Sinful Rewards 7

by Cynthia Sax

  He noticed that also. I fit into his team. My joy is tempered by harsh reality. “All of Chicago thinks I’m an escort.”

  “My men don’t think you’re an escort.” Hawke unclips the sunglasses from the collar of his ugly T-shirt and dons them, covering his beautiful blue eyes. “They think you’re brave and loyal and strong.”

  A group of military men and badass bikers accepts me. This warms my heart, but it isn’t enough to convince me to stay.

  I don’t have a job, my employment search a bust. I’ve had zero responses from my hundreds of applications, not one of the companies contacting me, my newly acquired reputation likely making me unemployable. No one wants a hooker working in his or her office.

  The blog posts are replicating faster than Hawke’s team can delete them. Word of mouth is impossible to contain. I won’t ever be accepted in Chicago polite society, and, when Cyndi’s dad hears the gossip, I also won’t have a place to live. “I have to move to a new city, somewhere no one has heard the rumors.”

  “You don’t have to do anything, love.” Hawke grabs the handlebars and swings his leg over his bike, the machine dipping lower under his weight. “You have a choice.”

  He believes this, but I can’t see any other option. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” I slide closer to him and wrap my arms around his waist, seeking the comfort of his big body, his delectable heat. We fit together perfectly, as though we were meant for each other.

  “We’re leaving tomorrow.” Hawke guns the engine, controlling the bike with confidence and strength. I lose myself in the joy of the ride, in the bliss of being with my tattooed biker. His broad shoulders block the wind. The seat vibrates under my ass.

  I wish I could ride with him forever, escaping the scandal and my problems, the responsibilities and promises I don’t know how I’ll keep. My mom relies on my financial assistance. She can’t afford her rent on her meager waitress wages.

  Hawke can’t assist me with this burden, his income as a security professional unable to pay for furniture. Nicolas, my billionaire, would help me . . . if I abandon my best friend.

  The bike tilts to the right as Hawke turns a corner, and I cling to him, moving with him, with the machine, trusting him to keep us upright and safe.

  My former marine is willing to relocate with me. Why?

  Because he has no ties, no reason to stay, a voice inside me whispers. There are biker bars in other cities. Nothing and no one holds him in Chicago.

  The bike slows as we approach the building complex. We pass the entrance to the parking garage for the north building, and my shoulders slump. We won’t be enjoying a nooner in his sparsely furnished condo. There will be no passion-filled sex spree in the middle of the day. Hawke is dropping me off at my door.

  We stop and my big biker sets his black leather boots on the pavement. The engine quiets. I don’t move, the prospect of returning to the condo and facing Cyndi not appealing to me.

  Hawke waits and waits and waits, saying nothing.

  “Do you think I was an idiot to turn down Nicolas’s offer?” I finally break the silence. “When Cyndi’s dad hears the rumors, he’ll evict me, force her to sever all of her connections with me.”

  I don’t know why I’m asking Hawke. Nicolas is his rival.

  “Cyndi wasn’t the reason you turned down his offer, love,” my former marine replies. “Deep in your heart, you realize that.”

  I dismount the bike, wishing I could argue with him. I can’t. He’s right. Cyndi wasn’t the reason I said no.

  “You messed up my plans.” I unfasten the straps around my chin, my movement sharp and jerky. “I knew you were bad news the moment I saw you.” I hand him the helmet.

  “Come here.” Hawke places the helmet on the seat behind him, hooks one of his arms around my waist, and draws me into his enticing heat.

  I open my mouth to protest, and he covers my lips with his, subduing me, claiming me, stroking his tongue along mine. My face reflects in the lenses of his sunglasses, my expression soft with submission, with acceptance. This man is all I want, all I crave, and I suck on him greedily, the bite of lime mixing with his distinct flavor.

  His body warms me to my core, melting my resistance. I lean against him, trusting him to support my weight, to keep me upright, as he ravishes my mouth, the stubble on his chin grazing my skin, marking me.

  I’m his and he could be mine. But the company to which he’s sworn loyalty will never pay him enough to cover my mom’s needs. I clutch Hawke’s leather-clad shoulders, holding on to him. If our relationship became permanent, earning more income, creating wealth, and securing our financial future would be my job.

  I pull away from him, my lips humming and my mind spinning. “You’ve complicated my life.” I trace the scar on his chin. “And I don’t like it.”

  “You more than like it.” A slow smile spreads across Hawke’s rugged face. “You love it.”

  I press my lips together, suppressing the lies he won’t believe, irritated that he uses the word love so casually. My fingers drift over his chin as I explore his cheeks, chin, nose. Moments pass.

  “I don’t want to return to the condo,” I confess.

  “I know.” Hawke pinches my chin, his lips lifting. “But you’ve been gone for half a day and your condo is filled with cut flowers.”

  It’s filled with wilting cut flowers. “Oh my God.” I step backward, horrified. “There will be petals and leaves everywhere, attracting rodents and other nasty creatures.” I pivot on my heels and hurry toward the building’s entrance.

  Hawke’s laughter booms behind me. My military man knows how to distract me.

  Chapter Seven

  OTHER THAN THE security guard sleeping behind the front desk, I don’t see anyone else as I return to the condo, the luxurious common areas as eerily vacant as Nicolas’s penthouse. A month ago, I wouldn’t have noticed the silence. I was accustomed to being alone. Now, I miss the rumble of Hawke’s voice and the action at the Road Gator.

  He’s changed me.

  I gaze at my image in the mirrored elevator walls and realize how big of a transformation I’ve undergone. The damp strands of my hair are stuck stubbornly to my skull, my helmet head horrendous, horribly ugly, and part of me doesn’t care.

  Why? Because Hawke has seen me in worse shape and still wants me.

  I want him also, desperately, and I’m considering acting on this desire, putting my need for his companionship before my need for security.

  That’s fucked-up.

  I exit the elevator and march along the hallway, my ballerina flats soundless on the lush red carpet. My hideous footwear is another sign that I’ve lost it. I have designer heels in my closet. Did I wear them? No. I wore no-name shoes, merely on the wild chance that Hawke would give me a ride on his bike.

  I wave my passcard over the sensor, swing the door open, step inside the condo, and nearly keel over from the emotional sucker punch to the gut. My ugly green plastic storage boxes are stacked by the entrance, the message clear.

  I’m being evicted.

  Shit. I thought I’d have at least one more day. I thought . . . oh God . . . I don’t know what I thought, craziness. A small part of me entertained the insane idea that this time it would be different, that I would be worthy.

  Rustling comes from Cyndi’s room, her door closed.

  Nicolas was right, damn him. My best friend is unable to face me, unable to admit that she chose her dear daddy’s wishes over our friendship. She’s turning her back on me as my friends in high school had, abandoning me.

  “How long do I have to pack my stuff?” I call, my voice sharp with a disappointment I have no right to express. Cyndi’s dad is her boss. He pays her bills, provides this condo for her to live in, owns the car she drives. If he wants me evicted, Cyndi has to comply.

  But she doesn’t have to end our friendship, a voice inside me argues. That is her decision.

  “Mr. Wynters is changing the locks tomorrow night, seven o’clock
,” Cyndi answers, her words muffled.

  I stare at the closed door. She never addresses her dad by his last name.

  “I want us to be out of here by then,” she adds.

  She wants us to be out of here. Plural. “You’re leaving, too?” Is she moving back home?

  The door opens. “Of course.” Cyndi’s breezy reply would be more believable if her eyes weren’t redder than the soles of my Louboutin heels. My best friend is normally an irritatingly pretty crier. That she’s a mess means she’s been crying for hours.

  “I need your help figuring out what to keep and what to sell.” She waves a trembling hand at the mountain of designer clothes behind her.

  She needs my help. The knots in my stomach unravel. We’ll survive this, continue to be friends. I haven’t lost my best buddy.

  “Why are you selling your clothes?” As I enter her strawberry-scented, bubblegum-pink room, I study Cyndi, using the skills Hawke taught me. My friend is wearing Cole’s T-shirt and jeans, her casual outfit screaming that she has bigger concerns than fashion.

  “My daddy . . . Mr. Wynters,” Cyndi corrects, “sold almost all of his belongings to pay for his first gumball machines. I figured we could do the same to finance our business.” She holds up a metallic gold top and flips the tag over. “Is fifty percent off the purchase price fair?”

  “You can start the bids there.” I help her divide the new and used clothes, my mind whirling. “What business are we starting and where will you be living?”

  “We’ll be living together. Duh.” Cyndi rolls her big green eyes. “Where, I don’t know.” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Once word gets out about Daddy . . . about Mr. Wynters disowning me, anyone scared of upsetting him won’t help us.”

  I drop the violet blouse I’m holding, my fingers numb. “Why did your dad disown you?” In my heart, I know the answer, but I can’t believe it. She wouldn’t walk away from her family, her wealth, her future for me.

  Cyndi avoids my gaze. “Did you know that my daddy owned over one hundred gumball machines when he was my age? Cole already had a slew of movies under his belt. What have I done?” She throws a salmon-pink Thornton Bregazzi pleated skirt into the air, the stretch crepe billowing. “Nothing.”

  “That isn’t why your dad disowned you.” I need to hear the words.

  “He believed the gossip about you,” she mumbles. “Daddy said he was going to ask you to leave, that I shouldn’t see you anymore. He wanted me to live alone, to not talk to you. How can I do that? You’re my best friend in the whole world, and I can’t sleep by myself. You know that.”

  I do know that. “So you said no?” I gawk at her. She never says no to her dad.

  “I said no,” she confirms. “He fired me, cancelled my credit cards, told me I had to get out of the condo. I was no longer his daughter.”

  She went through all of this humiliation for me, because my friendship means this much to her, because I mean this much. My eyes sting with unshed tears.

  “Cyndi, you crazy girl.” My voice is roughened by emotion. “What have you done? Why would anyone give up a gazillion dollars and a beautiful condo for me, a woman all of Chicago thinks is a dirty whore?” I scrub my hands over my face, my cheeks damp. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Yeah.” She sniffs. “I am.”

  “God, I love you.” I fling myself at her, attempting one of her infamous tackle hugs. My right elbow smacks against her stomach, and she gasps as we both fall into the stack of designer clothing. My best friend, the woman Nicolas suggested I betray, chose me over everything else. My heart expands, threatening to explode in my chest.

  “Stop crying.” Cyndi thumps my shoulders with her fists, her own cheeks wet. “We have to plan total world domination.”

  I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. “I can’t allow you to make this sacrifice for me, Cyndi. I’ll move out.” Where I’ll move, I don’t know, but I won’t be alone. I’ll have Hawke. This knowledge warms me. “You can make peace with your dad, find a new roommate, get your job, your credit cards, and your life back.”

  “I’m never making peace with him, Bee,” she says quietly. “When I said no, Daddy . . . Mr. Wynters told me I was an embarrassment. According to him, I’m a waste of space, a useless party slut, an ugly rash on his good name, and I’ll never amount to anything.”

  Nicolas is right. I take deep breaths, trying to control my anger. Mr. Wynters is a self-righteous ass.

  “How will crawling back to him and apologizing change that truth?” She sniffles. “And why would an ambitious man like Cole want a woman like me?”

  “You’re a wonderful person,” I insist. “Cole is a fool not to want you.”

  Silence stretches, both of us struggling with our emotions.

  “I’m starting a business, with or without you.” My best friend’s voice is shockingly firm, echoes of her dad in her tone. “Are you in?”

  “Of course, I’m in.” I like the idea. It’s the solution to my unemployable status. But I’m worried about her. I know what it’s like to be abandoned. “What business are we starting?” I ask, seeking to distract her. “Candy? Are we competing with your dad?”

  “And wear hairnets for the rest of our lives?” Cyndi bumps her shoulder against mine. “Ugh, no. Plus, if Daddy has banned me from all of his properties, he’s probably warned his suppliers about me too.”

  Mr. Wynters banned her from all of his properties? Shit. I glare at the crown-shaped designs on the ceiling. He’s involved thousands of people in their family tiff. Everyone will know about Cyndi’s shame by nightfall, and they will never forget, never stop talking about her.

  We have to make this business a success. I chew on the inside of my cheek. That will quiet the gossip.

  “We’re both interested in fashion,” Cyndi points out, still focused on possible business ideas. “There was a designer at one of the Hollywood parties Cole and I attended and she assumed I was in the industry, asked me if I was interested in an assistant job, and you know what?” She jabs me with her pointy elbow. “I was interested, but I was worried about what Daddy would say. I always thought it was my responsibility to work in the family business. I didn’t know he viewed me as being a useless party slut.”

  “Your dad said those things out of anger.” I try to soothe her pain.

  “Those things are true,” my normally frivolous friend insists, her tone bitter. “I haven’t achieved anything, Bee, but with my connections and your hard work, we could change that.”

  Her connections could come in handy. Cyndi knows everyone who is anyone in Chicago society.

  “You could be the face of our business,” I suggest. “I’ll complete the behind-the-scenes tasks and no one will realize I’m involved. That way, my newly acquired reputation won’t harm us.”

  “No one wants to hire a dirty whore as their designer,” Cyndi agrees.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nod, mimicking Hawke. “First things first. We must leave the condo by seven o’clock tomorrow.” I bounce to my feet. “We’ll need a place to stay. I’ll make lunch while we list friends we can ask.”

  Normally, I wouldn’t ask anyone for help, but for Cyndi, I’ll suck up my pride.

  EIGHT HOURS AND one entire meat loaf later, Cyndi’s clothes are sorted and packed, we have half a dozen business ideas, but we continue to face homelessness. My friends have no extra space in their tiny one-room apartments. Cyndi’s friends either gloat over her situation, torturing my best buddy until I want to put my foot through the phone and kick their wealthy asses, or they don’t return her calls, severing ties with her completely.

  “I’ll talk to Angel tonight.” Cyndi’s voice holds an almost maniacal cheerfulness. “When we made plans yesterday to go to Blue, I didn’t realize this would be my last club night for a while.”

  I don’t say anything, hoping I’m wrong about Angel, hoping she won’t desert Cyndi as the rest of her friends have. Cyndi holds up one of my white blouses. I shake my head. “It
’s no-name. It’ll bring pennies.” The blouse is placed in the keep box.

  We sort through the closet. I set the never-worn black Louboutin heels gingerly in the sell box. The Hermes scarf follows, Cyndi’s sigh expressing my regret. This has to be done. We need the money. I add the black Chanel suit to the box. As the behind-the-scenes worker bee in our yet-to-be-decided business, I don’t require designer clothes.

  I also don’t need designer purses.

  Taking a deep breath, I clasp my beautiful red Salvatore Ferragamo bag, the first gift I ever received from Friendly, my most cherished possession. It is a limited-edition piece, almost impossible to replace. I splay my fingers across the soft leather, over the perfectly placed stitches, the thread straight and fine. The purse is a work of art and the thought of parting with it hurts my soul.

  But it is merely a thing, an impossibly gorgeous, wildly extravagant thing embodying all of my hopes and dreams. God, this is hard. I glance at Cyndi.

  My best friend walked away from her family, her wealth, everything for me. I can make this sacrifice for her.

  Caressing the leather one last time, I lower the purse into the sell box, cushioning it between the folds of the Chanel suit. The band of emotion around my chest tightens and tightens. I force myself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

  Cyndi looks into the box. “No.” She stares at me, her green eyes wide. “Not your Salvatore Ferragamo purse.”

  I nod, unable to speak, knowing I’ll never find a duplicate purse. Never. It doesn’t matter how rich I eventually become. This is my first designer bag, and there will never be another first.

  “But you love that purse.” Cyndi’s bottom lip trembles, her eyes shining with tears. “You cried when you received it. You wouldn’t allow me to touch it, remember?”

  I remember everything, the wonder on Hawke’s face when I showed him the features that made the purse special, the admiration in Lona’s eyes, the feeling of being as sophisticated as she was. My fingers twitch, every cell in my body yearning to snatch the purse back, to keep it for myself, to safeguard it from harm.