Savage Collision: A Hawke Family Novel (The Hawke Family Book 1)

by Gwyn McNamee

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peak- Rush by Megan Matthews

  Savage Collision by Gwynn McNamee © 2016

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Dangerous Ties is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

  Cover Design: Michelle Johnson at Blue Sky Designs

  Cover Model: Assad Shalhoub

  Photographer: Christopher Correia at CJC Photography

  Interior Design: Masque of the Red Pen

  Dedication

  To my wonderful husband, who puts up with my crazy on a daily basis and still manages to love the hell out of me.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I need to give a HUGE thank you to my beta readers—Dawn, Kim P., Jennifer W., Janice, Renee S., Diane E., Rachael F., and my super-betas, Star and Christy—without all of you, this book would have remained dormant on my laptop for another two years. I also need to thank Donna and Lea, who are always 100% behind everything I do and love all my crazy ideas. The same is true of my Pirate Wenches, the wonderful group of writers who are always there with support, to bounce ideas off of, or to listen to me rant when I lose my mind. Finally, thank you to Kim G., who stepped up and helped me at the last minute to make sure this book got finished on time. Everyone’s support and encouragement has been absolutely essential to getting me where I am today. I love you all!

  Naked women gyrate on stages—asses, tits, flesh on display—their images covering three-quarters of my computer screen, but they are merely blurs in my peripheral vision.

  My focus is on the top right corner, where one of my vendors is unloading his truck on the loading dock, and taking his sweet-ass time doing it. He’s no doubt using it as an excuse gawk at the girls. Byron, my club manager, is in heated discussion with him about something. Hopefully, he’s reaming him out for taking up so much of our damn time with an unload that should take only minutes.

  Why are people so fucking lazy these days? What happened to work ethic?

  My parents made damn well sure all their children understood the importance of a hard-day’s work and always giving it one hundred percent. I guess that kind of thing just isn’t instilled in people anymore. It shouldn’t surprise me really, the degradation of society, not when I see the degenerates who always manage to find their way in here, despite my best efforts to keep the club clientele upscale.

  Byron and the vendor move to the back of the truck and start unloading several handcarts-full of cases of beer at a time. At least I can always rely on Byron to get the job done.

  I return to the paperwork on my desk but barely have time to regain my train of thought before my office door flies open, slamming against the wall.

  Instinctively, I reach under my desk, wrapping my hand around the grip of the Sig Sauer 1911 Scorpion I keep mounted there. I look up, expecting to find one of Domenico Abello’s thugs, because, surely, that would be the only person capable of making it past both Gabe and Byron to end up in my office unannounced.

  My breath catches in my throat when, instead of a burly threat, my eyes land on what I can only describe as a Victoria’s Secret model. An enraged one.

  She is furious—the fire in her stormy blue eyes and her scowling red lips are a dead giveaway. With a toss of her long, wavy blonde hair behind her shoulder, she thunders into my office as if she owns the place.

  I track her progress across the room, taking in her polished appearance—from her French-manicured nails, thousand-dollar bag, and Burberry trench down to the four-inch Louboutin stilettos that make her long, elegant legs extend beyond comprehension as she clicks across the wood floor with purpose.

  My cock hardens instantly and, despite my surprise at my body’s reaction to her, I steel my expression and shift uncomfortably in my chair.

  Damn. This woman is livid, and hot as fucking hell.

  I doubt she’s a threat, though—to anything but my libido—so, I remove my hand from the gun and surreptitiously slide it to my crotch to adjust my erection before reclining and watching her speculatively. Despite this being my office, my domain, I wait patiently for her to say something. I see a hint of uncertainty and maybe discomfort beneath her diamond-hard demeanor.

  “Are you the owner?”

  She stops several feet short of my desk, props her hands on her shapely hips and huffs in defiance. Her voice is level and steady when she asks the question, but her eyes give her away. They roam over me with blatant interest and the slight flush on her neck and cheeks only confirm my suspicion—she’s checking me out.

  I relax in my chair and school my features, trying to hide my amusement. I answer her question with a nod. “I am, and you might be?”

  “Danika Eriksson.” She tosses her name at me like a poison dart and her bravado impresses me despite my uncertainty about her purpose here.

  Do I know her? Should I be recognizing her name? No, I would remember a woman like her.

  Movement in the open door catches my eye and I see Gabe, my best friend, right-hand man, and business partner eyeing Ms. Eriksson with concern. I wave him off with a look and he nods his understanding before disappearing down the hall. “What can I do for you, Ms. Eriksson?”

  She crosses her arms over her chest in a huff, which only succeeds in pushing her abundant breasts higher on her chest.

  Not helping the raging hard-on situation, lady.

  “You can tell me where the hell you get off tricking young, innocent girls into selling themselves like slabs of beef in your disgusting club.” She spits the words at me, completely, unabashedly unafraid to insult me and my business, while standing right in front of me and looking me in the eye.

  I struggle to withhold a grin at her audacity as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the edge of the desk.

  “I can assure you, Ms. Eriksson, that none of my employees are ‘tricked’ i
nto doing anything.”

  She scoffs and shifts her weight, drawing my attention back to her impossibly long, shapely legs. The woman must be at least five foot seven without those heels on. With them, she towers over me in all her elegant glory.

  “Bullshit…” She searches my desk for a nameplate, then looks at me again when she doesn’t find one.

  The corner of my mouth quirks up before I can stop it. “Savage, Savage Hawke. But please, call me Savage, and just what is it you think you know about my employees?”

  “Savage?” Her eyes narrow and then she rolls them. “Your parents honestly named you Savage Hawke?”

  This isn’t the first time someone has questioned my name, or that my name has left me the butt of some joke. “Yes, they did. It’s a family name.” My gaze naturally drifts to the framed photo on the corner of my desk. It was my father’s second-to-last fight. He’s standing in the center of the ring in Madison Square Garden, the WBA heavy-weight championship belt around his waist, and I’m hoisted above his head, both of us smiling in his victory. I was ten.

  She follows my stare and when she sees the photo, her eyebrows pop up in recognition. “Wait, your father is Sam ‘The Savage’ Hawke?”

  Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel, hearing my dad’s name from her. It takes me a moment to shake off my surprise, but eventually, I manage a smile and nod. “I’m surprised you recognize him.” I lean forward to grab the photo and turn it around so she can see it more clearly.

  In my thirty years on this planet, I don’t think I’ve ever met a single woman who knew who my father was. Men, on the other hand, gape in awe when they find out my lineage. I guess it just goes with the territory of being the son of a heavy-weight champ, and one who died the way he did.

  She takes a step closer to me, bending down slightly to get closer look at the photo. “Holy shit! I can’t believe you are ‘The Savage’s’ son! Of course I know who he is. My dad was a huge boxing fan. I grew up watching your dad’s fights from my old man’s lap.”

  “That’s great.” And very unexpected. I’m not quite sure what to say. Talking about my father is always bittersweet.

  Her smile and astonishment fade and she glances at me apologetically. “Shit, I’m sorry…” Before she finishes her thought, she seems to realize she’s been sidetracked from her intended purpose. She straightens herself, squares her shoulders, and I can tell she’s ready to get back to business.

  “Well, Savage,” she says my name like it’s a four-letter word, “I would very much appreciate it if you kept your sleazy hands off my baby sister.”

  Bingo!

  She isn’t the first, and she certainly won’t be the last, person to find their way into my office on their high horse, accusing me of taking advantage of some innocent little sister, cousin, or friend.

  “And who is your baby sister?”

  Her face scrunches in disgust at my inability to immediately make the familial connection.

  “Nora Eriksson, she started shaking her ass and tits for you almost three weeks ago.”

  The way she throws the words “ass and tits” at me, I have to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my grin. This woman is all attitude and it is sexy as fuck, although I have no idea why. She definitely isn’t my usual type, although, I’m not sure if I even know what my type is anymore. Certainly, she’s about as far from Becca as one can get, yet my cock is still straining against my pants.

  I clear my throat before responding, hoping to give myself a second to regain my composure. “Ah, yes, Nora. My manager, Byron, hired her. I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting her on one occasion, but I can assure you, Ms. Eriksson, she was in no way ‘tricked’ into taking her position here.”

  She glowers at me and her hands ball into tight fists at her sides. “I know my sister, Savage, and there is no way in hell she just up and decided she wanted to be a fucking stripper. She was tricked, or forced…”

  I barely manage to contain an eye-roll. “If I didn’t have such thick skin, I might be insulted by the way you throw your words at me like daggers,” I retort, enjoying watching her distress at my ability to maintain my cool. The color in her cheeks flares and her blue eyes flash at me.

  Who knew angry could be such a fucking turn on?

  My blood is boiling and this man—Savage Hawke—has grated my last nerve. I can barely contain my desire to climb across his desk and smack him across his handsome, smug face for acting so high and mighty. He is a pussy peddler. A goddamn sleazebag who preys on young, impressionable, desperate girls in order to make a quick buck.

  Savage Hawke.

  He even has a porn star name. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was shooting them in some back room.

  It’s too bad he’s so fucking gorgeous. He runs a hand back through his thick, wavy black hair and focuses his Caribbean-blue eyes on me with a calm that makes me want to throw my purse at him.

  My traitorous body reacted to him instantly, heat churning deep in my belly the moment I walked into his office and saw him dominating the space behind his large, wooden desk.

  The longer we talk, the worse it gets, and I have to press my thighs together to stop the dull ache there.

  Damn, it has been way too long since I had a good fuck. What? Twelve days?

  I’m so busy fuming and trying to rein in my runaway sex drive, I completely forget to respond to him.

  “Ms. Eriksson,” he continues, giving me a smug smile, “I have a very rigorous interview process established to ensure none of my employees begin work here under any duress…”

  I lift my brow in speculation and to ensure he’s aware of my disbelief. Bullshit! I bet their “interview process” involves lap dances and blowjobs in the champagne room.

  “…Byron conducts a very thorough interview with each girl, including a complete background check to determine if they are under any serious financial strains. If I find they are, I typically offer them a personal loan, to be repaid at standard interest rates, to ensure they aren’t tempted to engage in pursuits some of the other clubs are often known for. We also do weekly drug testing and nightly breathalyzers, as our girls are forbidden from engaging in any illicit drug use and cannot perform while under the influence of any alcoholic beverages.”

  I don’t believe him for a second. No damn strip club operates like that. He must think I’m some dumb, naïve, bimbo blonde to think I’ll fall for his line of horseshit.

  He reclines back in his chair and waits for me to say something.

  What does he expect me to believe? That he’s a pussy peddler with a heart of gold?

  “Surprised I’m not a total scumbag?” His amusement is evident in the slight turn at the corner of his luscious mouth. “There are a hundred trashy strip clubs in New Orleans a man can go to if that’s what he’s looking for—drugs and easy women. I wanted to offer something different. People are always a bit shocked to learn how I run my business. But when I built The Hawkeye Club, I wanted it to be an upscale and supremely classy gentleman’s club, and established a very strict set of rules and regulations to ensure that both my reputation, and the reputation of my girls, remains pristine.”

  I huff and take a step closer to his desk. “My sister was the goddamn valedictorian of her high school class and had a full ride to Tulane for pre-med. Then, this morning, out of the blue, I find out from one of her roommates that she has dropped out of school and started working here. She’s twenty years old, for Christ’s sake! Clearly, you can see why I’m concerned. I mean, why the hell would she do that?”

  He offers me a small, understanding smile and leans over his desk, toward me. The fabric of his dress shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and strains against his massive biceps. My mouth salivates and I fight the flush I’m sure is creeping up my neck. The worst thing about being fair-skinned is the complete inability to hide my reactions, especially to men like Savage Hawke.

  “I do understand, Ms. Eriksson, but I don’t have the answer for you. Hav
e you tried asking your sister?”

  Shit. I should have seen that question coming.

  I shift uncomfortably and twist my hands in front of my body. “No, she’s been avoiding my calls. That’s why I finally went to her apartment today, to make sure she’s okay.”

  He almost looks sympathetic and I wonder how long it took him to perfect this nice-guy act.

  “Well, I think you need to talk to her. I don’t think she’s on the schedule tonight, but you can ask Byron downstairs, and, if she’s here, he will gladly show you to the changing rooms in the back so you can speak with her.”

  Casting an uncomfortable glance toward him, I move my purse from one shoulder to the other and turn to leave without a word. Absolutely no good will come from me spending any more time in this room with this man.

  Savage Hawke is precisely the type of man I always end up getting myself into trouble with: dark, strong, passionate…

  I almost stumble when a vision of him slamming me back against the wall and yanking up my skirt to gain access floods my mind.

  Jesus—I bet he takes absolute control in the bedroom, and I bet he fucks like a complete animal. Men like that don’t do things slow and sweet.

  “I don’t even get a ‘thank you’ or a ‘goodbye?’”

  His sultry, deep voice stops me halfway to the door. I look over my shoulder at him.

  Deep breaths, Dani. Keep it together.

  Don’t let him see how he affects you. Don’t let him see you rattled.

  “I don’t have anything to thank you for,” I reply, before raising my head high and strutting out the door, not bothering to close it behind me. I punch the button on the elevator and tap my foot impatiently.

  I need to get out of here.

  I need to get as far away as possible.

  I need to find Nora.

  I need to find something to prevent me from racing home, grabbing my Rabbit, and spending the rest of the day fantasizing about that man.

  I need to find something to prevent me from racing straight back to his office, climbing over his desk, and straddling his lap.

  An angry fuck can be supremely hot—ripped clothing, hair pulling, strong, groping hands—but having an angry fuck with my stripper sister’s deviant boss would be an epically bad life choice.