by Hagen, Casey
My imagination decided to drop-kick me right in the teeth until I finally launched myself out of my bed and stalked to the shower. Punishing myself, I started with a scalding spray until the heat ran out and I was plunged into the cold again. And still I wondered if she called him. If he called her. If I was going to watch them fall in love.
“Well, since you’re here, let’s talk about your employment,” Hawk said with a sigh, pulling me from more self-torture.
Goody, now he can be the one to dish out the misery. Super.
Hawk’s chair squeaked behind me, and I knew he’d pushed away from his desk and leaned back with his arms crossed behind his head.
Just like Pop Steele used to do.
This was it. I’d pushed Hawk last night, fucked with him when I was supposed to support him, and now I’d pay for it by losing my chance at being a partner in the business, and likely my job too. Because who the hell kept a guy around who’d stab you in the back?
It’s what I deserved. As I stood here, still unable to eradicate the feel of Emory from the night before. Her plump flesh clutched in my punishing fingers, her wet heat coating my knuckle, and the taste of her sweet mouth.
I’d had no right to touch her. Not as my best friend’s little sister, and definitely not when Hawk had shown an interest.
I’d love to say I regretted it, but I don’t.
When it came down to it…being a bastard is all I know.
Cup in hand, I dropped into the metal chair across from him and took a sip of the black brew, not caring my reckless consumption would scald my tongue on the way down, leaving lingering misery for the rest of the day.
The shit tasted like the smell of hot tar.
Fuck.
“Well, that had to taste like shit. It’s been cooking on the burner for a good three hours,” Hawk said with a shit-eating grin on his face.
I ran my tongue over my teeth and swallowed, doing anything I could to get the lingering aftertaste out of my mouth. Who the fuck had a coffee maker without an automatic shut off to prevent this atrocity anyway? “Thanks for the heads up. Jesus.”
Hawk smirked. “Yeah, well, consider it payback for last night.”
“About that, sorry I killed your chances with Emory—”
“You didn’t kill them. Just postponed them. I’d like to think I’m smooth enough that I would have had her out of there already had it not been for the few hiccups,” Hawk said with a grimace. He snapped up in his chair and glanced at his cell. “I’m waiting for her to call me back now.”
The rancid coffee soured in the pit of my stomach. My blood surged through my veins, hot and heavy, leaving behind a dull hum in my ears. “So you got her number, huh?” I asked, clearing my throat.
“Sure did. But I’m treading carefully. Turns out her friend Soraya, the one who asked about charters, is married to Graham Morgan. My lawyer called this morning wondering what the hell I did to get on Morgan’s radar. Apparently, Soraya wasted no time filling in her hubby, and he put out feelers about us last night.”
My skin prickled. “Graham Morgan…why do I know that name?”
“A big-ass fish. Morgan Financial Holdings. Can you believe that shit? We were partying with them just last night. I might have been hunting for a hookup on the anniversary of Pop Steele’s death, but damn, we got so much more. Pop Steele would be proud. And who knows…one hookup might turn into several.”
“You guys hit it off good before Tate showed up to cock-block you, huh?” I tossed the words out as though I didn’t give one shit about the answer. My ears, though, they were on high alert, waiting to hang on every word, every damn nuance that came next.
Moves and countermoves.
“Yeah, you would have known that if you’d been focusing on the task at hand,” Hawk said dryly. “But technically, this is my fault. I put the partnership shit in your head from the jump,” Hawk said, waving a hand, dismissing my shifty behavior from the night before.
Because I was a good fucking actor. A tool serving me well when I needed it to, but also my default setting and source of shame.
I said nothing and let Hawk take the blame.
“So, let me fix it. Once you sign this, you’re no longer my employee.”
Sure, lure me in thinking we’re cool and then drop the hammer. I grabbed the stack of papers, eager to get it over with. Hawk wanted to keep it cordial, fine, I could take his cue.
I scanned the fresh documents in front of me. The air in my lungs whooshed out. The tension in my shoulders and back eased. My ass I’d clenched so tight I could tap dance with a dime lodged between my cheeks even sank into the chair with relief.
I wasn’t jobless.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
A tremor swept through me and I blinked. Hawk handed me everything I wanted.
He’d changed the percentages. Forty percent for Hawk, thirty percent each for me and Penn.
“What finally made you change your mind?” I asked quietly.
Hawk leaned over his desk, the motivated look in his eye aimed right at me. “Graham Morgan. I want the account. I sure as hell don’t want it reported back that we’re butting heads over money.”
So this was about Morgan, and by extension, Emory.
“Shit, I hate it,” Hawk said, scrubbing his palm over his jaw. “I’m not going to lie. I hate how you and Penn see yourselves as less valuable in this, but in your case, your damn stubborn streak won’t let you take pride in this business any other way. So you win.”
This was it. I had something of my own right in my hands; all I had to do was sign. Only doing so could quite possibly tangle my life even more with Emory’s. Even if Hawk and Emory never made it past friendship, Soraya and Emory were tight.
There was no way to avoid her entirely. At the very least, she’d pop in and out of my life without warning, the mere mention of her name piercing my heart.
With our every encounter, I’d revisit the bleak memory.
And I’d bleed.
What happened when I became so desensitized to the pain I plowed right through it? What happened if I crossed the line and broke us both all over again?
“Dude, you’re pissing me off. Are you going to keep giving the 12 point font fuck me eyes or are you going to sign the papers already?” Hawk said, holding out a pen.
Disaster loomed. Deep in my bones, the certainty took root in me. I loved Hawk like a brother, but my demons didn’t care about loyalty. They dabbled in selfish desires, in wants and cravings only to be rivaled by full-blown addictions. Those demons had found their way out of me once. I’d succumbed to them and claimed Emory for my own. I’d taken with no regard to who I hurt. No thought of the cost of claiming what I so desperately wanted.
I couldn’t shake it. This poison came born and bred in me.
And so did selfishness.
I snatched the pen and signed on the four lines Hawk had marked with neon flags.
Swallowing hard, I handed them over. My fate, and quite possibly my demise if I wasn’t careful, all in his hands. “Thanks, man.”
Hawk grinned. “Oh, no…thank you.” His voice dripped with sly pride.
“You’re awfully smug for someone who caved,” I said, heading for the sink to dump the sludge from my cup.
Hawk clucked his tongue. “You really should have read the contract.”
“I did. The percentages were what I was looking for.”
“Are you really so afraid of a good thing? It’s not like you haven’t earned every bit of it. I knew you were on the cynical side, but this is a bit much, even for you.”
“Good things don’t last. I choose to gamble fair. Score some karma points to battle against my devious nature,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I’d only let the people close to me dig so deep, and Hawk had about reached the threshold.
“Fair is subjective, my man. Had you read page two, you might not have found the three additions to the contract so fair.”
I straightened and shot a
look over my shoulder at the smug bastard while I rinsed the sink. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Addition one, ten percent of my profits go back into growing the business, permanently.”
“Bullshit, we’re all responsible for growth—”
Hawk held up his hand. “Hang on, hotshot, it gets worse for you. Addition two, each partner shall have his/her own office. That’s what my first investment will be by the way. The contractor and architect are coming out next week so we can get the addition going. I’ve even got it in writing so you can’t stop me.”
“I don’t need a fucking office,” I said, the tone of my voice telling him what he could do with said office.
“According to you, you don’t need a lot of things. But you know what, I call bullshit. You want to take pride in owning a business, don’t do it in the shadows. So you get a damned office. All yours, you can do anything you want in there. Work. Fuck. Have your own coffee maker. I don’t give a shit, as long as you have the space. Same with Penn.”
“I hate you.”
“Mmmm, might want to hold that thought, we haven’t talked about three yet,” Hawk said with a big-ass grin.
Was this his version of training? His way of teaching me to never sign something without reading it entirely first? I mean, how the fuck was I supposed to know the son of a bitch would get shit changed so fast between Friday night and early Saturday morning?
Weren’t lawyers supposed to draw this shit out…make some bank? What kind of craptastic lawyer did we have anyway?
Hawk drummed his fingers on his desk, his smug chin just asking for a kiss from my fist.
“What the fuck did you do, Hawk?”
“Uniforms,” Hawk said, sliding his thumb and index finger along the lapel of his flight jacket like he was some sort of suave bastard trying to make my panties melt. “We’re going to have our own uniforms.”
“I hope you get your dick caught in your fucking zipper, man. I really do,” I said, jamming my hands through my hair.
“Jokes on you. I stick with button fly these days,” Hawk countered.
“Not with a uniform you won’t.”
Hawk’s smug-ass grin slipped.
“I guess there really is something in there for me. Your time’s coming, bro.”
Hawk’s phone buzzed between them. He smiled and tapped the green button. “Well hello, gorgeous.”
Emory.
And like any roller coaster, you only climb the hill for so long before you’re plunged over the edge, your intestines choking you right in the throat.
“Not at all, nothing weird about a Sunday night date. Besides, I’m in the mood to celebrate,” Hawk said, completely unaware how his every flirty word was one more kick in my taint.
I should have left, but I had to know what I was facing. I grabbed the flight schedule for the next two weeks and scanned over the times and destinations as though I hadn’t already memorized them.
“Oh, nothing major. I finally beat Falcon at his own game,” Hawk said, looking right at me as he did. “If you knew Falcon, you’d know he’s nearly unbeatable. Maybe his age is finally catching up with him.”
Yeah, my age. Right. Hawk had three years on me.
“Sure, I’ll pick you up at six. Sound good? Great! Give me your address and I’ll be there.”
Hawk scribbled across the yellow legal pad on his desk, each sloppy scratch of ink one more shovel full of dirt on the grave of the what-might-have-been between me and Emory.
“And that,” Hawk said, sliding his phone in his pocket and heading around his desk, “was Emory. Dinner tomorrow night. Not too far from her place so we can have drinks and privacy after.” He held up his closed fist for a bump.
I schooled my features to hide my annoyance while my pulse spiked in the throat. “Nice.” It’s all I could manage to say.
“Nice? Nah, nice is rubbing one off in the shower. I’m aiming for fucking fantastic.”
Penn’s truck rumbled outside, saving me from strangling Hawk and going to jail for life.
“I’ve got to check with Penn about the Cessna before he dives into the chopper. I’ll catch up with you later,” Hawk said, already heading for the door.
“Yeah, later,” I muttered.
The door slammed shut behind Hawk, leaving a heavy silence behind.
A mountain of reasons screamed at me to go. Walk out. Leave it alone. Whatever happened, happened.
The scent of Emory in my arms the night before careened past every last one of those reasons.
I snatched my phone from my pocket and snagged a picture of Emory’s address.
Willpower. I needed some fucking willpower. Nothing good could come of knowing where she lived. I pulled up the picture and forced myself not to read the words there, my thumb hovering over the trash can icon to delete the photo.
Nothing good for my partnership with Hawk, and definitely nothing good if either of us had any hope of breaking free from one another once and for all.
There’d be a collision. Bodies, words, hearts, and the addiction I’ve harbored for her for so long would rule me until I let her get close enough to see who lurked inside.
I’d break her.
Delete it, Malone. Delete the fucking picture.
I clicked the icon, but stopped at the message asking me if I was sure, my focus on the white slip of paper next to the address with her phone number.
My heart hammered in my dry throat.
I’d only ever been sure of one thing in my life…Emory belonged to me.
I stared at the words until they meant nothing. Until my longing ruled and nothing else mattered. Clicking cancel, I pretended I hadn’t just succumbed to the Devil one more time.
Always one more time.
When it came to the Devil, my dance card never seemed to be full.
5
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
I flicked off my blow dryer and froze.
Okay, the knock at the door definitely wasn’t Hawk. At least it better not be. I still had almost a full hour to get ready for this date—this misguided lack of judgment I’d almost canceled a dozen times in the past day and a half. After the chocolate binge fest the night before, followed by a gross pillaging of my dwindling wine supply, I was going to need every last second and maybe the help of a witch doctor to tame whatever the hell was going on with my hair, my skin, and my nerves.
With half of the nest of a hot mess bunched on top of my head in a clip and the other half partially dry, I headed for the door.
Maybe this was fate. If he was on the other side, it would tell me everything I need to know about how terrible of an idea this was. It wouldn’t take a shrink to tell me the only reason I called Hawk back was because of these damned lingering feels for Falcon.
How pathetic did it make me? Here I slouched, at my absolute lowest, and in waltzes tall, dark, prick-on-a-sex-stick Falcon Malone to deliver the final blow to what remained of my tattered pride.
Well played, fate. Well. Fucking. Played.
The only reasons I didn’t submit to total shameless gluttony the night before was the fact he had a few lingering feelings too, and it was near damn impossible to agonize over every single second of our exchange trying to figure out what they were.
And wasn’t that just the problem? He might snap and act on them, but he’d walked away after.
He always walked away.
God, but the inferno we’d make before he did.
Falcon had established the pattern and my hormones, pheromones—whatever, they’d received the message loud and clear: Fuck the drifter when you have the chance, kill the curiosity, satisfy the lusty bitch screaming inside you, but don’t be stupid and fall in love with him.
So much multitasking.
And excuse me, but why did he have to be so ridiculously good-looking? His short-cropped dark hair—about the only thing tame about him—made me want to see if I could get a good enough grip on it to hold his face right between my t
highs. And those cavernous eyes drawing me in closer and closer as I searched for the answers to mysteries lingering inside.
Maybe God gave him a leg up in the looks department because he knew how shitty his parents would be for the short time they’d even bothered, their abuse and neglect leaving him snarly and distrustful.
I mean, he had to have some sort of in when it came to attracting members of society, even the friendly variety, so people knew he was human.
Okay, now I’m just being mean. But the sensation when you put your tongue on a 9V battery—shut up, you know you’ve done it—well, it was the perpetual state of my hoohaa right now, and the blame lay right at Falcon’s feet.
Pain screamed through my toes and I lurched right, slamming my shoulder into the wall. “Ow, shit.”
I grabbed the whole front of my foot and hobbled, shooting a glare at the bundle of bridal magazines sitting forgotten in the wood crate sitting by the door. Rustic and gorgeous, I now regretted how much I spent on it, first because I could use the money back in my account right now and second, because the magazines mocked me with glimpses into a career which felt more and more like it was slipping out of my grasp.
Because despite the shit show of last night, I’d had an epiphany…my career and my spirit had been dying a slow death every day I spent working for the soul collector herself, Vera Mason. Quitting had only been the final moments after I finally removed myself from life support.
I’d collected the magazines the night before, sure I would be walking away from weddings entirely after glass number three of wine and one salty voice message from Vera the twat reminding me how my employment contract prohibits—yes, she used the word prohibits, the pretentious windbag—me from using my expertise as an employee of any current competitors within a two-hundred-mile radius.
She killed my career—but what bothered me more, I killed my career. The terms of my contract were pretty standard, besides the mileage bit, and I thought nothing of them when I signed my name. Who was vindictive enough to actually enforce those terms?
Vera the hag, that’s who.
I would have to move. Move to have my career back.
