Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2) (3 page)

For now I can’t do as my dad asks and dump Hawk, because he’s not mine to dump, first, and second and most important, he won’t return my calls.

What do I know, maybe he’s dumped me already and didn’t care enough to tell me. Maybe it’s a done deed. Or he’s super busy with his company or flying abroad on his private jet. That’s what you get when you’re addicted to a hot millionaire-slash-bad boy.

The wind is biting into my cheeks as I walk along the warehouse, and I shiver in my thin, stylish jacket. It’s a gift from Mom, and I love it, but today is particularly cold. Feels like a storm is brewing, and the morning is dark like early evening.

There’s a green staff door, and I huddle under its built-in awning, fishing inside my purse for my scarf and gloves.
Jeez.
You’d think it’s January instead of early May.

Voices from behind the door make me pause. Turns out the door isn’t completely shut but open a tiny crack. This is none of my business, and I finally locate my scarf, which I wind around my neck, getting ready to brave the wind and go find my car—only what the voice closest to me says stops me in my tracks.

“Don’t touch him again, not before the Boss sees him.” It’s a rumbling male voice. “Sometimes those knocks to the head can be damn lethal. I’ve seen a video about it on YouTube.”

Knocks to the head?

“He was egging us on, man. Bastard thinks he owns this city. I was itching to punch that smirk off his face.”

The voices are right behind the door now, I suddenly realize, and I stumble away, putting my back to the wall and waiting.

The two of them stroll past me, not even glancing my way, still talking, the wind whipping their words right back at me.

“Fucking rich boy,” one of them, the burly one, says. “Let’s see how he squawks when I have another go at him. He won’t know what hit him next time.”

“Save it, Johnny. Scare him all you want, but Boss-man said we need him alive.”

I blink. I misheard. That must be it. It’s quite windy, after all.

I mean, come on, these buffoons wouldn’t rough up someone, not in my dad’s warehouse, right beside his office, right?

Does Dad even know about this?

Time to hightail it. Return to Dad’s office, tell him about this, make sure it’s nothing. Misunderstanding or not, better play it safe.

Always playing it safe. That’s what my mom taught me. Taking risks leads to broken hearts—or broken bones, if this proves to be real.

And yet, when I realize the door is still not completely closed, I sidle toward it, and push it to enter.

I need to know what’s going on. Besides, going to Dad with this tale without even knowing my ears weren’t playing tricks on me would be embarrassing.

Hey, Dad, I overheard two guys say they were using a rich guy as a punching bag in your warehouse, I don’t suppose you know anything about this?

Don’t be hysterical like your mother, Layla, Dad will say. You heard
what
? In
my
warehouse? You think I’m a thug? Didn’t I tell you to get out?

Right.

Let’s just say I’m still stung. He’s never thrown me out of his office before. We’ve had our fights, but he’s never been so cold to me.

Sheesh.

Stalking in an echoing warehouse in high heels
quietly
is near impossible, so I slip my shoes off and shiver when the cold of the concrete seeps through my sheer tights.

I know every nook and cranny of this place. I didn’t actually grow up in here, but I’ve hung around the place since I was seven or eight, slipping through my parents’ guard to watch the workers pack up merchandise, stack the crates, load them onto forklifts and then onto truck beds driven by bearded, beer-bellied guys.

It was my own private theatre. A kind of child’s circus, full of strange hairy men and mysterious boxes. A weird world apart from mine.

Now I make my stealthy way past a row of small, empty offices and toilets. It’s quiet in here, without the howling of the wind, and I don’t see anyone.

Doesn’t mean anything, of course. The tall stacks of metal containers could hide a dozen workers going about their job, but there’s a stillness about the place.

Frowning, I push the door to the stairwell open, and voices filter up from the basement. I hesitate, glance back over my shoulder at the empty warehouse.

What am I doing? Pretending to be a spy, Layla? Is your life that boring?

But unless I know who’s down there and if anything fishy is going on, I won’t sleep tonight, so… Down the stairs it is.

***

The voices grow louder as I descend the dark staircase, running my hand down the ice-cold, metal banister. I’ve played in this stairwell so many times, I don’t need to look to know there is a door opening on the left to a small storage space and a fire extinguisher case on the wall.

The door at the bottom of the stairs whines as it opens with a breeze, letting yellow light and more voices into the stairwell, then closes again, drowning me in dark and silence.

Another wave of hesitation hits me full in the gut.

I could still go back. I probably should. This isn’t a movie, and it isn’t funny. Or intelligent. I’ll just embarrass myself in front of workers doing their job, who will crack jokes about me, tell my dad, and generally make me look like an idiot.

Shit.

I turn around to climb back up, when the door slams open and a guy stands there, turned away, talking to someone I can’t see. I barely have time to step back down and wedge myself behind the door when he steps into the stairwell, followed by two others, and they start climbing up.

I watch them, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Come on. This is getting ridiculous. So what if they saw me?

I could just step out and say something.
Hi, I’m Steven Green’s daughter. Sorry, I got lost looking for the bathroom. Maybe we could you point me to the exit?

But they don’t notice me. They turn on the landing and take the second flight up, not once looking my way.

I slump back against the wall.

Then I turn and push the door of the basement open. Stepping inside, I let the door close quietly behind me, turn around…

And stop dead in my tracks.

There’s a guy, his hands tied above his head and fastened to a hoop on the concrete pillar he’s leaning against, his ankles bound together in front of him. Powerful muscles bulge in his arms and chest, straining against the pale blue shirt he’s wearing. His long blond hair is hanging in his face, stained with rust.

Stained with blood, and although I’m not squeamish, my stomach turns. I’ve been under the weather for the past couple of weeks, and every smell turns my stomach, but the blood isn’t what’s bothering me the most.

No, it’s that, even bound like that, with his face hidden, I know who this man is, and the world tilts.

Hawk. This is
Hawk
. What the hell?

What are the odds?

Everything the men said outside falls into place. A rich man, a man who owns this city. My dad’s warnings to stay away from Hawk, his cold command to get out and not come back.

My dad. My dad knows about this? My dad, who’s always told me to be careful, and be kind, and follow the rules, and listen to my mom?

Oh God.

And why the hell is Hawk tied up in the basement, beaten and bloody?

This can’t be good. Not good at all, and I remember what Dad said about Hawk’s ties to the mafia.

Shit.
I stare at Hawk’s still form, scared to touch him, scared to find out he’s already dead.

But he’s not, right? That guy, Johnny, said he wanted to roughen him up some more, but the other one told him not to kill him.

These people want something from him. And I should back off. Dad was right. This is dangerous. I should stay out of it.

But I can’t help stepping close to Hawk. I kneel by his side, sweep his hair back. His face is slack, a trail of blood slipping from his mouth, dying his short beard red.

His chest is rising and falling, though, and that’s the main thing. He’s alive.

A weight lifts off my chest even as fear settles deeper in my bones, ice-cold claws that won’t let go.

He’s still alive, and the Boss wants him that way. To talk to him, I guess. Why would the Boss care if Hawk deals with the mafia? How dare my dad’s boss kidnap a man like Hawk?

And why aren’t the police swarming the city, looking for him? Why didn’t I see his face on the news, as a missing person? He’s an important man, a rich man.

What’s going on here?

A clang inside the warehouse makes me flinch. Shivering, I bolt back to the door and stop before I open it. Glance back at him.

What did you do, Hawk? What exactly did you do to get into this mess?

I shake my head. “I’m coming back,” I whisper, knowing he can’t hear me, and creep outside.

Hawk

This time, passing from deep sleep to wakefulness comes with a bang. No memory of dreams, no images of Hot Body, no restful happy dreams to make up for the fucking pain that screams down my arms as I jerk against bonds I’d forgotten about.

Fucking shit.

I groan, trying to lift my head that’s heavy as a boulder, tugging on my hands. They’re bound behind my back—and that makes me frown, because I’m pretty fucking sure… Yeah, I’m sure they were tied above my head before.

I blink my crusted lashes and lick my cracked lips with a tongue that feels three times its size.

Someone’s crouched in front of me, and my body instinctively braces for more pain. Nothing happens. A heartbeat passes. Two. Three. The harsh overhead lights catch on the silk of a dark suit, a burgundy shirt cuff.

Graduating to those higher in the hierarchy? Is this the infamous Boss we’ve all been impatiently waiting for?

Lifting my head a fraction more, gritting my teeth against the blinding pain that’s slamming inside my skull like a rogue bullet, I face the suited-up asshole.

Goatee, of course, because that’s a must with evil bosses. Scar in lip, check. And sunglasses.

Hiding his identity?

“The evil overlord, I presume?” I croak, and fucking hell, even the sound of my voice makes me wince. “Or are you his ass-wiper?”

Goddamn headache. Won’t even let me have my fun without just about killing me.

Worth it, though. Especially when the asshole’s mouth twists, and he grabs my already abused jaw in a hard grip.

“If the Boss wasn’t coming here today, I’d break every bone in your goddamn body,” he hisses. “Your family destroyed mine, but now, dickhead… now you’ll see the other side. You don’t know what you’ve stumbled into.”

“You
are
his ass-wiper,” I decide. “And he tells you jack about business.”

He releases me, pushing me backward, and gets up, turning away from me and beckoning at someone I can’t see. “You! What the fuck are you doing? Get your ass over here.”

That’s it. Rattling them. Getting through their fake cool. Shaking them up until they spill information they didn’t mean to spill.

I smirk despite the pounding in my head, and the nausea churning in my stomach. Fuck, I need water. And food. And I need to piss so badly my gut aches.

They need me alive, I reassure myself, because, hell, how long have I been here, tied up and beaten? They need me alive, and they lowered my hands. I can feel my fingers now, and I wiggle them to make sure.

Yeah. I’m okay. It’ll be okay.

Hold on.
Breathe. Keep calm. Find out why you’re here. How deep the shit you’ve landed in this time is.

And… it’s pretty damn deep, I realize, when Elliot saunters toward me dangling a piece of black cloth from his fingers, a knowing smirk on his stupid face.

A blindfold.

Ah fuck.
I should have expected it, perhaps, and it’s not a bad sign. It’s a sign they do want me alive, if they won’t show me the Boss’s face—but me and blindfolds… not good.

I fight the impulse to kick and punch and head-butt the motherfucker leaning over me to put the cloth over my eyes, reminding myself that getting more hurt isn’t a good idea. It won’t stop them blindfolding me, and maybe they don’t want me dead, but accidents do happen.

I let Elliot the stooge cover my eyes, take away my sight, and vow to introduce my fist to his face once I’ve met the boss and figured out how to get out of these bonds.

In the new, imperfect darkness, I track their presence by sound. Faint steps to my right. A cough to my right—or is it a question? The familiar whine of the door opening, then slamming.

You heard that. You’re not helpless.

Don’t let the panic in. It’s just a piece of cloth over your eyes, dammit. It will come off, soon. You’ve not gone blind. This isn’t any different from lying in the dark at night, unable to sleep and imagining monsters. No different in fact than the past two days you’ve spent here—is it two days?

Yeah, well, good luck telling that to my treacherous mind. It knows the monsters here are real.

My pulse is thundering in my ears as I strain to hear what’s happening around me. Strain to see something through the cloth, even though I know it’s a lost battle.

Heavy steps, a whisper I don’t catch, the scrape of something—a chair?—on the floor, a muffled cough—and a hush.

Oh hell.
My heart is banging around my chest. No sight, no sound. I hate this. I totally fucking hate this, I ha—

“Jamie Fleming.” The voice is bass, booming, just inches from my face, and I flinch back, hitting my throbbing head against the pillar once again.

Fuck.

“Get him some water,” the guy says, and I struggle to hold myself still and slow down my frantic breathing.

Something cool is pressed to my lips, water sloshing, and I drink greedily, choking on it.

The cup is taken away far too soon, but at least my tongue is not swollen and stuck to the roof of my mouth anymore, and my throat isn’t burning.

Goddammit, focus, Hawk. This is the moment you find out what you’re here for. Breathe.

“Now, Mr. Fleming.” The bass voice resonates through me, makes my bones ache. “Let’s get down to business.”