5. Tim
5
TIM
THIS IS MY REALITY
L istening to the police scanners while I work is a way of life for me now. Or having them crackle in the background of my existence, especially when I’m sleeping, is the equivalent of someone else’s white noise or ocean track on their phone.
It’s not that I need the brain-focusing sound so I can relax. It’s not even something I enjoy listening to. But when I lay in bed the morning after our whirlwind trip to New York City, my body stubbornly awake despite it only being a little past eight in the morning, I hear the words I’ve come to expect day in, day out.
“Code one,” the female dispatcher orders for cars. Non-emergent. No sirens. No lights. “Priority three.” Dead body, but it isn’t an ongoing threat.
That means someone from the George Stanley will be en route too.
“Contact has been made. GSM. Doctor Emeri will attend.”
And there it is. With Minka away, it’s Aubree’s time to play. And since she’s just coming back from time off, she’ll have no other active cases laid out on her autopsy table. That means she’ll assign herself, because beneath all her color and sass and bad jokes is a woman who wants so fucking badly not only to please her boss, but to honor the dead.
That’s her calling in this life.
It’s dark and dreary outside, overcast and snowing. But it’s also warmer than I’d expect considering how close we are to Christmas, which means later, when the snow melts a little, the sidewalks will turn to sludge and the dead people will multiply. Especially the older members of society.
“Detective Charlie Fletcher responding.” My brother’s best friend, his partner on the force, speaks through the radios, back on the job just like Aubree. “ETA, ten minutes. Inform the M.E. I’ll swing by and collect her from the GSM.”
There’s a part of my soul that aches at the thought Fletch might consider the friendship he has with Aubree as something more. He’s single. He sure as shit likes women. And he’s a damn good guy to know. But then I remember that loyalty, to him, is as important as it is to us. And there isn’t a soul in this city clueless to the fact Aubree Emeri is mine.
Whether she likes it or not.
I glimpse the sparkling orange eyes of a tabby cat sitting at my bedroom door. His fur is still feral, just like his personality. His teeth are decaying, but the vet says he’ll be okay. His age… well, we’re estimating he’s around five or six years old. But he rarely lets me close, and trapping him in a cage to take him to the vet clinic is a once in a lifetime affair.
I’ve spent my quota, and live with the scars.
So now he’s my buddy. The lone feral cat who still lives with me after Aubree stuffed a dozen of them in my apartment in a fit of rage.
A different fit. A different day. Same attitude, though.
Capone, the cat, named for the long, jagged scar marking the side of his face, lives a relatively peaceful life now. We don’t talk. We don’t hang out. He eats well and knows to expect his meals around midday and midnight, considering my shitty bartending schedule. He keeps an eye on me while I sleep, and I scoop shit out of his tray twice a day.
It’s a situation we’ve both come to accept.
Fuck knows, but he provides me with a reminder of Aubree’s fire. Her ability to take whatever the hell she wants, and her penchant to destroy anything in her path as she hunts down her desires.
She’s all rainbows and good vibes on the outside. Sweetly spoken and ‘ she can’t possibly be anything except cotton candy ’ attitude. That’s how she presents herself to most. But beneath that is a woman who could be a queen someday. A fucking lioness strong enough to lead an entire army. A warrior who would lay scourge to a city if anyone dared hurt those she loves.
It’s an interesting dynamic, for sure. And my job, as far as I’m concerned, is to keep her alive long enough to reach her destiny.
“It’s time to get up,” I grumble, comforted by the fact she won’t be walking to her newest crime scene. Nor will she have to catch a bus or sign out a car not nearly as maintained or safe as it should be.
Sitting up in bed and letting the covers drop to my lap, I glance down at my belly, at the jagged scars that slash across my torso like a tiger took to me at some point in my life.
But no. Not a tiger. Just my father.
Scar tissue makes my stomach bumpy and textured, and ink over the top makes it appear all the more garish. But it doesn’t bother me these days. Nothing hurts me anymore. No one is threatening to shoot me. No one takes their blade to my skin. Hell, no one—besides Aubree—is brave enough to say boo around me.
Except, perhaps, Minka and the cat.
Pushing off the mattress so my covers fall to the side and my cock leads the way, I walk my naked ass across the room and into the hall. Waking alone should mean waking soft. But having Aubree Emeri on my mind means I turn the hot water on as soon as I enter the bathroom, step into the cubicle and tear the curtain around to shield me from the watchful cat. Then I wrap my palm around my dick and drop my forehead to the tile wall with a noisy thunk . Already, a groan works its way along my throat and out to join the rhythmic slide of my hand.
Remembering Aubree’s delicious curves sitting in my lap once upon a time is enough to make my balls tense and ache. Forcing her to dance with me? The best G-rated shit I’ve experienced in too long.
I’m a man who relies on sex to regulate. Not for the emotional connection. There’s never been love between me and a woman in the past. There’ve been few morning afters. No semi-relationships. No near-misses where feelings might become involved.
There’s just another mentally screwed up Malone, taught to fuck before he was old enough to grow hair on his balls. Trained to take women, with or without their consent, to serve his every want. We were told we could have whoever we wanted, whenever, wherever, and there would be no consequences afterwards.
Now, I’m still that guy who needs to come, but I’m a fuckin’ eunuch, touching no one because Aubree won’t be with me. Taking no one, because there is no woman on this planet, besides her, that will do.
I squeeze my cock tighter and close my eyes so I can get the job done. Finish. Get dressed and onto the streets, where I need to be.
I think of Aubree this past summer, tanning on the front of a hundred-million-dollar yacht with a cocktail in her hand and a massive wide- brimmed hat shielding her face. Her skin was blindingly pale, but her thighs, sinfully thick compared to the rest of her body.
At a hundred and ten pounds, she’s too thin for her own good. The risks she faces, if she should fall sick, are too real, considering she has nothing to rely on in the event of famine. Her waist is insanely slim, but her hips flare wide. Her arms, painfully narrow, but her backside, round enough to fucking chew on.
Lord. I think of doing exactly that at least once a day.
She’s the perfect pear shape, created as though her god, whoever he might be, molded and planned with me in mind. She’s everything I think about when I touch my dick. And hell, she was everything I used to think about when with other women. Hers was the name I spoke. Her blonde hair, the hair I imagined pulling.
And the women… well, they were all too willing to play along.
I speed my hand as my release barrels closer. Hot water scalds my back, sluicing over the ridged flesh, long ago healed from another man’s abuse. Then I reach down and cup my balls, squeezing just tight enough to make it hurt.
Quickly, skilled at my expediency, I come as hot spurts of Malone poison slam against the tile and dribble down, where it’ll eventually join the swirling water and filter into the drain. While in my mind, I see Aubree’s smile. The belly-laughter she’s always so free to express. Her perfect smile, and fuckkkkk, the paradise I know as her body.
I’m a made man hailing from a world where anything goes and consent is a joke.
But here I am in a whole other city, a whole other reality, whacking off while I think PG-13 thoughts about a woman I’ve yet to touch.
It’s ridiculous, really. But Jesus, who needs porn when you can have Aubree Emeri?
I feel no disgust when I’m done. Nor do I feel relief. I feel… nothing, really. But at least the anxiety swirling in my belly when I wake is gone. And that… that’s why I do this, every single fucking day.
My phone trills somewhere in another room. The high-pitched screeching telling me exactly who is calling, so I pump soap into my hands and clean up for a brand-new day. I wash my cock and make it hard again, though I have no intention of pulling it a second time. I wash my belly, the scarred lines like brail beneath my fingertips. I wash my hair and do the same for the short beard I keep on my chin. Then I smack the shower tap off and step out to grab a towel .
My phone silences, at least for a moment.
I dry off and scrub the towel over my hair to absorb as much water as I can, then I step into the hall and find Capone waiting. Watching. His paws folded under his body and his long, orange tail flicking the floor to communicate his bad mood.
He wants to be fed, and I haven’t gone to the kitchen yet.
I head into my bedroom and drop the towel on the floor, then pulling on a pair of shorts, I keep the crackle of the radio in the back of my mind. They send cars elsewhere in the city to deal with crimes committed against others. Break and enter. Domestic violence. Disturbing the peace, already, so fucking early in the morning. But as I head to my closet and select a pair of jeans, my phone trills again.
Felix’s ringtone, setting my temper on edge and my mood dropping lower.
I love my brother. Honestly, I do. But not once in his entire life has he called me before noon and it turned out to be a ‘ just because ’ phone call.
It’s always business. Always bad news. Always something that gives me a headache.
‘Doctor Emeri has arrived on scene. Police on standby. Homicide detective on scene.’
Pulling my jeans up and fixing the button, I lean over my bed and answer the call, placing Lix on speaker so I can continue to dress. “What?”
“What?” He chuckles, so free, so playful. I have no fucking clue how he can be so happy while still living the Malone life over in New York. “Is that how you speak to your brother, Timothy?”
“You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon.” I snatch a shirt from my closet and stop by my drawers for a tank to go under. “If you’re thinking of me while you’re away with Christabelle, then I feel as though your marriage may be doomed.”
He snorts. “Thinking of her ninety-nine percent of the time, brother. But I always have room for you. What are you doing?”
“Considering calling my phone provider and finding a way to permanently block you. Your presence in my life stresses me out. What are you doing?”
I can’t know for sure, but I picture him rolling his eyes. “Expressing my love in a normal, healthy, masculine way. You and Arch seem to think you’re more evolved because you moved away, but I’ll be damned I reckon Micah and I are able to express our emotions more easily than you two. It’s early there: you’re up already? ”
“The fact I took your call implies I am. What’s up?”
“Two things. One, I have a situation over in Copeland that I want you to take care of. And two, I wanna know what was in that envelope Cordoza gave you. If you’re going into business with the old man, I need to know what, where, when, and how much it cost.”
“The second is none of your business. It’s about me, not about the family.”
“Bullshit! Anything you do is about the whole family. Especially when you’ve invited Cordoza in. If there’s a debt to be repaid, then?—”
“There’s no debt.” I reach up and slip my tank on, pulling it down until the crisp white material clings to my body. “Don’t worry about the envelope. It’s not business, and there’s no repayment needed. No favors owed. And Cordoza won’t come looking for you if things go south.”
“So there’s a south that things could go? There are consequences to whatever you did?”
I pick up my shirt and slide my arms into the sleeves. “None that will affect you. Just me. What kind of situation needs to be dealt with in Copeland?”
“Gangbanger skipped town without paying his debt. He owes the family a hundred grand, and he stupidly thought jumping state lines would keep him safe.”
“I’m not your muscle?—”
“He went to Copeland. Turns out he’s shacking up with a bunch of undesirables, and now he’s riding high, thinking he thwarted me. I’m out of the country, and you’re right there, so?—”
“No.” I roll my sleeves up. Fold. Fold. Fold. And all the while, I shake my head left to right. “I’m not part of that life, Lix. I’m not your enforcer. I don’t represent the family. And I will not step in to deal with family business.”
“Tim!”
“I thought I made my stance clear sixteen years ago?” I finish one sleeve and switch to work on the other. “If I wanted to be part of that world, I’d have stayed in New York and been the fuckin’ king. I walked. So whatever business you have with this kid is yours and yours alone.”
“You’d let him disrespect the family for a week while I’m away?”
“I’ll let him disrespect the family until his dying day. I don’t give a fuck. It’s not my debt, not my business, and not my problem. If he wants to get in my face and start some shit, then I’ll deal with it. But that’s not family. That’s me. I’m sure as shit not going out there to hunt him down.”
“Does the code mean nothing to you? You’re?— ”
“The code means literally nothing to me. I fly across and see you for you. Because you’re my brother and ignoring you for too long means I have to listen to you whine. What I’m not in New York for is family business. You come here, it’s the same. But I’m not hitting the streets and collecting debts all because you got your feelings hurt.”
“You’re a pussy.”
“I’m out.” I turn to the mirror to make sure I’ve remembered everything—pants, shirt, tank. And when I go to the living room, I’ll grab a jacket and shoes. “If I wanted in, I’d be the one handing down orders. There has never been a moment I considered being your debt collector.”
“You say you’re out,” he growls. “Except when you’re making deals with Cordoza! What the fuck is that?”
“It wasn’t a deal. It was a favor. But there’s no repayment necessary. He did it because he wanted to.”
“He does nothing because he wants to! Are you insane?”
“I’m done with this discussion.” Aubree’s name crackles over the radio once more, so I snag a pair of socks from my drawers and snatch up my phone as I move. “I’m heading out, because I’ve got shit to do. Enjoy your honeymoon. Pay attention to Christabelle. You got her, Lix. Make sure you hold on and give her no reason to leave. Sitting on an island somewhere and shouting at me isn’t gonna make her wanna stay.”
“My relationship is fine. It’s strong. Yours is significantly more concerning, considering she wants nothing to do with you.”
“Yeah, and now you’re talking just to hear yourself speak.” I blow through my doorway and head along the hall, past Capone and straight toward the fridge. His heavy footsteps thud along behind me. He wants to be fed, and if I try to leave without doing it, he’ll tear strips from my face until we’re a matching pair. “You don’t need to know everything about what I’m doing. And I owe you no explanation.”
“Tim—”
“I don’t owe you my time or enforcement, either. If you have a gangbanger over here embarrassing the family, then I trust you’ll deal with it on your own. I’m not doing it for you.”
“Stepping in and helping the family isn’t the same as stepping up and taking the reins,” he grumbles. “You can do the first without risking your stance on leaving.”
“It’s a no from me.” I select a tin of cat food and toss my phone down to free up my hands, and though I bend and drop the contents into Capone’s bowl at the end of the counter, my eyes stop on the envelope Cordoza handed me two nights ago.
There is no address on the front.
No stamp.
No marking that’ll get either of us in trouble.
“I’m busy today, Lix.” I push the cat back when he attempts to eat and risks tuna dropping on the top of his head. “I have my own work. My own problems. So my answer remains no. But thanks for thinking of me.”
“You’re an asshole. I’m calling Cato.”
He ends our call without goodbyes, not realizing our youngest brother is still in New York. But that’s a conversation for them. It’s a deal they’ll strike between themselves. And none of it has anything to do with me. So I finish dropping food into Capone’s bowl, then I stand again and lob the tin into the trash. I wash my hands at the sink and listen to the radio as the city chugs around us. I know Felix is antsy about mafia activity in Copeland City. I know he wants to stamp that shit out as quickly and quietly as possible.
This is the Malones’ fuckin’ city, and his choice to trade here—or not—is intentional. Anyone else sliding into what appears to be a hole in the market is galling to the man accustomed to having his way.
But just because I get it doesn’t mean I intend to help him enforce the rules set down.
“Code three,” the radio crackles. “Priority one.”
Shaking my head while my phone bleats with texts, I pick up the envelope I’ve opened, closed, and reopened a thousand times since Saturday night. Peeling the sticky seal open with careful hands, I tug the single sheet of paper out and unfold it to reveal the scripted print. The seal at the bottom. And the judge’s signature after that.
My phone beeps. Buzzes. Beeps. As texts land, one after another, and all of them point toward one single guy. One idiot whose actions I’ve tried already to curb. Whose decisions bring harm to others. One motherfucker who refuses help, and because of that, forced me to speak to Estefan Cordoza and ask for a favor.
He’s the reason my brother is pissed at me. And he’s the reason I stare down at a certificate that makes my stomach curdle.
‘This is to certify that Timothy Malone III and Aubree Grace Emeri were joined in marriage on Saturday, December 3rd.’
She doesn’t know it yet. And when she finds out, I doubt she’ll be pleased .
But sometimes, a man has to do what a man has to do to ensure someone’s safety. And when that man has powerful friends, a judge willing to sign anything he asks for when an appropriate amount of money is exchanged, and enough motivation to get the job done… well, that’s when enemies are made and future explosions are created.
Aubree Emeri is a claimed woman. Legally. Morally. And indefinitely.
I’ll tell her eventually.