Sinful Rewards 8

by Cynthia Sax

  Tidying up, however, is a must. I spray cleaner onto Hawke’s windows and wipe the blue liquid off the glass with a white cotton rag. Prick sets up Cyndi’s brass telescope. Demo and Mack inflate an air mattress borrowed from the Organization. This will serve as my best friend’s temporary bed.

  Temporary. This word hurts my heart. I gaze across the park at the empty condo Cyndi and I lived in for four months. We had some good times in that condo, and now, everything is changing. A melancholy settles over me.

  “This is a piece of shit,” Prick exclaims, peering into the telescope. “My rifle scope has better magnification. I can see a pimple on a mosquito’s ass with that baby. With this, you can’t see jack sh—”

  “Language,” Demo cautions, striding toward us, a swagger in his walk. “We have a fuckin’ lady present.”

  It takes effort to suppress my smile. “We’ll likely sell the telescope.” And anything else that has any value.

  “Or you could blow it up,” Demo suggests, a gleam lighting his eyes, the taller man’s fascination with demolition scaring me. “We’ll keep it controlled and do it outside, of course,” he adds as though blowing the telescope up inside the building is a very real possibility.

  “No blowing anything up, not right now.” Mack joins us. “It’s lunchtime.”

  It’s lunchtime. I look across at the old condo, remembering the meals I prepared for Cyndi, Nicolas, Hawke. Part of me had hoped I’d never move, thinking I’d finally found the permanent home I longed for.

  “Yes, sir, it’s lunchtime,” Prick agrees loudly. “I’m really hungry, starved.”

  Will I ever have a home, or will I wander from apartment to apartment, living out of boxes? I can’t remain here. Hawke isn’t the man I need.

  Demo clears his throat. “Sure wish we knew where to get a half-decent grilled cheese sandwich around here,” he adds. “That would hit the spot right now.”

  Their not-so-subtle hinting finally draws me out of my gloomy haze. I turn and face the three smiling men. They assisted me cheerfully, following my instructions without hesitation, earning a thank-you lunch.

  “Why settle for half-decent when you can have the best grilled cheese sandwich this side of Happydale?” I ask.

  The men beam. “If it would be no trouble, ma’am,” Demo states. Prick elbows him hard in the gut and he winces. “If it is trouble, we could help.”

  “It’s no trouble.” I laugh as I walk toward the kitchen nook. “Did Hawke tell you about my grilled cheese?” I take the ingredients out of the packed fridge.

  “He might have mentioned it, ma’am.” Demo perches on one of the bar stools.

  “He might have mentioned it half a million times,” Prick mutters. “Nancy would make me grilled cheese.”

  The others groan. Prick ignores them, telling me all about his ex-wife’s culinary skills as I prepare lunch.

  Will this be my fate, if I walk away from Hawke? Will I retell stories about my former marine to anyone who will listen, reliving the joyful moments in my life? I flip the grilled cheese sandwiches, murmuring replies I doubt Prick notes. His eyes are glazed with memories of happier times.

  Demo growls at him to move on, get over it, as though this is a simple thing to do. I suspect it isn’t. I’ve never met a man like Hawke, have never felt that depth of emotion, of need, of want for another person. Although I don’t love him, not as Prick loves his ex-wife, I know it will be damn difficult to replace my tattooed military man.

  It might be easier to make my business with Cyndi a success and build my own fortune. I tap the handle of the spatula against my lips. If I had money, I could take care of my mom, buy a permanent place, stay there with Hawke.

  I push these thoughts aside and slide the grilled cheese sandwiches on plates. Mack finds beer in the fridge, hands the bottles to the men. I decline his offer, my alcohol tolerance low, and I concentrate on the next batch of sandwiches.

  It takes an entire loaf of bread to fill their seemingly bottomless stomachs. The men are generous with their compliments, their smiling faces and open appreciation lifting my spirits. Even Prick appears content.

  Mack slices one of the last sandwiches into two with that knife he’s always playing with. “The guys have to see this.” He takes a picture and taps on the screen.

  All three of their phones ring mere seconds later. They glance at their devices.

  “Mack, you shitbird,” Demo curses. “You didn’t just copy the guys. You sent it to the entire fuckin’ Organization, including Hawke.”

  “Motherfucker.” Mack smacks his bald head. “I’m such a jackass.”

  He stuffs the grilled cheese into his mouth. The other two men do the same.

  “We gotta go, boss’s orders.” Mack’s voice is muffled.

  His buddies grumble, casting disgruntled glances in his direction as they walk toward the exit. I follow them, fighting the urge to undermine Hawke’s command, not wishing to be alone.

  “Thank you for your help today.” I open the door.

  “It was our pleasure, ma’am,” Mack speaks for the group. They salute me.

  I mimic the gesture, not very well, judging by their expressions, and then watch them march along the hallway. Prick and Demo take turns bumping shoulders with Mack, harassing the big bald man about his blunder.

  I close the door. The space is eerily silent. I’m now accustomed to noise, to company. My lips twist. That’s all Hawke’s fault. He’s changed me.

  I put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher and clean the condo once more. My plastic storage boxes are stacked in a corner of Hawke’s bedroom, a visible reminder that this is a temporary home.

  For both of us. I clutch the dog tags hanging around my neck. Hawke doesn’t own his place. The Organization could fire him, ask him to leave. He’d be homeless.

  But if I stayed, if we were together, neither of us would be alone. We’d have each other and we’d survive . . . somehow.

  I prepare a chicken casserole, to be baked later, wishing to feed my former marine, to contribute to our household.

  The doorbell rings and my heart leaps. Hawke’s here. I run my fingers over my hair, straighten my blouse, and then sprint to the door, swinging it open.

  Mr. Wynters glowers at me, shadows hugging his green eyes, his beefy form clad in an expensive black suit, white shirt, purple tie. “Where is she?” he demands, his words clipped and curt.

  Oh shit. Cyndi’s dad is very, very angry, and I’m facing him without any backup.

  Chapter Four

  “WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER?” Mr. Wynters bellows once more. When Cyndi’s dad is in a good mood, he’s intimidating. Right now, he’s furious, his round face flushed and his eyes hard.

  I struggle to maintain a blank expression, not wanting to show any fear. “I thought you no longer had a daughter.”

  “Answer my question,” he demands.

  “She’s not here.” I open the door wider, showing him I’m on my own.

  Mr. Wynters rudely pushes past me and paces the perimeter of the condo, noting the screens on the wall, the telescope by the window, the bare furnishings. “Her things are here.” He inclines his head toward the totes in the spare bedroom.

  “Those are Cyndi’s clothes.” I shut the door. “You’re not taking anything more away from her.” I’ll stop him if that’s his plan.

  “What will you do?” He looks at me with disdain. “Call one of your many male friends?”

  He believes the rumors, thinks I’m a whore. I press my lips together.

  “You were supposed to be a good influence on Cyndi.” Mr. Wynters scowls. “Instead, you turned out to be just like your mother.” There’s judgment in his voice, derision of my hardworking, self-sacrificing, strong, single parent.

  “Yes, I’m just like my mom.” I straighten, lifting my chin proudly. “I don’t walk away from the people I love, discarding them as though they’re worth nothing.”

  Mr. Wynters’s face turns crimson. “I wish you had di
scarded my daughter. Then she wouldn’t be the useless party slut she is now.”

  A wave of anger sweeps over me. “Cyndi isn’t a useless party slut.” I ball my fingers into tight fists. “Don’t ever call her that again.”

  “She spent the night with my friend’s twin sons.” He takes a menacing step toward me. “Both of them, in their hotel suite. What else does that make her?”

  Cyndi spent the night with his friend’s twin sons. I smother a wince. My best buddy isn’t the dumb blonde she portrays herself to be. She must have known who the Tantra twins were, must have known how her sexcapade would embarrass her dad. Had her hookup with the men been deliberate, a ploy for attention?

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” I point out, wishing to repair their relationship. “Even you.”

  Mr. Wynters’s gaze fixes on my face. “What are you implying?”

  “You’re not the perfect person you pretend to be.” Perfection isn’t possible. I know this because I tried to be perfect and failed. “You’re not fooling anyone with your self-righteous ranting.”

  He lowers his eyebrows. “That tattooed thug of yours said you knew nothing.”

  The tattooed thug he’s referring to must be Hawke. My former marine didn’t physically threaten Cyndi’s dad. He had dirt on the older man . . . as he had dirt on Mrs. Davis, Happydale’s biggest gossip. My thoughts whirl. Was Mr. Wynters’s judgment of others a tactic to deflect from his own secrets?

  “I know everything,” I lie, having no clue.

  “Then you know they had her for less than ten hours.” Mr. Wynters rakes his wrinkled fingers through his gray hair. “The doctors, psychiatrists, everyone said her abductors hadn’t done anything.”

  Oh my God. I suck in my breath. “They did something. They took her.”

  Someone abducted my best friend. My world tilts, my perception of Cyndi, of her strength, her bravery, altered by this knowledge. She has been carrying around this secret for years, hiding it under her bubbly personality, dealing with it alone.

  “She was four years old, asleep in her bed, when they grabbed her.” Mr. Wynters juts his jaw. “She doesn’t remember any of it.”

  Cyndi was snatched from her bed, the one place she should have been safe. I feel faint, remembering our past discussions, what I thought were her irrational fears.

  Her dad is wrong. I suspect she remembers every horrifying moment. “She doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

  Mr. Wynters glares at me. “Her promiscuous behavior has nothing to do with me. If you’re pointing fingers, point them at yourself. Fucking a father and son in public?” His top lip curls. “Have you no shame?”

  “Those rumors aren’t true.” I grit my teeth, forced to deal with the present when I want to dwell on Cyndi’s past.

  “There’s a kernel of truth in every rumor,” Mr. Wynters replies.

  I open my mouth and then close it again. Arguing will change nothing. He’ll never believe me. He’ll always think I’m a whore, Cyndi is a useless party slut, Hawke is a thug, and Nicolas is the devil.

  Some people I’ll never impress, and I no longer care if I do. Mr. Wynters failed my best friend, didn’t keep her safe, and now dares to judge her. He doesn’t deserve my consideration.

  “You should go.” I return to the kitchen, my happy place, moisten a sponge, and swipe it over the already clean counter, the action soothing me. “I’ll tell Cyndi you want to see her.”

  “I don’t want to see her,” Mr. Wynters retorts. “I know when to cut my losses. Her mother, however, has a soft heart. If Cyndi delivers a convincing, down-on-her-knees, heartfelt apology, I might allow her to move back home, under my rules.” He opens the door. “There will be no more clubs, no more men, no more whining about sleeping alone.”

  Whining about sleeping alone? I stare at him, squeeze the sponge with my fingers. He knows why she’s scared to sleep alone.

  “Fathers are supposed to protect their daughters,” I mutter.

  “What do you know about fathers?” Mr. Wynters tosses this jab over his shoulder as he leaves, the door slamming shut behind him.

  What do I know about fathers? I stare down at the immaculately clean kitchen counter. When I was a child, I longed for my dad to remember my mom and me, thinking his return would make everything right.

  Now knowing more about my dad, I suspect he would have made our lives worse, that his leaving might have been a good thing. My mom and I survived.

  Cyndi almost didn’t and she had a dad, a permanent home, wealth.

  She didn’t have Hawke, I remind myself. No one would dare snatch her from her bed, not while she’s staying here.

  I open the cabinets and survey the vast collection of dried spices and emergency canned goods, taking inventory and mentally planning meals. Preparing for a future with Hawke, with Cyndi, feels right.

  Mere moments later, the door bursts open. I jump, gaze upward.

  Hawke stands on the threshold, his tanned skin glistening with perspiration. My heart beats faster. His expression is frantic. I’ve never seen my unflappable former marine this unsettled.

  “What is it?” I ask, hearing the hysteria in my voice. “Is it Cyndi? Did something happen to her?”

  “Not Cyndi. You.” Hawke huffs.

  Cyndi is safe. Thank God. “Did someone enter the building?” Has one of Lona’s crazy clients breached security?

  “I was too slow.” Hawke charges toward me. I instinctively shrink back, scared of the situation, not of him. “My response time is too fuckin’ slow.” He traps me between his massive body and the cool flat fridge door, heat radiating from him. “Did he hurt you?”

  He? Is he referring to Mr. Wynters? “No one touched me.” I place my hands on Hawke’s heaving chest, trying to calm him.

  “I shouldn’t have sent the men away.” He pats me from the top of my head down to my calves, his fingers trembling. My nipples tighten, his search for hidden injuries exciting me.

  “That was the right decision.” I speak slowly, softly. “There was nothing more for them to do here.”

  “You were here. Alone.” His tone is severe. “I should have known Mr. Wynters would go after you. Our meeting yesterday was . . . harsh.”

  I press my lips together. Mr. Wynters is a self-righteous ass.

  “Anything could have happened,” my tormented former marine continues. “He could have—” His voice breaks.

  “Anything didn’t happen.” I stroke his soft cotton T-shirt, not knowing how to ease his inner turmoil. “Mr. Wynters didn’t hurt me. He was looking for Cyndi. That’s all.”

  “No, that’s not all.” Hawke pulls me into his arms, his secure grip squeezing the air from my lungs. “I wasn’t here to protect you.”

  “I didn’t need protecting.” I press my lips against the V at the base of his neck, tasting the salt on his skin. “Mr. Wynters is a businessman, not a trained assassin.”

  “I’ve seen seemingly ordinary people do horrible things.” The bleakness in Hawke’s eyes twists my stomach. He’s witnessed the evil in people and lives with this awareness every day.

  “When Cyndi was a child, someone kidnapped her,” I share. He’ll know what to do with that information.

  “She’s safe.” Hawke gives me the reassurance I need. He’s taking care of her. No one will harm my friend. “A bodyguard follows Cyndi when she leaves the complex. I’m assigning a man to you permanently.”

  “Hawke.”

  He captures my face between his rough hands. “I can’t lose you too, love.” I see the bone-deep fear in his eyes, fear for me. He lost his best friend in a bombing. He’s terrified that this will happen to another person he cares about.

  Cyndi’s dad dismissed her fears, mocking them. I won’t be as callous, as unfeeling with Hawke’s emotions.

  “You won’t lose me,” I assure him, this vow feeling like the truth, a declaration of permanence both of us need.

  “If I did—”

  “You won’t.” I pet his chest, gazing
up at him, no doubt in my eyes or in my heart. Some of the tightness seeps from his muscles.

  “I won’t because my best men will protect you,” Hawke mutters. “They’ll be stationed downstairs. We’ll add more cameras to the hallways, elevators, stairwells.”

  Everyone will be watching me. I wiggle against him, thrilled by this prospect. “I’ll order additional groceries.”

  The lines between Hawke’s eyebrows flatten as his body hardens. “You shouldn’t feed the men.” He caresses my cheeks, his touch gentle, arousing. “You’ll never get rid of them.”

  “Is that right?” I lean against him.

  “That’s right.” He rubs his right thumb over my bottom lip. I open my mouth and suck on his skin, sexual energy snapping and sizzling between us. “They’ll never leave.” His voice deepens.

  I flick his thumb with my tongue. “And if I feed you?” I slide my hands down his big form and brazenly rub against the bulge in his jeans, wanting him again, always.

  Hawke’s eyes darken to a brilliant blue. “I’ll be yours forever.”

  He’ll be mine forever. I lower to my knees before him and pluck at his button fly. “I’ll satisfy a different hunger.” I free his hard cock, running my hands over his proud length. He is large and primitive and mine, a dab of precum already forming on his tip.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Hawke murmurs.

  “This is extremely unhygienic,” I agree. But this is necessary. I stroke him. He needs this, needs me. Bare skin won’t touch any food preparation surfaces, and after I ease his torment, I’ll scrub the kitchen until it shines.

  “The door’s open.” Hawke glances over his shoulder.

  “Your neighbor’s cleaning ladies, Alma and Itzel, might see us.” I swirl my thumbs over his tip, spreading his essence over his skin. “Or Cyndi might return.”

  I’m completely hidden behind the counter, the slim possibility of getting caught adding to the thrill. Anyone could walk into the condo, round the center island, see me playing with my military man.

  I grip his base and extend my tongue. My massive man shakes, his gaze fixed on my face. I’m his priority. He’s not thinking of threats or work or anything other than me. I lap at his tip, tasting the unique flavor of him, and his cock bobs.