Sinful Rewards 4

by Cynthia Sax

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” I mumble, having no wish to be less, wanting to be more, to become all the woman a man could ever desire.

  “It’s a very good thing.” Hawke cups my chin, raising my gaze to meet his. My breath hitches, the emotion in his broad blunt face enthralling me, pulling me under. I sway into his cotton-and-denim-clad body, pressing against him, the scent of man and machine meshing, merging, calling to my lonely heart.

  “The helmet looks good on you.” Hawke’s voice is husky.

  “You’re full of shit.” I grin. “Helmets don’t look good on anyone.”

  “You’re priceless, love.” He laughs, his unabashed joy lifting my spirits even more. “Hop on.” He smacks the seat behind him with one of his massive palms.

  I eye the tiny expanse of leather with trepidation, knowing if I straddle his hips and wrap my arms around his big body, I’ll never want to let him go.

  “Nothing will happen to you, not while I’m on duty,” Hawke vows.

  “I trust you to protect me.” It isn’t my safety I’m worried about. I touch my chest, finding the outline of the dog tags under my blouse. Can I risk exposing more of my heart, my soul, my secrets to the former marine?

  Do I have a choice? I play with the cotton-covered metal. This is my Saturday in Happydale. I have to return home, visit with my mom, give her the check I’ve drafted, the money for her next rent payment.

  I gaze up at Hawke. Maybe he won’t stay. Maybe he won’t uncover the past I’ve carefully kept separate from my future. “What will you do after you drop me off?” I ask, clinging to these maybes.

  “I’m not dropping you off.” Hawke ruthlessly removes this foolish hope. “Where you go today, I go.”

  “But—”

  “I’m spending the day with you.” He won’t relent. I see this truth in his eyes.

  I sigh. There’s no need to worry about betraying Nicolas. The day in Happydale will ruin any hope of a relationship with Hawke. The dog tags will be returned to him before the end of today.

  I can’t protect myself, but I will protect the parent I love. “If you meet my mom, don’t mention I’ve lost my job.” I avoid Hawke’s gaze, ashamed that I have to ask him to lie for me. “I don’t want to worry her.”

  “There are no ifs. I will meet your mom,” he insists. “And I won’t say anything about your job. You can trust me with all of your secrets, love.”

  But can I trust him with my mom’s secrets?

  “My mom is a good woman, a great parent.” I won’t allow him or anyone else to disrespect her, to hurt her. “She isn’t perfect. She made some mistakes. But she did her best.” I glare at him, daring him to judge her.

  “We’ve all made mistakes.” Raw, stark pain flashes across Hawke’s face, and my anger dissipates. He’s thinking of Rock, taking responsibility for his best friend’s death, blaming himself for not knowing about a bomb placed in a civilian restaurant.

  My mom’s mistakes appear almost trivial by comparison. I place my hand on Hawke’s knee, seeking to comfort him, having no words to ease his guilt.

  His muscles twitch under the denim. “I won’t do anything to hurt your mom.”

  I tilt my head back and gaze up at him. He won’t deliberately do anything to hurt her. The boys I brought home in the past never said anything either, but I saw the disapproval in their eyes and couldn’t tolerate the unspoken criticism of the parent I loved. Those relationships ended weeks, sometimes days later.

  I twist my fingers around the ball chain. My relationship, friendship, whatever I have with Hawke will end also. “If you hurt her, I’ll kick your. . .” I stop myself in time, stopping the cuss word from crossing my lips.

  “You’ll kick my ass.” The sparkle returns to Hawke’s eyes. “You can say the words when you’re with me, Belinda.” He covers my hand with his, his skin warm and rough and reassuring. “You did last night.”

  I remember cussing a blue streak last night. My face heats. He knows too many of my secrets. “Good girls don’t cuss.” I lift my chin.

  “My good girl cusses.” Hawke taps the tip of my nose, and I blink. “Get on the bike, Belinda.”

  I obey him, hitching one of my legs over the huge machine, perching my ass on the edge of the seat, leaving an inch of space between us. The heat rolling off his body permeates the denim of my jeans, warming me all over. I curl my fingers over the edge of the leather and rest my sneaker-clad feet on the rear footrests.

  “Get a little closer, sweetheart.” Hawke grips my knees and pulls me snugly against him, his back flattening my breasts, his ass pressing the seam of my jeans against my clit. “I don’t want to lose you on a bend.”

  “Is that possible?” I strap my arms around him, not taking any chances with my safety. “Have you lost people on bends before?” I link my trembling fingers over his T-shirt-covered stomach. “You said nothing would happen to me.”

  “So you do listen to me.” Hawke’s muscles ripple under my palms, his strength and size easing some of my anxiety. “Nothing will happen to you.”

  He doesn’t say he’s never lost anyone on a bend. I squeeze him with my arms and thighs, holding on to Hawke with everything I have. He dons his sunglasses and revs the throttle. The bike vibrates underneath me. The seam of my jeans rubs against my clit and I moan softly, my arousal distracting me.

  Hawke chuckles as the bike shoots forward, accelerating quickly. I lean farther into him, my palms moistening, my heart beating quickly. My tattooed biker skillfully navigates through the Chicago traffic, weaving between cars, moving in and out of spaces other vehicles couldn’t fit into. He knows what he’s doing. I rest my helmeted head on his back, trusting him to keep me safe.

  As we leave Chicago, the congestion eases and our speed increases. Hawke’s broad shoulders block the wind. The sun’s rays warm us. The scent of hardworking man and straining engine intensifies.

  Every rotation of the tires brings us closer to Happydale, closer to the end of our relationship. There’s nothing I can do to stop this fate. All I can do is hold on, relish our remaining time.

  I stroke my fingers over Hawke’s cotton-covered stomach, exploring the dips and swells of his abdominal muscles, the indent of his navel. He shudders, his shoulders shaking, his response exciting me.

  Yesterday, he captured my wrists, restraining me as he touched my body. Today, his movements are restricted, his scarred knuckles curled around the handlebars and his gaze on the stretch of pavement before us. His inability to react makes me brazen.

  I slide my palms up his torso, over his flat pecs. Are male nipples sensitive too? I circle them and Hawke stiffens, his spine straightening. They are sensitive. I pluck them, my big, tough former marine jerks, and the bike swerves. A transport truck honks.

  Shit. I cling to him. Maybe tormenting him isn’t a good idea.

  I try to behave myself for the rest of the ride, the key word being try. His body is too tempting to resist. I brush my fingertips up and down his chest, trace his belt buckle, think about the hard ridge tenting his jeans, and wonder if his attraction to me is strong enough to survive the trip home.

  Chapter Two

  WE EXIT I-57, turning onto a side road. Hawke doesn’t stop at the closest gas station, doesn’t ask for directions. We pass the motels, the medical center, and the painstakingly maintained houses with the perfectly landscaped lawns. He rides directly to West Court Street, the heart of town, and parks in front of the diner, taking the half space left behind the mayor’s brand-new navy blue Lincoln.

  Hawke’s familiarity with Happydale increases my anxieties. He’s been to my tiny hometown before today, perhaps to gas up or to stretch his legs after a long ride. No one visits Happydale without hearing about its notorious wild woman, the shameless hussy who had a one-night stand with a semistranger and got herself knocked up. The town gossips would have told him where my mom worked. He would have also heard about her daughter, a woman everyone expects to follow in her footsteps.
/>
  If he hasn’t yet heard these stories, he soon will. I remove my helmet and flick my ponytail, the moist strands of hair sticking to my neck.

  The diner isn’t much to look at. Its red awning has faded to a pale pink. The newspaper reviews taped to the windows have yellowed, many of the articles collected before I was born. The décor, seen through the glass, is equally ugly. The walls are white. The tables and chairs are silver metallic. The seat cushions are covered with a red-and-white-checkered vinyl, the pattern matching the paper place mats.

  The diner’s eyesore status doesn’t stop the flow of customers. All the booths positioned along the front glass are occupied by a mixture of residents, truck drivers, and lost tourists, the fashions ranging from sweat-stained tank tops to designer suits. Every one of these customers feels he or she deserves my mom’s full attention.

  I summon a smile, dreading the day. During a regular trip home, I barely survive the pain and humiliation. Coping with Hawke’s reaction will make the ordeal even more excruciating. “We’re here.” My voice is artificially chirpy.

  “Be brave, love.” It doesn’t fool Hawke. He reads me as he always does. “You’re not alone.” He hooks his sunglasses on the collar of his T-shirt. “I’m with you.” Hawke dismounts the bike and plants his military-style boots squarely on the sidewalk, his feet braced apart.

  He’s large and intimidating, drawing attention. Heads turn and eyes narrow, the locals trying to determine who we are. Soon, they’ll recognize me and the snide comments will start, shaving away Hawke’s respect one sentence at a time.

  I remain on the bike, wishing we could turn around and ride out of town. “You’re with me, but for how long?” I mutter.

  “I’m with you always.” Hawke pulls on the ball chain, places the dog tags in my right hand, and closes my fingers over them. “Does your mom hate this town as much as you do?”

  “Yep.” I nod, the helmet set on my lap. “When I was young, she’d constantly talk about leaving, but that was all she could do—talk about it. She was trapped, not having the money for bus tickets, for first and last month’s rent, unable to skip one shift at the diner.” I sigh, holding on to the dog tags. “Then one day she stopped dreaming, and now, she’s too scared to consider it.”

  Hawke grasps my waist. “Was it that bad here?” He lifts me easily. My body slides along his, his soothing heat settling some of my nerves.

  “It was for us.” I hold on to his arms, the helmet cradled between us, my knees threatening to fold under me. “For others, it’s paradise.” I gaze up at him. “But even people in paradise need someone to villainize, and that someone is my mom.”

  I never explained the situation to any of the previous men. I don’t know why I’m explaining it to Hawke. He, like his predecessors, won’t survive the visit.

  “There’s not much for you to do in Happydale.” I make one last attempt to save our relationship, whatever our relationship is.

  Hawke’s lips flatten. “It sounds as though there’s a lot for me to do in Happydale.” He grasps the helmet with his left hand and entwines the fingers of his right hand with mine. “No one villainizes my girl’s mom and survives.”

  I tremble, his savagery arousing me. It won’t last, not when he hears the stories, senses the animosity, feels the full impact of our shame. “You—”

  “Bee Carter,” a familiar voice exclaims. “I thought that was you.”

  The torture begins. I smother my groan. “It’s me, Mrs. Davis.” I turn and face the biggest gossip in town.

  Mrs. Davis looks as sweet as freshly baked pie. Her rosy apple face is framed by tight white curls, her hair styled daily at the beauty shop informally known as the information exchange, ground zero for gossip in town. A pair of glasses is perched on the tip of her button nose.

  These looks are deceiving. The elderly woman rules Happydale society, circles that have ruthlessly excluded my mom since my conception, causing her endless pain. If it wasn’t for Mrs. Davis and her snide remarks, the gossip would have faded years ago.

  “Your cheeks are flushed,” she observes. “If I recall correctly, your mom’s cheeks were flushed during her first trimester. I believed at the time it was due to the embarrassment of being pregnant and unwed, but perhaps—”

  “I’m not pregnant,” I growl, hoping to stop that rumor from spreading.

  Again.

  Mrs. Davis has circulated that tired piece of gossip since I was twelve. Every round of speculation reduced my base of friends until eventually no one dared to be seen with me. They all left me as my dad did, as Hawke will.

  I step backward, acid rising in my throat. I can’t do this.

  “Easy, love,” Hawke murmurs in my ear, his voice and touch distracting me.

  I glance up at him. Mrs. Davis follows my gaze and I smother a groan. My reaction has made a bad situation worse.

  “You’re not pregnant, yet.” Mrs. Davis’s smile is downright evil. “But I see you now have a young man, so no doubt that will soon change.”

  It won’t change. I glare at her. Mrs. Davis ignores me, perusing Hawke from head to toe, her gaze pausing on the barbed wire tattoo encircling his right bicep.

  “Tattoos and a motorcycle. How history repeats itself.” Her blue eyes twinkle with malicious glee. “Let me guess. . .you’re a mechanic.” She addresses Hawke.

  I’m not my mom. I press my lips together, struggling to control my temper, knowing any outburst will feed the gossip mill for months.

  “I work in the intelligence field, ma’am.” Hawke’s tone is polite.

  “I’ll give you some intelligence.” Mrs. Davis winks. “The Carter women are wild. All it takes is a couple of drinks and they’re willing to do anything.” She laughs, patting his arm. “But you likely know that already.”

  My mom might be a fellow alcohol lightweight, but she’s not wild. I clench the fingers of my right hand into a tight fist. She made one unfortunate mistake and has been working her ass off since then, paying for her error for decades, perhaps forever.

  Hawke’s arm encircles my waist. “I’ll give you some intelligence, ma’am.” His voice is scarily soft, his rugged countenance carefully blank. “Two parents with type A blood can’t have a child with type B blood.”

  Mrs. Davis’s face turns white. Her mouth drops open.

  “The next time you share intelligence about the Carter women”—Hawke looms over the much shorter woman—“I’ll share my intelligence with the town. Am I understood?”

  Mrs. Davis nods. Her lips move. There’s no sound.

  I stare up at Hawke, not hiding any of my admiration. He silenced Happydale’s biggest gossip without raising his voice. I don’t know how he uncovered this leverage over Mrs. Davis, but I’m grateful.

  “Let’s go, love.” He nudges me toward the diner’s entrance, pressing his body protectively against mine.

  He defended me, defended my mom. I’m not alone. Hawke is with me.

  I glance over my shoulder as I walk. Mrs. Davis remains frozen in place. Someone in her family must have had an extramarital affair and conceived a child. My bet is on the gossip spreader herself.

  My top lip curls. “She’s been judging my mom, making her life hell for years, and all of that time, she knew she made a similar mistake.” I think about it. “No, a worse mistake, because my mom never betrayed anyone.”

  My mom is better than Mrs. Davis. This concept blows my mind.

  “She was deflecting attention away from her own secret.” Hawke holds the door open for me. “It’s a common tactic.” He shrugs.

  That tactic hurt my mom. She stands with her back toward me, her hideous uniform hanging off her shoulders, her gray hair swept upward. My mom appears thinner, older, wearier, and her exhaustion angers me. She deserves better.

  Customers glance toward us, open curiosity on their faces. My mom turns and her brown eyes light up. “Honeybee.” She slides her order pad into the front pocket of her red-and-white-checkered apron and hurries towa
rd me. “You’re early.”

  “Hi, Mom.” I smile as I’m pulled into her arms, given a fierce hug. She smells of coffee and bacon. “I got a ride.” I wave my hand self-consciously at the man beside me. “Hawke, this is my mom. Mom, this is Hawke.” I don’t call him my friend or my boyfriend, not knowing what he is, what he could be.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Hawke shifts his weight, his scarred knuckles whitening around the edge of the helmet, my former marine appearing endearingly nervous.

  “Hawke,” my mom repeats, speculation in her too-observant eyes. “You—”

  “Can I have my eggs sometime today?” Otis, a grizzled old mechanic seated at a corner table, complains, his soiled baseball cap pulled low over his wrinkled face, a white coffee cup cradled in his dirty hands.

  My mom glances from the ornery customer to Hawke. Her gaze returns to me, and the light in her eyes dims. She hates this as much as I do.

  “I have to take care of Otis.” She pats my arm, her fingers gnarled from years of handling hot platters and boiling coffee. “You know how he is.” I do know how he is and I know how she is also, unable to say no. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  My mom returns to work, putting the diner customers first as she always does. I watch her, a silent scream clawing its way up my throat. There will be no later. There never is.

  Hawke steps closer, his chest flattening the backpack against my spine, the connection soothing me, reminding me I’m not alone.

  “Your mom is a strong lady.” His words hold genuine admiration, admiration for my mom, the wild woman of Happydale.

  “She’s a waitress.” I gaze up at him, confused by his observation.

  “She serves others.” Hawke squeezes my hip. “That takes strength.”

  I’ve never thought of my mom’s job that way. She bends, pours coffee in a cup, a smile fixed to her lips. Only I see her exhaustion, her sadness. She hides this from everyone else.

  “Serving others also requires a talent for observation,” Hawke murmurs in my ear. “She’ll approach the table to her right next, ask the woman in the red shirt if she’d like her bill.”