Sinful Rewards 7

by Cynthia Sax

  I remove my helmet and shake my head, loosening my moistened hair, the strands spilling around my shoulders. Hawke dismounts the bike, grasps my waist, and lifts, easily assisting me to my feet. I lean against him. My legs tremble, the ground continuing to move under me.

  He hooks his arms around my waist, holding me to him. “Any problems, Mack?” He addresses a bald man standing rigidly straight by his big black bike.

  Mack’s leather jacket is covered with patches, the words and designs having a military motif. “No, sir.” He smartly salutes Hawke, touching his fingers to his wrinkled forehead. He then lowers his gaze to my face. “Ma’am.” He salutes me.

  “Sir.” I mimic the motion as best as I can.

  My salute must not have been very good because his lips twitch, the humor adding depth to his flat eyes. “Dawg is waiting for you inside, sir.” Mack’s attention returns to Hawke.

  “Thank you.” Hawke places his palm on my back and pushes me forward, guiding me into the dimly lit building. Mack follows us closely. Men salute us as we pass, calling Hawke sir and me ma’am. This makes me feel as if I’m a thousand years old.

  I return one severely scarred man’s salute, the action becoming more and more natural. “I’m a miss, not a ma’am,” I murmur to Hawke, maintaining my smile, not wishing to insult the men.

  “Female officers are addressed as ma’am.” Hawke directs me to a corner bar stool. “It’s a sign of respect.”

  “They respect me because I’m with you.” I nod, this explanation making sense.

  “Not exactly.” Hawke claims the seat, picks me up, and sets me on his lap. The ridge in his jeans presses against my ass, his state of arousal distracting me.

  Tonight, I’ll have that long, hard cock inside me. I wiggle.

  “Not here, love.” He clasps my right hip with his hand, stopping my squirming.

  The bartender, the same man who served me the first night, places two glasses of ginger ale in front of us, fresh green limes adding a splash of color to the drinks.

  “Thank you, Eighty Proof.” Hawke dips his head.

  Eighty Proof, I mentally repeat as I salute him. The bartender nods and smiles.

  Hawke chuckles, his chest shaking against my spine. “You’re priceless, Belinda.”

  Mack, the bald-headed biker, joins two men at a nearby table. He watches me. The other men do the same, their mouths and hands moving.

  I cringe, avoiding their gazes. They’re talking about me. I’m certain of this. “Are you sure no one here knows about the gossip?”

  Hawke slides his hand forward, splaying his fingers over my stomach, his grip on me reassuringly secure. “Everyone knows about the gossip.”

  “What?” My spine straightens, my head smacking against his chin. “You told me no one would judge me harshly.” My voice is sharp, edged with betrayal. Everyone knows. Panic fills me. “I’m leaving.” I squirm, trying to free myself, to run, as I always do from humiliation.

  Hawke doesn’t release me. “You’re not leaving.” He sips the ginger ale as though nothing is wrong, as though no one is watching us, repeating the horrible stories about me. “I enlisted the men’s help to stop the gossip.”

  All of his friends have heard the rumors. They believe I’m a whore, that I was part of an orgy in an upscale dining establishment, that I have sex with random men for money.

  “Hawke.” I need to escape, desperately. “Everyone thinks I’m a hooker.”

  “Who the hell called you a hooker?” the man seated two bar stools away from us demands. A bar code with Property of US Army is tattooed on his neck. He’s big and tough and mean-looking, a snarl on his thin lips.

  “Some asswipe called you a hooker?” Mack stands, the lights reflecting off his bald head. He grasps a switchblade in his right hand. “Fuck that. Tell me his name and I’ll kill him.” He flips the knife open and closed, open and closed, the edge of the blade gleaming. “No one disrespects one of our own and lives.”

  I blink, my mind spinning. “You’d defend me?”

  “With our lives, ma’am,” Mack’s shorter buddy replies, standing beside him. “We saw how you took hostile fire for that French corporal. I ain’t seen nothing like that from a civilian.” The men bob their heads, muttering agreement. “If my Nancy had been more like you, our marriage might have survived and then I—” His voice breaks, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “And then you would have still fucked it up, Prick.” Mack slaps his friend’s back hard, shaking the smaller man’s body. “You were a mean son of a bitch after your tour of duty. You fuckin’—”

  “Mack, watch your language,” Hawke barks. “My girl is present and warrants your respect.”

  Crimson creeps up the bald guy’s neck. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that having spent years helping my mom serve crude-talking truck drivers at the diner, I’ve heard worse. Hawke cups my chin, capturing my attention, and he shakes his head, indicating I should remain silent. I press my lips together. The lack of cussing must be some sort of military code thing.

  “There will be no killing today,” Hawke declares. “Mack, get Dawg.” He assigns the big bald guy a task. “The rest of you disband.”

  “Yes, sir.” They salute him. Mack lumbers off. The other men take positions at a sufficient distance to give Hawke and me some privacy, yet close enough to keep their gazes locked on us.

  Hawke drinks his ginger ale while I wonder what the hell just happened. By tolerating Francois’s angry behavior at the restaurant, I’ve somehow earned the men’s respect, becoming one of them. A warmth spreads across my chest.

  “They like me,” I muse, my feet dangling.

  “They adore you.” Hawke presses his lips to my shoulder, his mouth sinfully hot. “You’re everything a good soldier should be, love.”

  And that’s who Hawke’s coworkers and friends are—soldiers, military men. They value loyalty, a trait I have in abundance. Could I fit in here?

  I look around us, studying the other bikers. The men wear black leather jackets, no-name T-shirts, and denim. Some of them sport untamed facial hair, greasy bandanas, intricate tattoos, silver skull rings. They all have patches on their jackets, names and letters and symbols.

  “What do the patches mean?” I ask, seeking to understand the styles.

  “They mean different things.” Hawke bites my neck, the tinge of pain thrilling me. “They tell others which club a man belongs to, what he’s done, what’s important to him, other things.” He licks the flesh he abused.

  “Your jacket is plain.” I tilt my head. Does this mean he doesn’t belong anywhere? Doesn’t the Road Gator or the Organization count as a club? “Why don’t you have any patches?”

  Hawke shifts under me, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. “Patches identify a biker. There are situations where I don’t want to be identified.”

  “Your bike would identify you.” I press for more information.

  “I don’t park my bike anywhere near dangerous situations.”

  “I see.” And I do see. The wealthy clients he protects wouldn’t want him to flaunt his affiliations or his pretty bike. His job is to fade into the background, serve them unseen, unnoticed.

  A woman struts by. There’s a gap between her black leather vest and her matching cutout pants, a blue butterfly tramp stamp hugging her exposed lower back. Her long, dark dyed hair is topped by a red-and-white skull and crossbones bandana, the design not color coordinated to anything she’s wearing.

  My fingers twitch, the urge to run behind her and snatch the offending accessory from her head tremendous. I don’t because the woman fits in, her outfit similar to everyone else’s.

  I don’t belong here. No one is wearing a flimsy blue blouse or black dress pants. My shoulders slump. Hawke will realize this soon and reject my incorrectly clothed ass.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” I announce, rejecting him first.

  “So you keep telling me.” Hawke d
oesn’t sound at all concerned. “I’ll need your help tonight reviewing more footage.”

  “The closed-toe shoe lady is your guilty party,” I grumble, hurt that he’s not upset. Doesn’t he care that I’m leaving, that he’ll never see me again? “I should spend the night packing.”

  “You should but you won’t,” he says smugly.

  I turn my head and glare at him, not saying anything because the damn man is right. I won’t spend the night packing. Hawke chuckles and leans forward, his big body folding mine in two. He snatches the cleaning rag from the bartender.

  “Here, love.” Hawke pushes the cloth into my right palm. “Scrub the bar top. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Cleaning does make me feel better. He knows this about me. Not that this knowledge matters, as our relationship is destined to end soon.

  Not soon. I scowl. Tomorrow.

  I sit in his lap and swirl the rag onto the polished wood, furious with him and with the world.

  Hawke, a bad- boy biker who can’t even afford furniture for his condo, doesn’t care if I leave him. Nicolas, a billionaire who could help me and my mom escape the circle of poverty, wants me to betray my best friend, Cyndi—something I’d never do. I’m viewed as the wild woman of Chicago, and when Cyndi’s dad uncovers my new reputation, I’ll be evicted, shunned, alone—again.

  Life sucks.

  The bartender places a clear spray bottle in front of me. I squirt some of the liquid on the cloth, the pine scent identifying it as a polish, and I continue cleaning, removing the dirt from every indent in the wood, the action calming me, restoring my confidence.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Hawke finally asks.

  I shouldn’t talk about it. I shouldn’t talk about anything, my mood volatile, but the bitch in me wants to punish him, to hurt him as he’s hurting me.

  “Nicolas asked me to move in with him,” I share. Hawke stiffens, his body growing hard, his muscles flexing against my curves. “He doesn’t want me to leave.”

  This isn’t a lie, but it also isn’t the truth. I don’t know what Nicolas thinks about me leaving because I haven’t told him about this plan.

  I’ve told Hawke, multiple times, but that means nothing, absolutely nothing, because he doesn’t care about me, about our relationship.

  A shoe drags along the floor. Dawg, Hawke’s friend, must be approaching us. I stare down at the bar and continue to scrub the wood, not wanting the older man to see my inner turmoil, my anger, my pain.

  “That was Nicolas’s grand plan—for you to move in with him?” Hawke scoffs. “How would that stop the rumors from circulating?”

  Is that all he cares about—fixing the mess he blames himself for not preventing? “Nicolas is a powerful and influential man.” I tilt my chin upward. “He doesn’t make casual commitments. By asking me to move in with him, he’s telling all of Chicago that I’m his future, a permanent part of his life. That I’m not alone.” My voice trails off.

  “The team is ready for you, sir.” Dawg inserts this information into the silence.

  Hawke will end our conversation, putting his job and his team first, as Nicolas, my mom, and everyone else put their jobs first. I clench the cleaning rag, my knuckles whitening around the fabric, my heart hurting.

  “You’re not alone.” Hawke ignores his friend. “You have me.” He grips me tighter, pressing me back against him. “You’re my girl.”

  “I’m leaving,” I remind both Hawke and myself. Not that he cares, not enough to ask me to stay.

  “Ahhh . . . then you won’t be moving in with the powerful and influential Nicolas.” Hawke’s voice lilts with humor. “You turned down his offer and will be leaving Chicago instead.”

  He doesn’t have to sound so damn cheerful about it. I scrub the surface of the bar.

  “I thought you liked Chicago,” Hawke adds softly.

  “I love Chicago.” My voice is embarrassingly watery. “It’s a city I could happily spend a lifetime in.” Chicago has everything I need—great fashions, delicious food, arrogant billionaires, and tattooed bikers. “But the rumors won’t stop. I don’t have a job. Soon I won’t have a place to stay. There’s no rational reason to stay.”

  Especially since he doesn’t care enough to stop me from leaving.

  Hawke lifts me off his lap and sets me on the bar stool beside him, the vinyl seat cool against my ass. “If you moved in with Nicolas, you’d have a home, you could take your time finding a job, and the rumors might stop.”

  Why is he pleading Nicolas’s case? I narrow my eyes at him. “He has an issue with Cyndi.”

  “And you won’t leave your bubbly friend behind.” Hawke’s lips lift.

  I’m glad someone finds my toilet bowl of a life amusing. I thump the spray bottle against the bar top. Because I don’t.

  “Is that the only reason you rejected Nicolas?” he pushes, the damn man knowing the answer to his question.

  “Yes,” I lie, rubbing the cleaning cloth over a new patch of wood. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. My decision has nothing to do with you.”

  Hawke chuckles, the sound reaching deep down inside me, coiling around my heart. “You’re a terrible liar, love.” He stands, looming over me, taller than any man should be. “It has everything to do with me.” He bends over and smacks his lips against my cheek. “And I’m glad.”

  I sniff haughtily, making a big production out of cleaning the bar, not acknowledging him. This makes my irritating mountain of a man laugh louder.

  “You’ll be safe here, Belinda,” he assures me, acting as though he cares . . . which he doesn’t. “Mack.” Hawke raises his voice. “My girl is your assignment. No one touches her or raises his voice to her. Anything she wants, she gets, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll return soon, sweetheart.” Hawke kisses me again and walks away, shortening his stride to match Dawg’s slow gait. Although I don’t turn my head, don’t watch his departure, every cell in my body is aware of the increasing distance between us.

  He doesn’t care if I leave him. I spray the polish directly on the bar’s surface. I shouldn’t care if he leaves me.

  Saying this over and over might convince my heart it’s true.

  Chapter Five

  MACK, THE BALD biker, settles on the bar stool one seat away from mine. His two friends join him, and they start talking loudly about fancy frog food.

  I’m not an idiot. I know they’re trying to strike up a conversation with me, so I interject how the portions wouldn’t feed a supermodel. This comment draws blank stares. I amend it to “wouldn’t feed an ant” and they all nod.

  An hour later, I’m surrounded by scary-looking, leather-clad men, sharing french fries with Mack, the ketchup hog, while watching Prick weep into his beer. The man is obsessed with Nancy, his ex-wife, detailing everything he did wrong.

  He did a lot of things wrong, the first of which was answer to his unfortunate biker name. The 2:00 a.m. surprise date night, complete with backyard fireworks, wasn’t his most brilliant idea either.

  “Next time, leave the pyrotechnics at home.” I pat Prick’s arm, trying to console him. “Bring something less startling, like chocolate.” I don’t suggest flowers because those would leave a mess for his date to tidy.

  The guys rumble their agreement and thump Prick’s back with heavy fists, making beer squirt from his nose and mouth. The bartender hands me a fresh cloth and I clean up the spray, feeling as though I’m contributing to our ragtag group.

  I’m enjoying myself, but I miss Hawke. My gaze drifts in the direction he’d walked. “Hawke’s not in any danger, is he?”

  “No, ma’am,” Mack replies. “He’s not on active fuckin’ duty.”

  “He’s trusting Mack to wipe his own ass today,” a man behind me mutters.

  The others snigger. Mack turns red. “Hawke leads all of the high-risk assignments, not just mine.”

  “Sure, he does,” a man in a grubby ball cap
jeers.

  “You tell yourself that.”

  Mack casts a dark look over his shoulder. “He babysat Ellen less than a month ago.”

  The wisecracks abruptly stop. I lift my eyebrows. Dawg isn’t the only one afraid of this mysterious Ellen.

  Yet Hawke doesn’t trust this skilled woman to lead the high-risk assignments, instead putting himself in danger. I furrow my forehead. “Hawke could die, couldn’t he?”

  “That’s unlikely, ma’am.” Mack returns his attention to me. “He’s the best damn marine there is.” He pounds the top of the bar with his hands, emphasizing his words. “And he’s backed by the best damn team on the planet.”

  “Hear! Hear!” The men raise their glasses. Beer sloshes onto the floor, creating a slippery mess.

  I narrow my eyes, smelling macho bullshit.

  “My skills almost rival his,” Mack brags. “Given the opportunity, I could lead those assignments.”

  “Ellen certainly could,” Prick adds. “It must piss her off that she hasn’t earned that right.”

  “It’ll piss her off more when I earn it first.” Mack grins.

  This drives another round of good-natured teasing. The men aren’t worried about Hawke. The tension in my shoulders dissipates. I shouldn’t worry either.

  Not that I care about my former marine . . . because he doesn’t care about me. I swap my cleaning cloth—Eighty Proof, the bartender, is keeping me in supplies—and I polish the wood.

  The men laugh and joke around me. I pay attention to the conversation, learning military terms I’ll never have the opportunity to use.

  My phone hums. I gaze down at the screen and suck in my breath. It’s a text from Friendly. I look around me. The men are distracted by the arrival of a road-rash-covered newcomer. I read the message.

  Friendly: Strip naked and send me a photo. Good girls earn rewards.

  Send him a photo? I cover the screen with my fingers, hiding the message from any curious eyes. Friendly, I’m 99 percent certain, is Nicolas. Does he want one last image of me?