Wreck: Hawke

by Heather C. Leigh

  “Hey, watch the road.” I try to sound annoyed, but it comes out as more of a strangled attempt not to laugh.

  “Oh god,” he wheezes, still hysterical. Tears stream from his eyes and he’s gasping for breath.

  “Hmph. It’s not that funny.” I cross my arms over my chest and jut out my lower lip in a pretend pout.

  At a red light, Hawke takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. “God, Abby. You’re too much. This isn’t a mom-mobile. It’s a Mercedes G-class and I have to drive this thing because of the paparazzi. It’s big, has dark windows, and drives like a tank.” He puts his glasses back on and turns toward me. The wide grin slowly melts off his face. His gaze goes from playful to intense, holding me captive in the enclosed space of the SUV. Hawke parts his lips, his breath hitching as he speaks. “I missed you.”

  A honk lets us know the light changed. Hawke reluctantly pulls away to focus on the road. I put my hand on his leg and give it a light, affectionate squeeze. He gasps almost imperceptibly and the urge to slide my hand up his thigh becomes nearly overwhelming. I snatch my arm back before I do something stupid, like grope my “friend’s” crotch.

  “I missed you too, Hawke.”

  He nods, but doesn’t glance over in my direction for the remainder of the drive. Just as I did in New Jersey, I study his handsome profile, remembering every part of his face, every silky spot I’ve kissed, the rough stubble I used to drag my fingers over and the nearly invisible scar running through it. Intense emotions swirl inside me, love and lust thrumming hot through my veins.

  It’s useless to deny. I’m still just as irrevocably in love with Hawke as I was seven years ago. The only difference this time is we’re friends, not lovers, and this time, I won’t have the strength to walk away.

  Hawke

  I pull the SUV into The Black Barn, a small, family-owned pub in WeHo just a few miles from my place. There’s no valet, which is one of the reasons I like coming here. It’s unpretentious, has good food, and the paparazzi don’t seem to know it exists. I hurry around to open Abby’s door and help her down from the truck. Her shoes are pretty tall and the SUV is a good distance from the ground. All I need is for Abby to twist her ankle because I’m a shitty date.

  But this isn’t a date.

  The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. Do I want it to be a date? We’re friends, right? I agreed to it at Dax and Kate’s even though I knew it would be difficult to be around Abby platonically. But this is what she wants, and I’m willing to take whatever scraps of attention she throws my way. Besides, I’m still a fucked-up asshole. Nothing has changed. Why I have to keep reminding myself of that is a mystery.

  I open the door and hold out a hand. Abby’s eyes flick from my face to my hand and back. Her mouth quirks up in a small smile as she slips her soft hand into mine. The contact reignites the fire that began in the car when Abby squeezed my thigh. I swear my dick hasn’t been that hard in a long time.

  “Thanks.” Our eyes meet, our heights nearly even with Abby wearing tall heels that make her legs look sinfully long.

  I realize I’m still holding her hand and yank it away. Fuck. She’s got me all tangled up and confused. I need to get my shit together or this friendship is going to be over before it can start. Embarrassed, I clear my throat. “So, how’s work? I assume you’re a counselor now?”

  Of course, I already know that she got her PhD and has an office in the city. No way will I admit to cyber-stalking Abby on and off over the years.

  “I’m a clinical psychologist, actually.”

  I open the door to the restaurant and follow Abby inside.

  “Hawke! Great to see you.”

  “Bob, how’s it going?” I greet the tall, gray-haired man with a handshake that he inevitably turns into a hug and an air-kiss on my cheek.

  “Great, as always.” Bob releases me to turn his full attention on Abby. He takes her in and his eyes go wide. “And who’s this gorgeous lady who is clearly too classy for the likes of you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Bob, this is Abby Kessler. Abby, this is Bob Darling. He owns this shack.”

  “Shack?” Bob makes a rude sound and pushes me aside. “Don’t listen to him, Abby.” He pulls her into a hug, giving her the same air-kiss treatment he gave me. “This is a superb eatery. I allow him in even though he’s not classy enough to eat here.” Bob is grinning and Abby is trying to hide her amusement behind her hand.

  “Fine. You’re classy and I’m the dregs of society,” I deadpan. “Can we eat?”

  “Of course. Don’t be silly.” Bob puts his arm around Abby’s shoulders and leads us to my usual table. It’s tucked in a corner and can’t be seen from most of the other tables.

  “Thanks, Bob.” I drop into the booth opposite Abby.

  Bob leans in close to Abby, giving me a mischievous look while he mock-whispers to her. “Listen, honey. I don’t know you, but you must mean a lot to Hawke for him to bring you here. I’ve never seen him with anyone but his uncle and that gorgeous Gavin Walker.” He flutters his lashes dreamily when he mentions Gavin.

  “Okay, thanks a lot, Bob. Mission complete. I’m embarrassed as hell. You can go now.” Heat floods my cheeks. If looks could kill, Bob would be dead from the dark glower I shoot his way.

  He merely raises an eyebrow before turning to leave. “Have a nice lunch, you two.”

  “Sorry about him,” I mumble, still feeling the sting of humiliation from Bob’s verbal diarrhea.

  Abby giggles. “It’s fine, Hawke. He’s hilarious. I know he’s only teasing.”

  I give her a sad smile. If she only knew how true his statement about her is. She does mean a lot to me. She always will.

  Somehow, we get through lunch without too many awkward glances or pauses in conversation. There are a few brushes of feet under the table that make my dick hard all over again, but by the time we’re ready to leave, I manage to have myself under control.

  When we stand up, Bob rushes over, looking completely freaked out. “Hawke, I’m so sorry. Someone must have leaked it to the press.” His hands are frantic, gesticulating all over the place.

  I put my hands on Bob’s shoulders. “Calm down for a minute. What are you saying?”

  Bob winces. “There’s a bunch of reporters out front, cameras and everything.”

  Abby gasps and I instinctively pull her in close, tucking her under my arm.

  “Shit.” I try to think of a way out of this. I don’t want Abby exposed to those unethical sharks. Not only could she get injured by their pushing and shoving, but she doesn’t need to be subjected to their questions or have her image printed all over those crappy rags, especially linked to a tabloid fuckup like me. “Is there a back door?”

  Bob nods, his expression becoming less panicked. That’s good. Someone needs to be calm because I am freaking the fuck out inside. I turn to Abby. “Stay next to me, close.”

  “What are we doing?” she asks, her voice wavering.

  “Trying to give them the slip, honey,” Bob answers for me. He has us follow him through the busy kitchen, drawing open-mouthed stares from the employees. “Here.” Bob pushes open a service door at the end of a short hallway.

  I glance around before stepping outside. The back lot is clear. Unfortunately, we have to go around to the side of the building where I parked.

  “Thanks, Bob.” I shake his hand.

  “Be careful.” He pulls Abby in for another hug, whispering something in her ear that I don’t catch.

  “Come on, Bee.” She puts an arm around my waist and holds on tight. “Wait.” I yank a black knit beanie out of my back pocket and shove it over her golden hair. “Put your sunglasses on and keep your head down.” She does as I ask and I tuck her back into my side. I have to go slower than I’d like because the back lot is gravel and Abby is wearing those damn heels, but she’s determined and keeps up.

  Then we turn the corner.

  * * *

  “There they are!”

  At leas
t twenty people with cameras rush at us. Abby flinches into me, but never falters at my side. The pack descends, shouting and jostling each other—and therefore jostling us—as they fight for position.

  “Guys, please. Don’t push,” I keep my voice steady when what I want to do is lash out and punch each and every one of these soulless bastards. After they dug around in my past, printed photos of the accident, used my pain to get their five minutes of entertainment out of it, I’ve had very little patience for anyone in the media.

  “Who is this?”

  “Are you dating?”

  “Is it serious?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Hawke, is she pregnant?”

  “Oh my god,” Abby whispers into my ear.

  “Stay with me, Bee.” I tighten the arm I have around her shoulders and it’s a good thing I do, because some asshole trips into her, making her lose her footing. Abby’s knee buckles and she goes down, my hold on her the only thing keeping her from landing on the sharp shards of rock. “Fuck off!” I shout, completely frustrated as I help her regain her footing.

  “Hawke?” I glance at Abby and know her eyes are shining wetly behind the dark glasses.

  I put my mouth to her ear. “Come on, Bee. You’re stronger than them.” She nods and puts her head down, letting me lead her to the car. It takes for-fucking-ever to get the mob to move with us, but we finally make it to the Mercedes.

  I fling open the door, not caring that it smacks a “journalist” right in the face. My only concern is getting Abby inside and away from these bastards. Once she’s safe, I still have to circle the car, which is nearly impossible now that I don’t have Abby with me. Apparently they were giving us “space” before because now they’re packed in so tight, I crush someone’s toes every time I take a step.

  “Who is that, Hawke?”

  “Is it serious with her?”

  I climb into the SUV and slam the door shut, praying that one of their fingers gets caught and broken. Revving the engine, I watch them scatter from in front of the vehicle and I gun it out of the parking lot to the safety of the open road.

  One glance in the rearview mirror lets me know that there is no safety, no escape. At least four cars pull out of the lot and follow close behind.

  Abby is sitting in the passenger seat, wide-eyed and pale. “You okay, Bee?”

  “Yeah… yeah. I’m okay. That was just…”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry you got caught up in my shit.” I grip the wheel tight, angry and frustrated that those assholes ruined everything. “I understand if you don’t want to be my friend, Abby.” The words feel wrong on my tongue. I want to take them back the minute I say them, but she deserves better than an emotionally crippled guy with a perpetual paparazzi problem.

  “What? Stop it,” she snaps. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re friends and that,” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the tailing paparazzi. “That doesn’t change a thing.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. So don’t say that again. It’s insulting that you think I’d run away because of a few reporters.”

  I choke out a dry laugh. “A few? Wait until you see what they write about you, Bee. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” My tone is harsher than I meant.

  “Don’t decide my reaction for me.” I glance over at Abby to see her scowling, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

  “All right, you win. If you say it doesn’t bother you, then it doesn’t bother you.” I throw up one hand in defeat.

  “Good.”

  I only hope she means what she says, because even though I gave her the option, I don’t know if I can stand to lose her again.

  Abby

  “You had enough sun yet?”

  I squint up at the shadow cast over my comfortable lounger. “I guess. What about you?”

  Hawke sits on the edge of my chair, the sun-kissed skin of his muscular thighs coming in contact with my calf. I have to hold back a hiss when his touch sends a jolt of lust up my leg.

  “I’m done,” he admits, giving me a crooked smile. He’s wearing dark sunglasses instead of his usual square frames, so I can’t see his beautiful eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m sure they’re dancing with delight. “My tats are fried and I’m covered in sand. I need a shower.” His stomach growls loudly and we both laugh. “And a sandwich.” He pats his abs, drawing my gaze to the defined ridges covered in dark and colorful slashes of ink.

  My mouth practically waters at the sight. I groan. “I’m hungry too.” Yep. I could easily devour every inch of his body.

  Hawke tilts his head, giving me a knowing look.

  “For food,” I clarify. “Hungry for food. A sandwich sounds good.” Hawke raises his eyebrows. “Just get up,” I huff. He’s too sexy and he’s half naked and touching me. How can I be expected to form a coherent sentence?

  Hawke purses his lips, but doesn’t tease me. “Okay. Food. Let’s go inside. I’m sure Gavin has something we can eat.”

  “It’s nice of him to let us use his beach while he’s out of town with Mitch,” I mention while shoving my towel and other things into a large tote.

  “It is. But Gavin’s that kind of guy.” Hawke takes the bag from me and slings it on his shoulder.

  “What kind of guy?” I ask as we trudge across the nearly deserted beach to Gavin’s ultra-modern white and glass house.

  “Kind, considerate, caring… pretty much everything I’m not,” Hawke says.

  “Hey.” I grab his arm, pulling him to a stop on the back steps of the deck. He reluctantly faces me and I wish I could see his eyes. Why can’t I? I reach up and push the sunglasses back onto his head, revealing those expressive multicolored eyes. “You are all of those things.” I let the back of my fingers skim down the side of his face. Hawke closes his eyes and leans into my touch, his breath hitching when he exhales. When I realize what I’m doing, I snatch my hand back.

  This is a dangerous game I’m playing. I could very easily see myself falling back down the rabbit hole with Hawke, one I won’t be able to climb out of again. Even if he reciprocates my feelings, nothing about us has changed. Yes, we’re older, but we still have the same exact issues creating a gaping chasm between us.

  Hawke opens his eyes and ducks his head to avoid my gaze. “Let’s get cleaned up and get some food.”

  After a much needed shower and change of clothes, we manage to throw together a pretty decent lunch of pasta salad and cold grilled chicken that Gavin had in his fridge. Hawke and I have been hanging out for several weeks now, as friends. I’ve been trying to find a good time to bring up the fact that I know about the accident, but it never feels like the timing is right. The best case scenario when I finally do is for Hawke to be upset. The worst is that he pulls away and stops speaking to me completely.

  We climb into Hawke’s SUV for the long drive back to the city from Gavin’s house on Huntington Beach. Knowing he’s trapped in the car with me for the next hour or so, I blurt it out without thinking.

  “I’m sorry about your family.”

  Hawke goes rigid in the driver’s seat. He presses his mouth into a tight line and his shoulders hunch over from stress.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice is flat. I know him well enough to recognize his attempt to remain calm.

  “Maybe you should. Have you ever? Spoken to anyone, that is?” Why am I doing this? Hawke clearly doesn’t want me prying into his past. Everything he’s done and said before, everything about his body language right now, is screaming for me to shut up, but I can’t. Years of waiting for answers renders me unable to stop.

  I’m glad we’re in the car, because if we weren’t, Hawke would be long gone by now, a cartoon trail of dust trailing behind. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Abby,” he warns, his tone serious.

  “I’m not. I’m your friend, not your therapist. I care about you.”

  “If I wanted to discuss it, I’d have told you a long time ago.”


  That hurt. Hawke is almost out of patience with me, I can tell. “Okay. I’m sorry.” It’s impossible to keep the melancholy out of my voice. I catch Hawke wincing at my sorrowful tone. “I won’t bring it up again. I just hate seeing you suffer.”

  He grits his teeth together, the muscles in his cheek pulsing. Without warning, Hawke jerks the SUV into an empty parking lot and slams it into park. He tilts his head in my direction but doesn’t meet my eyes. “You obviously already read about what happened. Now you know why I’m fucked up. I watched my entire family die in front of me, Abby. You can’t erase that shit. You can’t make it better or undo it. Talking about it won’t bring them back.” I can’t tell if Hawke is getting angrier or more miserable as he speaks.

  “You can—”

  “Fuck, Abby! Stop it! It’s my fault they died, okay? I was stupid and needed a ride and they fucking died because of it! That’s the end of it! I killed my parents and sister and it’s done!”

  All of the blood in my face drains to my feet.

  Holy shit. I was not expecting that.

  Hawke

  Abby and I have come to a peaceful, if awkward, truce. She doesn’t bring up my past or any of my issues and I hold back all of my raw desire to have her, hiding the way I desperately want her in my arms and in my bed. Somehow, despite our challenges, we’ve managed to become friends, good friends. It’s almost reminiscent of the time we spent together in our early twenties, before we dated and I fucked everything up.

  Today, it’s quite possible that we’re embarking on the worst idea ever. Of course it was my stupid idea, and I’m about to repeat history by fucking everything up again.

  The buzzer by the front door echoes through my condo, letting me know the driver is here. I take one last look in the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I don’t bother with stylists. I know my style and what the fans want. I’m wearing a typical “Hawke Evans” outfit—skinny black jeans, tight faded vintage T-shirt with an open, black suit jacket over it, the sleeves cuffed to show the colorful tattoos on my forearms. My dark hair is longer on top, but swept back off my face. By the end of the night, half of it will likely be hanging in front of my face. Last but not least, my dad’s black-framed glasses are perched on my face.