by Cynthia Sax
Hawke’s lips twitch. “You’re a terrible liar.” He brushes his nose against mine, the act tender and sweet. “Dawg.” He meets the man’s gaze. “My girl is your new assignment. No one is to touch her, raise their voices to her, look at her sideways. Anything she wants, she gets.” Hawke cups my cheeks, his finger calloused and rough. “Dawg is one of our best. If you need me, you tell him, okay?”
“Okay.” I nod, staring up at Hawke.
“Cole, take care of Cyndi,” Hawke interrupts the arguing duo. “Hurt her and I’ll mess up that pretty face of yours.” His tone is frighteningly serious.
The movie star pales. “Yes, sir.”
Hawke chuckles, his gaze returning to me, where it belongs. I lean forward, lifting onto my tiptoes, trying to close the height differential. He bends down and presses his lips against mine, his kiss frustratingly brief.
“I’ll be back,” he repeats.
Hawke strides toward the back of the building, his hands stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans, his gait loose, his tread soundless. He turns into an alley and disappears, his big body sucked into the shadows.
With Hawke gone, my doubts return. What am I doing? I can’t risk my future on a one-night stand, on an evening of reckless passion with a near stranger.
He’s not a near stranger, my heart whispers.
He’s not my forever either. I chew on the inside of my cheek, my gaze shifting between the entrance of the bar and the street. Cole and Cyndi continue to argue. She won’t leave with me. I’ll have to return home alone. Would it kill me to wait for Hawke? Waiting doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with him.
“Your name is Dawg?” I glance at the older man standing by my side.
“That’s what folks call me.” He offers me a toothy grin. Hawke trusts him. I can trust him also. “We should wait inside, miss. There are less points of entry and a reduced likelihood of hostiles.”
“Hostiles?” Isn’t that military speak for threats? A tremor of fear shoots down my spine. “Are we in danger?”
“I don’t know of any immediate threats, but you’re my assignment and I’m not taking any chances.” Dawg squints as he scans our surroundings. “There’s booze inside.” He rubs his left leg. “And chairs. You’ll be more comfortable there.”
He’ll be more comfortable there also, his leg clearly hurting him, and we didn’t come here to stand outside the bar. I look at Cyndi and Cole. The two of them are in a heated discussion about something. “We’re going inside,” I inform them. “Are you coming with us?”
“I might as well.” Cyndi skips toward me and hooks her arm in mine. “Since it doesn’t look like I’ll be taking a ride on a motorcycle anytime tonight.”
“I have a bike, miss.” Dawg limps along beside us. I slow Cyndi’s pace to match his.
“I have a bike too,” Cole grumbles, shuffling behind us, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “In California.”
Chapter Six
DAWG TAKES HIS assignment very seriously. He tells everyone we meet that I’m Hawke’s girl, this introduction earning me instant respect sprinkled with a healthy smattering of fear. He then sits me at the end of the bar, next to the wall, and claims the seat beside me, growling at anyone who dares to approach us.
Cyndi immediately disappears with Cole, leaving me as she always does. To ease my rapidly multiplying doubts, I order a shot of whatever they have and down it, the alcohol burning my throat.
The bartender replaces the empty glass with a full one, refusing my credit card. Cyndi is right. I don’t have to pay for drinks.
My misgivings return. I swallow the second shot as quickly as the first, the glass magically refilling. I nurse this third shot, trying to slow my alcohol consumption, the room already spinning around me.
Rough, tough men play pool in the corner, smacking the balls with a resounding crack. Money is exchanged on every game. A collection of leather-clad couples sways on the tiny dance floor, the women wearing fishnet stockings and way too much hair spray. On the bar stools around me, there is talk of bikes, battles, and the treatment of veterans. Alcohol, leather, and machinery scent the air. The bar smells like Hawke, the aroma arousing me.
“Did you serve with Hawke?” I ask Dawg, my appointed protector.
“Nah. Didn’t know him then.” He chews on a toothpick, his gaze roving the space. “We met after he got out. I was angry and bitter.” The older man scowls. “A road gator, like many of the veterans here.”
“A road gator?” I lift my eyebrows, having never heard of the term.
“A dangerous scrap of tire left on the pavement.” He narrows his eyes, and a scary-looking man changes direction, avoiding our end of the bar. “It was only a matter of time before I caused casualties. Hawke saw that, snagged me a placement in the Organization.”
“What’s the Organization?” I’ve heard that mentioned before today.
Dawg shifts on his bar stool. “Best to ask Hawke that question, miss.”
My tattooed biker has more secrets. I stare into my tiny glass of alcohol, searching my brain. “Do you know Ellen?” When I called the emergency number in Nicolas’s phone, Ellen answered. She talked about the Organization also.
“Don’t think anyone knows Ellen.” Dawg laughs, the braying sound turning heads.
Ellen works for the Organization. I blink rapidly, trying to follow the logic trail. Nicolas has its number listed in his phone. He’s a billionaire, owning too many companies for me to keep track of. The Organization is Hawke’s employer. Is Nicolas Hawke’s boss?
Will this make trouble for Hawke? I wrinkle my nose, not liking that thought. Nicolas is a possessive bastard, but he doesn’t like me as more than a friend. He made that clear tonight. No, he shouldn’t care whom I have sex with.
Dawg’s donkey-like laughter finally fades. “The little I do know about Ellen scares the shit out of me.” He says this with pride. “Pardon my language.”
I smile, finding his apology amusing. “I worked in a diner.” My words slur. “Nothing you say will offend me.”
“Maybe so.” Dawg snaps his toothpick into two pieces. “But you’re Hawke’s girl and worthy of respect.” He looks around us, his vigilance strangely reassuring.
There are no concerns about men approaching me, touching me, spouting corny lines crafted to get me into bed. Everyone in this bar knows whom I’ll be going home with.
Everyone except me. My body is on board, anticipating Hawke’s touch. My heart is unfortunately also set on this course, destined to be shattered. My brain, however, continues to tell me to turn around and run, that I’m not this type of woman. I don’t have one-night stands, have never been picked up in a bar, or had sex with a guy I’ve known for days, not months.
This has to be done. I toss the shot back and wince. My fascination with Hawke won’t end until he leaves, and he won’t leave until we have sex. The room spins faster, streams of light and sound swirling around me.
I grip the edge of the bar. Other women, including my best friend, Cyndi, do this all the time, and there aren’t any consequences. They don’t get knocked up, saddled with a baby they don’t want, a daughter who will change their lives, dooming them to poverty forever.
I’m on birth control pills. Hawke will use a condom. Won’t he? Panic floods my already freaking mind. Am I supposed to supply the condoms? I don’t have any. Oh my God, I’m not prepared for this.
The room slants more and more. My hold on the wood tightens as I shift to the left, my bar stool tilting under me.
“You should have been cut off three drinks ago, love.” A massive arm wraps around my waist, straightening me. “How many has she had?” Hawke asks Dawg, his voice deep, sexy, and stimulatingly close.
The older man holds up three fingers, his eyes glimmering with humor.
“I’m a lightweight.” I lean against Hawke’s chest, savoring his scent, his heat. “You smell good, like this place. I like it here, and I like your friend Dawg.” My mouth has disconnected from my brain, and I can’t st
op talking. “Let’s stay here forever.” If we stay here, I won’t have to worry about condoms and repercussions.
“I’m glad you like it here, sweetheart.” Hawke chuckles, the sound fluttering my alcohol-filled stomach. “Dawg, you’re relieved of duty.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man snaps into a salute and limps away, his left foot dragging.
“Why does he do that?” I laugh. “He’s not in the army anymore.”
“It takes some of us longer than others to adjust to civilian life.” My biker man claims the bar stool beside me and draws me into his lap, holding me easily, keeping me upright. The bartender places a glass of ginger ale topped with a lime in front of us.
“You’re not drinking?” I lay my head against the barbed wire tattoo encircling Hawke’s right bicep. Sometime during the evening, he’s discarded his leather jacket.
“I’m driving you home.” Hawke gulps a mouthful of ginger ale, his muscles flexing against my cheek. “I might take risks with myself but never with you.”
His breath blows on my neck, the gentle caress sending tremors of sensation down my spine. He’s slightly moist, as though he’s been working out, the aroma of man strong.
“I’m glad you didn’t leave with Cole and Cyndi.” He pulls me deeper into his body, the ridge in his jeans pushing against my ass cheeks.
I frown, concentrating on his words and not on the desire zinging through me. “Cyndi left? Damn it.” Did I say that out loud? No, that’s not possible. I don’t cuss in public. “So much for girls’ night out.”
Hawke’s chest shakes. I suspect he’s laughing at me.
“She knew you were in good hands.” He spreads his fingers over my stomach, the contact tightening my nipples. I have to stop this. My hips swivel. I’m not prepared. We don’t even have condoms.
He brushes his thumbs over my curves, and I arch. “Hawke.” This plea is louder than I expected, my volume control hampered by the alcohol.
“Hush, love.” He nuzzles against my neck, the stubble on his chin grazing my skin, the friction delightful. His fingers are frustratingly still, and I shift against him, grinding my ass into his groin.
“Condoms,” I manage to say.
“We’re leaving.” Hawke abruptly stands. I slide off his lap and he catches me, draping me over one massive shoulder.
“I’ve never been picked up in a bar before.” My confession makes Hawke chuckle. I peer down and my palms moisten. “The floor is very far away,” I fret.
“I won’t let you fall.” He straps one of his arms across my thighs and walks through the crowd, his gait smooth and even.
Men salute us as we pass. I mimic their greetings as best I can, and smiles spread over the veterans’ scarred, hairy faces, banishing some of the haunting sadness in their eyes. War must be hell. It has left visible marks on them. I salute a man who looks far too young to have ever seen a battlefield.
“You’re priceless, Belinda.” Hawke laughs again, smacking my skirt-covered ass with one of his big palms. The contact causes a confusing wave of pleasure and pain to sweep across my body, and I wiggle.
“We need condoms,” I remind myself.
“No, we don’t.” Hawke pushes a door open, cool air blasts across my legs, the door closes, and the noise is dampened. “We’re not having sex here.”
He strides with me through a brightly lit, surprisingly well-maintained parking lot. High fences surround the space. An assortment of pretty motorcycles, luxury sedans, and shiny trucks fill the spots, the colors making me dizzy.
We stop in front of a massive black military-style vehicle. I stare at it, awestruck. “That’s a big car.” I doubt I could reach the running board.
“That’s a Hummer, not a big car, my vehicle-impaired sweetheart.” Hawke balances me on his shoulder and fumbles in his jeans pocket. A beep pierces the silence. The Hummer unlocks. He swings the door open, sets me carefully inside.
“Where’s your motorcycle?” I ask. The vehicle has a new-vehicle smell, the interior impeccably clean.
“I borrowed the Hummer from the Organization, thinking I’d have to bring your bubbly friend home also.” Hawke pulls the seat belt over my breasts, his fingertips skimming my curves, the contact distracting me. “My bike is big but not that big.” The buckle clicks. He shuts the door, rounds the hood, and fills the driver’s seat, his movements fluid, almost graceful.
I glance over my shoulder. His leather jacket is folded and placed on one of the many seats. This massive tank-like vehicle could fit an entire squadron of men.
With the seats flattened, it could also serve as a bed. I stiffen, alarmed. What will I do if he wants to have sex in the Hummer?
“We have to stop at a pharmacy.” I fiddle with my seat belt, the restraint pressing down on my chest. “Or Target or Walmart.”
“Why?” Hawke pulls the Hummer out of the parking spot, rolling the vehicle toward the gate. “Are you feeling ill?” The leather-clad guard waves us through. “I have a Unit One Pack in the back.”
“Do you have condoms in that Unit One Pack?” I gaze out the window. “Because I don’t have any, not a single one. I should be prepared, but I’m not.”
The passing buildings and trees make me queasy, adding more motion to my already moving world. I turn my head and focus on Hawke’s rugged face. He drives as he walks, smoothly with a quiet confidence.
He’s capable and I’m not. “Cyndi would have been prepared,” I mumble, feeling like a failure at this one-night-stand business.
“You’re not Cyndi.” Hawke covers my twisting fingers with his right hand. “And we’re not having sex tonight.”
He knows I’m willing to have sex with him. What type of man turns down an offer like that? I open my mouth to protest.
“You’re drunk,” he explains, squeezing my fingers. “And even if you weren’t drunk, you’re not comfortable with moving that quickly.” He releases my hands, placing his big palms on the steering wheel.
I squirm in my seat. He makes me sound like a prig. “I’m not as uptight as you think I am.” I pause. I shouldn’t tell him. It’s my deepest darkest secret. He’ll judge me, think I’m a bad girl. “I’m a pervert,” I whisper, unable to stop the words.
The damn man laughs. “You’re not a pervert.”
“I am,” I retort, indignant that he dared to dismiss my confession. “You don’t know what I like, what makes me hot.”
“Don’t I?” Hawke raises his eyebrows. “I’ve been watching you for months, sweetheart.” He glances at me and then returns his attention to the road. “I know all of your secrets.” Despite the late hour, the traffic remains bumper to bumper, our progress slow.
Hawke does know some of my secrets. He watched me last night as I danced half-naked in front of my window. “Men expect sex.” I fold my arms under my breasts. “That, I know.”
Hawke’s jaw juts. “This man doesn’t.”
“Okay. I expect sex,” I mumble, disgruntled. “You promised to show me your junk.” He’s supposed to be my wild one-night stand, my walk on the slutty side.
Hawke’s lips curl upward, his lopsided smile softening his rugged face. “You’ll see my junk.”
My cheeks heat. I must have said that bit about his junk out loud.
“We’ll do other things, things with zero risk of conception.” He turns the Hummer into a side street. I don’t know where we are. The letters on the street signs are blurry.
“We’ll do other things,” I repeat. My gaze drops to his groin, and my tongue slides over my parted lips. “I could touch you, stroke you, perhaps even suck you.” My nipples tighten to the point of pain, the thought of licking him exciting me. “I don’t have a lot of experience and you’re really big, but—”
“Belinda.” Hawke stops my uncensored babbling.
“I shouldn’t talk any more,” I admit. “I’m drunk and nervous and really turned on.” I press my knees together, my body yearning for his touch. “I’m so wet, I might leave a stain on the
seat and then when you return the Hummer to the Organization, it will smell like my pussy and—”
“You’re killing me,” Hawke groans. “If you continue to talk about sex, I won’t last until we get to your place.”
I glance over my shoulder at the backseat. “It’s a big vehicle. We could—”
“No,” he barks. “We couldn’t.” Hawke takes a ragged breath, the cords on his neck rising, the visible cracks in his control exciting me. My mountain of a man is a landslide waiting to happen, and when he goes, I’ll go with him.
Silence stretches and I wait, tempted to touch him, to give him that nudge he needs to lose all restraint, yet part of me is unable to take that step.
“Have you considered fashion as a possible career choice?” Hawke finally asks, this reminder of my jobless state instantly dissipating the sexual tension between us. “You could design purses, give that Salvatore Ferragamo woman a run for her money.”
He remembers the designer. I smile. “I think Salvatore Ferragamo was a man, and I considered venturing into fashion, but the hours are too crazy. There’s so much traveling. The work would always come first, ahead of my family.”
As my mom always put the shifts at the diner ahead of time with me. She needs the extra income to pay the bills, I realize that, but I don’t like it.
Hawke’s lips flatten, lines appearing between his eyebrows. He doesn’t say anything. My reasoning isn’t rational, I know. Many people successfully combine a career and family, finding balance between the two. Nicolas would argue that my priorities are in the wrong order, that work should come first.
“It’s a silly reason not to pursue fashion as a career,” I admit, saying the words before Hawke can. “I could have both if I really wanted to.”
“It isn’t silly. You don’t want split loyalties.” His blue-eyed gaze flicks to me and then to the bumper of the taxi in front of us. “I understand that.”
I believe he does understand that. He understands me. I squeeze my breasts, my need for him compounding by the minute. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.” My verbal filter isn’t working. At all.
