Sinful Rewards 12

by Cynthia Sax

  As we leave Chicago, the traffic eases and our speed increases. We’re on the I-57, the route I normally take to Happydale.

  Today, we’re going somewhere else. There’s no reason to visit my hometown. My mom isn’t working, doesn’t need help at the diner. She’s in upstate New York, hiding from the paparazzi at the Masterses’ apple orchard.

  Every on-ramp adds more bikers to our procession. Truckers honk at us as we pass them, their big rigs casting shadows over the pavement. My excitement and pride builds and builds. This isn’t an everyday ride. This is an event.

  As we near the side road turnoff for Happydale, we slow, and I frown. Why are we stopping in my childhood hometown? Hawke signals the turn a mile before we need to exit, confirming my suspicions.

  I glance behind us. One by one, the other bikers activate their turn signals, the red lights blinking. They’re coming with us. We’re all going to Happydale.

  This scares the shit out of me.

  I’m not concerned that they’ll find out about my mom or about my shitty childhood, that they might uncover the rumors about me. Many of the men work for the Organization. Researching people is their job and they’d delve into my background. I’m their boss’s girl.

  It’s Hawke’s purpose for this trip that ties my stomach into knots. He’s hell-bent on proving his love and has threatened numerous times to kill anyone who hurt me.

  Almost everyone in Happydale has done that—the rare exception being Karl, the diner’s chef. We pass the motels, the medical center, and the perfect little houses with their vividly green lawns.

  Killing them will land Hawke in jail and solve nothing. The memories and the pain they caused would remain. And any act of revenge would hurt my mom. I might hate this place, but this is still her home. I don’t want to take it away from her.

  What am I thinking? I shake my head. Hawke knows how important home is. He has vowed to protect my mom, wouldn’t do anything to harm her. My shoulders lower. I’m being an idiot. He won’t kill anyone.

  Not today.

  Hawke rides directly to West Court Street, Happydale’s main thoroughfare. He coasts his bike into a spot by the door of the diner, his tires kissing a red safety cone.

  Bikes are already parked around us. Men and women in leather, chains, and tattoos linger outside the building, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, smiling and laughing. When they spot Hawke, they extinguish the butts under their boots and straighten.

  Hawke cuts the engine and stretches his legs out, stabilizing the machine. Bikers park to the left and right of us, the noise decreasing to conversation-friendly levels.

  A crowd of townspeople forms across the road. They gawk at us, their eyes wide, their mouths moving.

  Happydale has been visited by biker gangs in the past. It’s a regular stop for truckers and other travelers. I’ve never seen a group this large. The bikers continue to arrive, filling in every gap between parked cars with their machines.

  “We’re here.” Hawke dismounts. None of the bikes are as pretty as his.

  And no one has a helmet as gorgeous as mine. I tug on the straps. “Why are we here?”

  Since I last visited, the owner has redecorated the diner, covering the glass windows with silver paper. I have no idea why he would block the natural light, but then, many of his past decisions haven’t made sense either.

  Hawke unbuckles my helmet. “When a man is proud and excited about an upcoming event, he often throws a party.” He lifts me off the bike and presses my body against his. “I’m proud and excited.”

  My lips twitch. “Judging by the state of your junk, you are excited.” There’s no mistaking the hard ridge in his jeans.

  “I’m proud and excited.” He stresses this combination, a combination I used this morning.

  I want to be his first and only choice, to know he’s proud and excited to be marrying me. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. My mouth dries. Has he brought me to my hometown to propose? I gaze into his mirrored sunglasses.

  My reflection horrifies me. “I have helmet head.” I rake my fingers through the moist strands. Only a crazy man would want to marry someone looking the way I do. “I’m a disaster.”

  “You’re a breathtaking disaster.” Hawke leans his forehead against mine. Fortunately for me, he is a crazy man, a tattooed badass, a world-weary former marine. He sees the sexiness in my mess, the splendor in the disaster.

  I cuddle against him, trusting him to hold me, my palms flat on his chest. My feet dangle inches above the sidewalk, his casual show of strength impressing me. Hawke’s hot breath wafts over my cheeks, a soft, subtle caress reassuring me that he’s here. He wants me despite my mussed hair.

  “Beautiful.” His lips tease mine.

  “You can’t properly see me.” I reach up, remove his sunglasses, revealing his gorgeous blue eyes. “That’s why you think I’m beautiful.” I clip the eyewear to the collar of his hideous T-shirt and glance upward.

  He’ll never be a handsome man, his face too rugged, too scarred, too worn by life, but when I gaze at him, my heart melts and my pussy moistens.

  Hawke groans. “Don’t look at me that way, love.” He slides my curves over his muscle, lowering me. “You know I can’t resist your fuck-me face.” His big body trembles.

  This is the power I hold over him. I make him shake with need.

  “You don’t have to resist me. We have a bike. We can go somewhere private.” I glance around us. His men are watching us. “Or not.”

  The thought of dropping to my knees, pulling out his big cock, and pleasuring him in full view of everyone turns me on, pleasing my inner pervert.

  “You’re so damn perfect for me.” Hawke hooks his arm around my waist, draws me to him, our bodies fitting together as though we’re made for each other. “Let’s attend our party first and then, later, you can have your wicked way with me.”

  “You have a deal.” I wiggle against him. “Why did you choose to have the party here? Why not have it at the Road Gator?”

  “Everyone at the Road Gator already knows how I feel about you, love.” Hawke runs one of his calloused fingertips along my cheek. “And I want to make your fantasies a reality. When you dreamed of this moment, who else was there?”

  Is the moment he’s referring to a proposal, a forever commitment? “My mom and my friends watched us.”

  “And?” He lifts one eyebrow. The damn man knows me too well.

  “Tara was there,” I mumble, sliding my gaze from his. “Mrs. Davis also, and my other tormenters.” They all saw my happiness, marveled at my good fortune, knew I was worthy of love. “It’s petty but—”

  Hawke places a finger over my lips. “It’s human. This is your hometown. Your mom still lives here. You want the gossip to stop, and today it will.”

  “If it’s possible to stop the gossip, I know you’ll do it.” I walk with him toward the diner. My big, strong man can do anything, and he’s put quite a bit of thought into this, arranging a party, dressing me from head to toe in sumptuous designer fashions. His team encircles us, looking for hostiles, protecting me from the judgments of others. I’m safe, loved and I belong.

  As we approach the door, men and women snap into sharp salutes. I return their greetings, mimicking them as best I can. This most recent attempt must be another failure. Their lips curl into smiles and Hawke chuckles.

  Prick holds the door open for us, and a rush of sound escapes the building. “Congratu—”

  Mack’s fist connects with his gut, and the smaller man doubles over. “It’s too soon for that, jackass.” The bald man glares. The door closes once more, sealing the noise.

  “You’re wrong, asshole.” Prick wheezes, holding his stomach. “The party comes after the propo—”

  Mack slugs him again.

  “Men,” Hawke barks. Their spines straighten.

  “Sir.” Mack sheepishly opens the door for us.

  I press my lips together, trying not to laugh, giddy and nervous and a tiny bit terr
ified. What if he doesn’t propose? Everyone is expecting him to do this and all of his comments point to a proposal, but I’ve been disappointed in the past.

  Not by Hawke, though. I gaze up at him. I’ve never been disappointed by him.

  “Sweetheart.” He wraps his arm around me and we step over the threshold together.

  Chapter Seven

  A WAVE OF cheers sweeps over us. Ellen’s wolf whistle temporarily deafens me. The beautiful assassin stands behind the counter, next to Dawg, Hawke’s second in command, and Karl, the diner’s chef and my mom’s good friend.

  The weathered mugs of Hawke’s team mingle with the familiar faces from my childhood, my past meeting my present.

  Mrs. Davis, Happydale’s biggest gossip, the woman who made my life a living hell, presides over a booth, her deceivingly sweet apple face puckered into a disapproving frown. Her compatriots hang on her every acidic word.

  Tara, my nemesis, sits in her usual spot, alone. Her perfectly manicured fingers are curled around a white ceramic mug. Her phone is set flat on the tabletop. She’s impeccably dressed in a sleeveless peach stretch-wool dress from Michael Kors and Gianvito Rossi python pumps.

  Although Tara doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t look at me, I know she’s aware of my presence. She’s likely making mental notes, finding things to criticize about me.

  I run my fingers through my hair, the strands sticking stubbornly to my skull. She won’t have to look hard. I’m a mess.

  “There are so many people here.” I turn. Screens cover the walls, familiar faces on the displays. “Is that my mom? Cyndi and Cole? Susan?” Susan’s eyes are puffy and her nose red. She must still be sick. “Lona?” Although the escort wears a classy black lace mask, I’d recognize her face anywhere. “Your parents?” They appear as they did in his photo, smiling and wholesome and happy.

  “You’ll talk to them soon.” Hawke’s grip on my hand tightens. “Right now, there’s something I must do.”

  He leads me into the middle of the diner. Dawg steps forward, his left foot dragging behind him. Hawke’s second in command presses something into my big man’s hand and then backs away. The hum of conversations fades. A door opens and closes. Everyone watches us.

  Oh my God. My heart pounds in my chest. This is really happening.

  Hawke lowers one of his knees to the tiled floor, kneeling before me. Excitement churns my stomach. He takes my left hand, his palm creased and calloused in mine, and I suppress the urge to throw myself into his arms and yell “yes, yes, yes.”

  “Belinda.” Hawke’s thick fingers tremble. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. He’s nervous because he wants this badly. He wants me. “I love you. There’s no other woman for me. You’re my first and only choice.”

  “You’re my first and only choice also.” I cup his rugged face, gazing down into his faded blue jean eyes. “It was always you, from the beginning.”

  “I can vouch for that,” a curt voice adds. “I didn’t have a chance.”

  I smile. Nicolas is here, the billionaire’s presence communicating his acceptance, his approval. I don’t look at him, my gaze fixed on Hawke. “Everyone knows I’m your girl.”

  “I want you to be more than that, love.” Hawke uncurls the fingers of his left hand, the finger tattooed with my name covered with white gauze, and he reveals a distinctive sapphire blue leather ring box with an HW etched on the top.

  My breath catches. He bought the ring from Harry Winston, jeweler to the stars.

  “I want you to be my wife.” Hawke opens the box, and the room spins merrily around me. There are diamonds, diamonds, and more diamonds, the sparkle almost blinding me. A massive round center stone is framed by diamonds and set on a diamond band. The stones are so closely set, I don’t see the precious metal.

  “You like it.” His voice is husky.

  “I love it.” I smile, light-headed. He knows I adore his choice. Hawke has always been able to read me, to realize my truth before I speak a word. “And I love you.”

  “You’re my everything.” He removes the ring from the box. “This is a small token of what I plan to give you.”

  His beautiful diamonds can’t compare to the love in his eyes.

  “Belinda Carter.” He slides the band onto my finger, pushing the circle of diamonds past my knuckle. It fits as perfectly as it looks, the lights making the gems glitter. “Will you marry me?”

  This is a life-changing moment and shouldn’t be taken lightly. I should approach it in a calm, sensible, rational manner, take a moment to think about my decision, to appreciate the impact on me, on my mom, on everyone who relies on me, to ensure myself that this is the correct thing to do.

  This is what I should do. But I have no doubts. Hawke is the right man for me, the only man. Shit. I can’t temper my reaction, and I don’t want to.

  “Yes.” I throw myself into his arms, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, holding nothing back. My mountain of man doesn’t even move, his big form and solid muscle absorbing all of my weight. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” I cover his blunt, scarred face with fervent kisses. “I’ll marry you.”

  The diner explodes with hoots and hollers and eardrum-bursting whistles. Men and women rush forward, pounding Hawke’s shoulders, slapping my back. My fiancé folds his body around me, protecting me as he always does, not allowing me to be trampled. I trust him to safeguard me, and I’m too dazed to feel fear.

  Because I’m marrying this brave, wonderful, honorable man.

  I sit on his knee and we kiss amid the chaos, our lips fused together, our tongues twining. The stubble on his chin leaves a burning trail on my skin. The taste of him fills my mouth. I want him, need him.

  But we’re not alone. I reluctantly draw back from him. “I’ll have my wicked way with you later.” I drag my fingernails through the short coarse hair on his cheeks, and his eyelashes lower, his face softening. “We shouldn’t ignore our guests.”

  “Some of your guests aren’t used to being ignored.”

  “Nicolas.” I bounce off of Hawke’s knee.

  The billionaire stands to the right of us, his long, lean body clad in a more formal suit than the one he wore this morning, the fabric rich, his tie matching the ebony hue.

  “I’d like to be the first to congratulate you.” Nicolas’s words are clipped and curt. His beautiful face is set in solemn lines, his lips flat, his emotions closed to me, to everyone. “Bee.” He extends his hand.

  “Do I have to send you another article on friendship?” I gaze pointedly at his palm. “Friends don’t shake hands.” I wrap my arms around his stiff form and squeeze him hard. “They hug.”

  Nicolas hesitates for a moment and hugs me fiercely back, the rigidity easing from his muscles. “I’m a terrible friend.”

  “Good.” I smile up at him. “I need a terrible male friend to go wedding gown shopping with me. I expect you to be brutally honest.”

  “I’m always brutally honest with you.” Joy flares in his eyes and then is abruptly extinguished. “But Hawke will want to go wedding gown shopping with you.”

  “He will.” My possessive man steps forward.

  “Hawke can’t see my dress before the ceremony.” I level a speaking glance at my fiancé, trying to convey my intentions through my eyes. Nicolas needs to be included, to be reassured that he remains our friend, that he’ll always be a part of our lives. “He knows that.” My gaze returns to the billionaire. “You’ll have to be the first man to see me.”

  Nicolas gives me one of his rare, breathtaking smiles. “I do like to be first.”

  “You’ll be the first to see her.” Hawke bumps his shoulders against Nicolas’s, moving the smaller man to the side. “You don’t touch a friend’s girl.”

  “That girl doesn’t want me to touch her.” Nicolas holds his gaze. “She’s yours, has always been yours.” He holds out his hand. Hawke grips the billionaire’s palm tightly. “You’ll need a venue to hold the reception. R seats a few hund
red.”

  I stare at him. He’s offering his beloved club to us.

  “I’ll also need a best man, someone who doesn’t mind wearing a tux and can make it through an entire speech without cussing.” Hawke looks at the rough, tough military men around us. “The pickings are slim.”

  Nicolas turns his head, stares at the wall for one, two, three heartbeats, before facing Hawke again. “I’ll be a terrible best man.” His eyes shimmer with moisture.

  Those can’t be tears. The billionaire would never cry.

  “I’ll send you some articles.” I force the joke. This pulls a laugh from Nicolas’s grim lips, allows him to tuck his emotions back behind his protective wall.

  “Short-stack.” Ellen slams into my body, knocking the air from my lungs. I gasp. The beautiful assassin puts me in a headlock. “Bet you’re in girly paradise now, huh?”

  “Don’t hog the bride-to-be.” Mack rescues me from her not-so-gentle clutches.

  I’m passed from well-wisher to well-wisher, hugged, kissed, tackled, years of being Cyndi’s best friend having prepared me for this moment. Hawke’s hand is vigorously pumped. We’re surrounded by happy faces.

  Karl prepares heaping platters of pasta, singing loudly, happily feeding our guests. The food is placed on tables and guests serve themselves, the men issuing eating challenges. Glasses of ginger ale flow, poured by Eighty Proof, the Road Gator’s bartender. The soda resembles champagne but lacks the alcohol content, ensuring all of our bikers return to Chicago safely.

  I salute Eighty Proof. He grins. I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Tara, my high school nemesis, the girl who relentlessly criticized my imitation fashions, ensuring I never fit in.

  “Your hair is a mess.” Her lips curl. “And your makeup is ghastly.”

  Did I wear makeup today? I touch my kiss-swollen lips. I can’t remember applying any. My focus wasn’t on my appearance. It was on Hawke.

  As I think this, the air shifts around me, an exciting energy lifting the small hairs on the back of my neck. I react this way to only one person. Hawke, my fiancé, the man I love, is near.