Sinful Rewards 12

by Cynthia Sax

  “This operation will run smoother if you listen to us.” Mack selects parking level three.

  “I’ll listen to you.” I’m not agreeing to anything. Mack’s next command could be to return to the condo. “Do you know where Hawke stores my helmet?” If he has taken his bike to wherever he is, I want to have the option to ride with him.

  “Demo will retrieve your helmet.” Mack’s fingers move over his phone. “I don’t advise riding a bike. The paparazzi will spot and stop you.”

  I don’t plan to ride alone or with anyone other than Hawke. “Are we taking a limo?” That’s how we escaped last night.

  “That only worked because we had a carefully planned distraction.” Mack’s forehead furrows, his expression concerned.

  Considering I didn’t see Demo last night, I suspect that distraction involved blowing something up. The elevator descends, the red digital numbers counting down. Mack and Prick mutter back and forth, speaking in that indecipherable code all of Hawke’s men use.

  I glance at the mirrored walls and cringe. My makeup is nonexistent and my hair is mussed. Preoccupied with finding Hawke, I left the privacy of our home without checking my appearance.

  I rake my fingers through the strands, concentrating on fixing my hair, the only mess I can rectify at this moment. Mack and Prick are the experts at exiting the building unseen. My former marine isn’t communicating with me.

  He still loves me. He must. I smooth my eyebrows. He’s gathering the proof I no longer need. That’s his mysterious personal business.

  God, I hope he doesn’t break any laws or risk his life to prove his love. My anxiety increases. I have to talk to Hawke before he does anything extreme.

  The elevator rings and the doors open. I walk into the underground parking garage, my flat heels smacking against the concrete.

  “This way.” Mack leads us toward a little red sports car.

  “This is your ride?” My eyes widen. This tough-looking man drives a sports car.

  “This is my ride.” Demo swaggers out of the shadows, my helmet held under one of his big arms. He’s dressed as deplorably as Mack and Prick in a gray T-shirt and black pants. “Baby is a hot stick of dynamite.”

  “Baby?” I struggle to contain my disbelief. “You named your car?”

  Crimson creeps up his tattooed neck. “You named your cat.” He places the helmet in the passenger seat.

  I straighten. Is he comparing his car to Gisele?

  “She won’t fit in the trunk.” Prick eyes the car, openly dubious.

  “She’s small. She’ll fit.” Mack dismisses his concerns.

  This is their bright idea, to stuff me in the trunk? “Hell, no.” I place my hands on my hips. “I’m not getting into the trunk. I’ll suffocate, get carbon monoxide poisoning.” Freak out because it’ll be dark. Rats and mice like small dark places.

  “We’ve done this before,” Mack reassures me.

  “Not with my Baby.” Demo opens the trunk. All three men lean over, look at the space and then at me.

  “She won’t fit,” they all agree.

  Good. My shoulders lower. I don’t have to face the darkness. “What are our other options?”

  The three men exchange glances, communicating without words. “There are no other options.” Mack speaks for all of them. “You’ll have to return to the condo and wait for Hawke to return.”

  “I’m not waiting.” I have to talk to my former marine before he does something crazy to prove his love. “I’ll get into the trunk.”

  “An average-sized woman wouldn’t fit.” Mack, that shithead, grins, his eyes sparkling with humor.

  “I’m not average-sized,” I admit, accepting this fact about myself. Hawke doesn’t mind that I’m vertically challenged. I shouldn’t care either. “I’m short and I’ll fit.”

  The idiots laugh. They don’t know their leader might be in danger.

  I twist my lips. “Hold these.” I hand Mack my passcard and phone. “I’m getting in.” He helps me into the trunk. Shit. It is tight. I curl my body into a ball, barely fitting into the tiny space.

  “Are you okay?” Prick gazes down at me.

  No, I’m terrified. “Yeah.” I summon a smile. “You’ve really done this with people before?”

  “A few times.” Demo grins as he slowly closes the trunk. “ ’Course, all of those people were dead.” The men laugh. I glower, not at all amused by his joke.

  The trunk snicks, locking, and my panic escalates. The space is dark and confined, and smells of carpet cleaner. I fold my fingers into fists and dig my nails into my palms, trying not to lose my mind.

  “I’m strong.” My voice echoes. “I can do this.” The floor vibrates under me. “For Hawke, for our forever, I can do this.”

  Something brushes against my bare ankle. The rational part of my brain realizes it must be a burst of air. The scared-shitless portion knows it’s a mouse. Somehow a rodent got inside Demo’s trunk and will crawl over me and nibble on my legs, and I can’t do anything about it because I’m unable to move, to see. Oh my God. I’m going to die.

  My terror grows with each passing mile. By the time the vehicle stops, I’m a sweaty, semidelirious mess, mumbling to myself and twitching. The trunk opens. Light blinds me.

  “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was—” Demo stops talking.

  “Oh, fuck,” Mack cusses. “You broke our girl. I told you to slow down.” Two large shadows fall over me. “Hawke is going to stuff one of your precious firecrackers up your ass and light you up like the Fourth of July.”

  “Fuck. She does look rough.”

  “I’m . . . fine.” I rub the back of my hands over my cheeks, brushing away my shameful tears. They’re military men, scared of nothing, and I lost my mind because it was dark. “Help me out.” I stagger to my knees.

  “Are you sure you’re fine?” Mack lifts me out of the vehicle. “You’re damp and looking a bit shell-shocked, like you took enemy fire back here.”

  “Hawke is going to kill us.” Demo sweeps his fingers over his short hair. “He’ll tear our limbs off and jam them down our throats.”

  I roll my eyes. “He won’t kill you.” I hold on to Mack’s arm, my legs stiff and unsteady. “I asked you to do this, remember?”

  The two men nod, looking slightly mollified.

  I glance around us. Boxy metal-covered industrial buildings line a familiar side street. The pavement is perfect and the area is surprisingly tidy, not one piece of garbage floating in the breeze. “The Road Gator is close to here.”

  “It’s a block north.” Mack studies me, appearing genuinely worried. “Hawke’s in there.” He waves his hand toward a shockingly graffiti-covered structure, a burst of color, of rebellion, on the otherwise gray street. Even the vintage vehicles parked in front of the place are bright hues, the shiny chrome reflecting the sunlight, adding a touch of sparkle. Hawke’s pretty bike is parked with the cars.

  He’s in there. I gaze at the American flag spray-painted on the door. The area doesn’t appear dangerous. Is he working? Did I make another mistake by coming here? Should I have waited for him?

  “Ma’am?” Mack and Demo gaze at me expectantly.

  I spent the past who-knows-how-many minutes of my life stuffed in a trunk with imaginary mice nibbling on my legs. Facing Hawke should be a piece of Karl’s cheesecake. I stride forward, blast through the door, and enter a dizzying psychedelic world.

  Paint covers every inch of the shockingly spotless space, the scent of cleaners and disinfectants reinforcing this attention to hygiene. Tattooed men in black leather and denim flip through binders of photos.

  An impish man with a green Mohawk larger than his torso vigorously scrubs his hands, soap frothing between his fingers, every exposed inch of his skin from his chin to his ankles covered with tattoos. A bearded giant with both arms inked is bent over a cringing redheaded woman, etching a red rose onto her pale skin. A blonde, pierced Amazon woman is laying a piece of white transfer paper on a bald man
’s right foot.

  My man sits in a leather chair, facing away from me, his broad shoulders and crew-cut hair recognizable from across the room. A man with a gray ponytail, wearing a red-and-orange-flame-covered Hawaiian shirt, hovers over his left hand.

  My worry morphs to anger. Hawke couldn’t answer his phone because he was getting a new tattoo? I bristle. He put me through all of this worry and distress for some new ink?

  And why didn’t he tell me about his plans? I’m his girl. Damn it. I’ll be the one looking at whatever design he gets.

  Knowing him, it will be as hideous as the black T-shirt he’s wearing and I’ll have to stare at it all fucking day because I love him and I don’t have a choice. I march over to him, slapping my shoes against the gray floor, prepared to tell him exactly what I think of his thoughtlessness.

  “Sweetheart.” The distress in Hawke’s voice escalates my anger.

  “You’re in pain.” I glare at his rugged face, noting the lines of strain around his lips. “Why would you do this?” I wave my hands at the gray-haired tattoo artist bent over his hand. “It clearly hurts like a son of a bitch.” My cuss filter has been destroyed by my concern. “Is another tattoo that important to you?”

  “This one is.” Hawke grasps one of my hands and pulls me closer to him. “I’ll be okay. I have three tattoos, remember?”

  I swallow hard, wishing I could forget those three tattoos. The wings inked across his collarbone must have been agony. “You got those before you met me. I didn’t have to see anyone hurt you.”

  I swing my glower back to the tattoo artist. He lowers a painful-looking needlelike pen device to Hawke’s finger, preparing to pierce my beloved man’s skin.

  “Oh my God.” My body temperature drops. “Hawke.” The world spins merrily around me, my legs weak, unsteady.

  “Ed, wait,” Hawke orders.

  The tattoo artist straightens. Glasses are perched on the end of his nose. I sway. He’s half-blind and touching Hawke with his torture device.

  “Don’t faint on me, love.” My crazy former marine hooks his right arm around my waist and lifts me, setting me on his lap.

  I sink into his big body, cuddling against his soft cotton T-shirt, his warmth soothing me, the scent of leather, engine grease, and man filling my nostrils. “I never faint.”

  “You looked awfully pale.” Hawke strokes my hair.

  “I can’t watch you being tattooed.” I mumble this shameful admission into his chest. I’m not brave like he is.

  “You don’t have to watch.” He holds me with his right hand and extends his left arm. “Ed, strap me down.”

  “Strap you down?” I frown up at Hawke. What the fuck?

  “So I don’t move my arm.” He presses his lips against my forehead, his mouth hot. “Ed is a friend. He’ll stop if I tell him to stop.”

  That makes sense. I relax. “Okay.” I brush my fingers over the stubble on Hawke’s chin, savoring the contrast of short coarse hair and soft skin.

  “You’re not getting one of those horrible ‘Live Free’ tattoos on your fingers, are you?” I ask, unable to look at his hand to verify my guess.

  “No, that’s not the design I’ve chosen.” Hawke gives me one of his adorable lopsided smiles. “You might still think it’s horrible.”

  Ed, the tattoo artist, mumbles something I’d rather not hear.

  “I likely will hate your tattoo.” I fake a sigh, my heart light. “But I’ll have to put up with it.” I meet his gaze. “Because I love you.” I let all of my emotions show. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

  “There’s no service in this building,” Hawke explains. “We block the signals so our artists aren’t bothered by clients’ constant calls.”

  We block the signals. My fingers splay over his chest. “The Organization owns this place?”

  “Yeah.” Hawke’s pale blue eyes glitter.

  He owns this business also. I gaze around us, seeing the tattoo shop with a fresh perspective. Every seat is filled. Men and women wait to be inked.

  Ed leans over Hawke’s hand, that nasty needlelike instrument gripped in his fingers. Oh God. He’s going to hurt my man again. I turn my head, searching for a distraction.

  “Walk me through the process.” I concentrate on the business, on my former marine’s blunt countenance. “How do customers decide on their designs? Do they come here with ideas or do the tattoo artists recommend images?”

  Chapter Five

  HAWKE EXPLAINS THE business to me. Ed adds his insights as the manager and an artist. Although I know as little about tattoos as I do about wine, my former marine patiently answers my questions, valuing my observations as an outsider to this world.

  I suggest some small changes to make the space more female-friendly. Both Hawke and Ed listen to me, buoying my confidence and my belief that I can stand by my man’s side and be his equal. Someday, he might propose again.

  Or I’ll propose to him. I smile.

  “We’re done.” Ed pats a moist disposable towel over Hawke’s hand and removes the strap from his wrist. The tattoo artist’s wiry right arm is inked with a flowing Fallen But Not Forgotten banner and too many names. Everyone working in the shop is a veteran, Hawke employing more of his displaced brothers in arms.

  Ed takes a step away from us. “What do you think?”

  Hawke bends over the small table. “That’s fine work.”

  “It’s one of my best.” The artist beams.

  “Let me see.” I wiggle in Hawke’s lap. He turns my palm upward and places his hand in mine. My breath catches. It can’t be. I close my eyes, count to five, open them.

  It is.

  Belinda is inked on the ring finger of his left hand, a band of letters declaring to the world that he belongs to me. “Hawke.” My eyes prick with unshed tears.

  “She doesn’t hate it,” Ed observes.

  “Hate it?” I carefully touch my military man’s fingertips, staring at my very visual claim on him. “I love it.” I love him. “You did this for me?”

  Hawke nods. Of course he did this for me. That’s my name on his body.

  Forever.

  I tremble, unable to believe this, yet the proof is in front of me, permanent proof in vivid black ink. “It’s on your ring finger.” I glance at his face. He must know this. “People will think you’re married.”

  “Good.” Hawke smiles. “Because in my heart, I am.” He brushes a strand of hair away from my face with his right hand. “You’re my girl. You will always be my girl.”

  “You’re committed.” I gaze at his finger. A tattooed wedding band with my name on it is a commitment.

  “Yeah.” His voice is gruff. “I’ve been committed since the first moment I saw you. You were cleaning your ceiling fan with your rainbow-colored duster, a small hole in your black stretchy pants, your hair loose and free, and I knew you were the woman for me.”

  “You love me.” I need to hear these words from my lips and from his.

  “I’ve loved you for months, before we spoke, before we touched.” Hawke rests his forehead against mine. “Then we met, your purse broke, you threatened to slap my face, and I knew I could never walk away from you.”

  “I was rude to you. I’m never that rude to anyone.”

  “Because you wanted me.” He smiles knowingly. “And it scared you. I made you feel out of control.”

  “You still do.” I touch the scar on his chin. “How do you know me so well?”

  “We’re meant for each other. You’re my sweetheart, my love, my apple blossom, my dirt path home.”

  Ed snorts. We both ignore him, lost in each other. No one else matters.

  Because Hawke loves me.

  “I love you too.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  “Don’t ever be sorry for asking for what you want, what you need.” His breath wafts against my lips, a soft sensual caress. “You’ve given me the opportunity to make it right.” His eyes sparkle. �
��As for earlier this morning, I’ll never forget the sight of you against the window, pale and pink and ready for me.”

  My face heats. I glance at Ed. The gray-haired tattoo artist has developed a sudden interest in his tools. I lean closer to him. “I’m always ready for you,” I whisper, rubbing my ass against his groin.

  Hawke hardens, his long, thick cock pressing against the button fly of his jeans. “Ed, we’re moving to my office. Tell the men the timelines have been pushed forward.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man snaps into a salute. “But I’m applying your bandage first.”

  Hawke holds out his left hand. Ed dabs a fresh disposable towel over the tattoo, his attention to hygiene pleasing me, and applies white gauze to the finger, fastening it securely with medical tape. “You know the deal. Remove the bandage in a couple of hours. Apply the ointment. Keep it moist and clean.”

  “He will.” I speak for Hawke. “I’ll take care of him and ensure your beautiful artwork doesn’t get infected.”

  “You’re a lucky bastard, Hawke.” The tattoo artist smiles, his face wrinkling even more. “It was a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” He salutes me and wanders toward a group of leather-clad men talking near the front reception desk.

  “How is your finger?” I slip off Hawke’s lap, planting my ballerina flats square on the industrial-style floor. “Do you need help walking?” I hold on to him as he stands. “Should I get Mack or Demo?”

  “I’m okay, love.” Hawke chuckles, his right palm connecting solidly with my left, our fingers linking together. “If I can sew my own flesh wounds, I can survive a tiny tattoo.”

  I cringe, not wanting to hear about these previous injuries. “The skin around your tattoo is red.” I watch him closely as we walk toward an office, his stride shortened to match mine. He appears steady and strong, but I know how deceiving appearances can be. “I saw some beads of blood.”

  “That’s normal with tattoos.” Hawke’s bare arm brushes against the sleeve of my blouse, the brief teasing contact heightening my awareness of him. “Ed is one of the best artists in the country. He’s very careful, hasn’t lost a customer yet.”