.

“Well
that's an easy enough fix,” he said, shrugging. “You'll
be back in shape in no time.” He took a deep breath then,
looking almost sad. “I'm afraid you know what happens next,”
he said.

And
I did. Oh, I did. And I hated him in that moment. For making it be
this way. For pitting brothers against each other.

Beat-ins
were common when we were younger, to find friends who were strong
enough to take a beating from all of us, and therefore could be a
part of our twisted little family.

Beat-outs
weren't as common and were as close to lethal as possible to
discourage disloyalty.

What
I was about to get was somewhere in between. Something we didn't
really even have a name for. This was what you got when you fucked
up. When you lost money. When you got an outsider involved in our
shit. And, apparently, when you tried to escape. If it had been as
easy as a beat-out for me, I would have endured it a long time ago.
But that couldn't happen. Not to one of his sons.

I
slowly got up out of my seat, watching my father. Shane got closer,
his voice taunting. “Want to take a minute to tape up those
artist hands of yours? We'll wait,” he said, close to my ear.

“Fuck
you, Shane,” I said, holding my arms out wide at my sides,
palms out. It was clear to him, to them: I wasn't going to fight
back. They could beat me. But it wasn't going to get them anywhere
because I already accepted my circumstances.

There
was a tension in the air as they all looked at me, at each other,
then my father. This wasn't done. I didn't have a choice. I had to
fight back.

My
father sighed, closing his eyes for a second, then waving a hand.

I
tensed for the first punch which I knew Shane had been waiting years
to give me. The others hesitated, Ryan breaking free of his shock
first to join in. Mark next and lastly, Eli. I couldn't blame them,
not even as I felt myself fly back onto the floor, had a boot land in
my side and feel my ribs breaking. This was what we were raised to
do.

A
call to fight was like the bell to Pavlov's dogs. We salivated for
it. We could feel the anger rise up in our blood, some like mine and
Eli's stronger than the others. Maybe because we weren't by nature
fighters. Because he was softer, because I was resistant. Maybe the
need to fight to gain validation from our father had warped us to
become monsters.

So
I knew it was his fists that took to my face. Just like I knew it was
Ryan, with his cool, detached temper, who eventually pulled him off.

Because
we knew each other. Even though we were forced into hurting each
other. Even though our lives felt like a competition for our father's
attentions and affections. Even though we were all cold and hard- we
knew each other. Ryan knew that Eli would bash my face
unrecognizable. He also knew that Eli would never forgive himself for
it.

I
rolled onto my side when my father finally called them off, spitting
blood out onto the floor. It was bad. It was worse than I had been
expecting. My face was on fire. My ribs were throbbing. I could feel
soreness and stiffness in every inch.

My
brothers stepped away, walking out the front door and leaving me
alone with our father. “I understand why you left, Hunt,”
he said, coming up next to me, kneeling next to my blood stain. “And
I know you understand why I couldn't let you leave. Not like that,”
he said, touching my knee then standing up and following my brothers
outside.

Through
the pain, I felt hope. He couldn't let me leave... like that. Which
meant that maybe I could leave. Somehow. Under his terms. When he was
done punishing me. When he was done proving to everyone that he still
controlled me. Then and only then, he would let me go. But it was
something. Something to cling to.

I
tried to curl up on my side but my sore ribs sent white bursts of
pain through my body. I ended up laying flat on my back, starting up
at the ceiling, still tasting my own blood for a long time.

A
while later, hours. It had to be hours. I heard footsteps. A set that
didn't belong to my brothers or father, but still familiar. The
click-clicking of heels, heavy and deliberate. “Mom,” I
grumbled.

“Hunt,”
she said, walking up to stand next to me, her heeled foot brushing my
leg as she stared down at me. Now, my father was terrifying. He was a
scary man to know. It went to follow that the woman who spent her
life dealing with him would be submissive and kowtow to his whims.
This was not true of my mother.

Helen
Mallick was five-foot-nine inches of steel. She was also always one
of the prettiest women in the room: long legged, thin, with sharp
features, hazel eyes, and long black hair. She also had the
distinction of being the fiercest human being I had ever met. Which,
given all the unsavory characters I met in my line of work, was
saying something.

And
my father loved her. He loved her with a passion that I had always
found uncomfortable. A passion that was evidenced by the five sons
she gave him in under a decade. Boys she raised to be rough and tough
and loyal. Boys she let beat the ever loving shit out of each other
over toys, or girls, or cars. Boys she let run wild and get into all
kinds of trouble.

Boys
she would knock across a room if they ever dared to smart-mouth or
disrespect her rules. Even as teenagers. I distinctly remember
“falling” (or at least that's what we told the doctors at
the hospital) out of a window when I was seventeen and thought it
would be a good idea to skip out on Sunday dinners. Which was
unacceptable in our household.

“Having
a good homecoming?” she asked, kneeling down on the floor by my
stomach and pulling up my shirt. Her fingers pressed into the bruised
skin over my ribs and I let out a string of curses that had a smile
toying at her lips. “Glad to see they didn't break your spirit
even if they did break a rib or two.”

“So
what's next?” I asked, shaking my head. “Gonna throw me
down in the basement? Chain me up like one of the scumbags who don't
pay back their loans?”

“Don't
be silly,” she said, reaching down to grab my arm and help me
up. “You'll be back at your old place. You brothers should have
your new crap all unpacked by the time you get there. I suggest
slapping on some elastic bandages and some triple antibiotic because
your dad is probably going to have you out on a job tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”
I growled, the sound coming out jumbled with my swollen lips.

“He
thinks it will be good for you to get right back in the thick of it.
Wont leave you time to get all resentful.”

“More
so than I am now?” I asked, reaching up to touch the side of my
face which felt particularly damaged and feeling the swollen flesh
underneath my hand. “I don't think that is possible at this
point, Mom. But thanks for the warning.”

“Hunt,”
she called as I slowly wobbled toward the door.

“Yeah?”
I asked, half turning to her.

“Talk
to your father. I know you think he's just a monster, but he's a man.
And though it's hard to see sometimes, he's not a bad man either. He
wants you boys to be happy.”

“Yeah,
maybe I'll give that a try,” I said, lying through my teeth and
she knew it. No fucking way was I showing that kind of vulnerability
in front of him.

“Hey
Hunt,” she called again and I stopped but didn't look at her.
“Please tell me she's not some meek shrinking violet,”
she said walking and opening the door for me.

“How
did... did Shane...”

“No,
baby,” she said, shaking her head and giving me one of her rare
motherly smiles. “I can see it in your eyes. I am your mother,
you know.”

I
nodded, stepping outside. “No, Mom. She's a fucking blonde
haired, green eyed spitfire. The second time I met her, she was
breaking in and stealing my tools so I couldn't wake her up anymore.”

“Good,”
she said, nodding and closing the door.

Why
it was good that I had a woman my mother approved of when she damn
well knew I would never see her again was completely beyond my
comprehension. But it mattered to her. It always had. Any time one of
us would show interest in a girl or woman who seemed timid or
altogether too average, she would make a big deal about it. Because
boys like us needed women who could handle us. So she became best
friends with every juvenile delinquent, every drinking/smoking/
fighting trouble maker, every purple haired, pierced and tatted girl
we brought home. And she shunned the ones who cheered in high school,
or worked at a tanning salon, or wore demure knee-length skirts.

She
really would have liked Fiona. She would approve of all the skimpy
dresses, the tattoos, the phone sex job, the selling her dirty
panties, hell... she would have even liked the scars. And Fiona
wouldn't put up with her shit... or my brothers for that matter. She
would fit right in. But now they would never get to meet her.

The
walk back to my old place was long. Painful and exhausting. I could
barely get five feet without having to stop, bend forward and curse
the entire fucking universe. It was a walk that should have taken me
fifteen minutes, but took me the better part of an hour and a half.

My
old place was an apartment above a liquor store that my parents and I
owned. One of their many legitimate businesses to fund their less
than legal one. I wondered who they got to keep an eye on it while I
was gone since each of my brothers had their own gigs: a gym, a lawn
service... whatever niche my father wanted to get in on next.

The
stairs up the side of the building were steep and dangerous on a good
day so I let myself in through the store, grabbing a huge bottle of
whiskey off a shelf, and slowly made my way up the staircase in the
backroom.

My
apartment in my hometown is a lot like my apartment was in the city.
I had spent endless hours trying to get it right. The walls were
painted a cappuccino brown, the furniture all stained a perfect
antique walnut shade as were the kitchen cabinets. It was a studio
and I used bookshelves to divide my bedroom from the main area. My
brothers had piled everything from my other apartment into a corner
next to my dining set, making the space feel cramped and
claustrophobic and full of old memories.