Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  Maybe he was blackmailed into this.

  Or maybe he wants power and money, like Hawk insists he does—although right now I don’t believe any of it. And I’m angry at him, angry at my dad, angry at all the stupid men around me.

  I close the door silently behind me, lock it, and sigh with relief. There’s a bench and a table among the paper stacks, and I lie down on the bench, looking up at the ceiling in the dark. The only light comes from a small window over the door.

  What am I going to do?

  I could stay out of it, like Hawk told me to. I could walk away and leave him to finish whatever it is he started. I owe him nothing, he doesn’t owe me, either—but the image of him with his face in his hands and my name on his lips before I left won’t let me rest.

  Like a veiled plea underneath the bravado. A despair beneath the cockiness.

  What exactly is he playing at? Is he really going to join this shady Organization and become no better than the guys torturing him right now? What is this plan he mentioned?

  Hawk’s a crazy guy. Riding his motorcycle at breakneck speed through town, having sex in public, hiding who he is behind his leather-clad, bad-boy persona.

  I don’t trust him not to get himself killed over some stupid bet or business deal. It’s like he needs something from these people and won’t leave until he gets it.

  The guy who put his parents behind bars to take their place in this Organization.

  Or who put them behind bars because they were in the Organization—and now? Is he trying to put more people behind bars?

  I sit up on the narrow bench, gather in my knees and hug them. “Shit.”

  Is that what he’s doing? Trying to get a confession out of these people? Maybe the police already know about this and that’s why they haven’t been looking for him? Is he working with the cops?

  In that case, I should really get out of his way. Shit, I’ve probably been jeopardizing his plan, his safety, by hanging around.

  But what if… what if it’s not that? What if I’m wrong, and there’s nobody out there who knows where he is and what is happening?

  What if I’m the only one who could can help him—or get him killed while trying? And why would the fact he said my name ever be enough to make me care?

  ***

  After a meager dinner on whatever I was able to scrounge up in the mostly unused kitchenette—a package of soda crackers and a glass of water from the tap—I undo my bra, because it’s frigging killing me, and lie down.

  I fall asleep almost immediately, but it’s not restful sleep. I wake up time and again with a feeling of suffocation and terror. Maybe there’s not enough air in here.

  Or maybe I’m stressed about my role in this mess and worried about Hawk.

  Jamie Fleming.

  I always thought the rich, the super-rich like him and his family, had other people doing their dirty work for them. That if he dealt with the mafia bosses or this mysterious organization, he’d have sent, I don’t know, his lawyers. His paid hitmen. Anonymous mercenaries.

  Instead he’s the one beaten up and tied to the basement of the warehouse, the one talking to the shady boss himself.

  Probably the boss of such a powerful organization wouldn’t agree to talk to anyone else, anyone lower on the hierarchy.

  Pieces keep falling into place.

  Or I’m making all this up, desperate to understand what happened in the last twenty-four hours, what happened in my father’s warehouse, with the man I’ve been sleeping with and maybe, just maybe secretly crushing on.

  When I fall asleep again, I dream he’s kissing me, nipping at my lips, his beard scratchy against my chin, his long hair silky against my face.

  He’s kissing me like he’s drinking me in, his body covering me, hard and heavy, rolling between my legs like a great wave. Hot. Consuming. Filling me until I think I’ll burst of it.

  Of him. Of this feeling of fullness, and completeness, and rightness. Of pleasure and warmth and a strange joy I’ve never felt before.

  He lifts his face from mine, blue eyes boring into me—clear and yet dark and full of secrets—and then he’s whispering my name. Over and over again, my name on his lips as he moves inside me.

  This isn’t like him, I think, although in the dream it’s just a passing thought, a niggle of reality. He doesn’t fuck me like this. He takes me, hard and fast. He ties me up and gives me what he knows I need. He takes over, holding me in place, positioning me, stripping away my control until I’m helpless in his hands.

  He likes that. I like that. He dominates me and knows exactly what I need.

  But in the dream he’s not controlling me. He’s holding me gently, fucking me, whispering my name. He’s saying he needs me. He wants to be with me.

  “Be mine, Layla, be mine,” his deep voice breathes in my ear, and then I’m coming in a long, sweet orgasm that makes my toes curl and my heart swell.

  And then I wake up and a sadness fills my chest, unlike any I’ve ever felt.

  It’s as if this is also what I need, my dream laying it out for me, but I have nobody who can give it to me and as for having a family… that will never happen.

  ***

  When I unplug my phone in the morning, I find three missed calls from Dorothy and ten text messages.

  All of them ask me to call, text, and otherwise let her know if I’m alive or dead.

  I turn my phone off and shove it into my purse.

  Crossing over to the warehouse in the gray light of dawn and squeezing through the small bathroom window feels like a timeless routine, like something I’ve been doing for years not just two days.

  I think I’m getting quite good at sneaking around without being noticed, as if my life wasn’t all college and parties until now. I’m a natural-born spy, baby!

  The worry isn’t getting any better, though. My heart is in my throat as I climb down the stairs, open the door and creep along the high stacks of crates and containers to where Hawk is.

  Anxiety twists my stomach, and by the time I reach the end of the row, I’ve convinced myself he’s not there anymore. That they moved him away in the night and I didn’t know, and that I won’t be able to find him again.

  That they beat him to death, or shot him in the head after he cracked a wiseass remark too many to people who obviously kick puppies for laughs and kill people for the right price.

  But he’s right where I last saw him, sitting on the floor with his back to the pillar, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. He looks terrible. One side of his face is black and blue, his eye swollen shut. He has dried blood caked in his beard and the pale strands of hair stuck to his temple and neck.

  How can I make him talk to me, tell me the truth?

  Or else I want him to convince me he doesn’t need me, doesn’t want me here. Doesn’t need my help. That him saying my name for the first time ever last night as I walked out didn’t mean anything. Then I’ll leave him in peace.

  One last try.

  But I never make it out of my hiding place, because the door behind Hawk opens and in walks the gangster team from yesterday. My stomach is in knots, and I curse myself inside for not coming in half an hour earlier.

  The two thugs walk over to Hawk and grab him by the armpits. He recoils and lashes out at them, but he seems groggy, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, and damn if that doesn’t make me queasy with concern.

  It’s because he was just woken up so roughly, not because he was beaten too badly yesterday, I tell myself and struggle to believe it.

  The Boss walks in front of Hawk and nods at his guys who drag Hawk over to a box and plant him down on it. He doesn’t resist. The big one shoves him, and he lists on the box.

  My stomach twists even worse until I think I might be sick. That’s really not like him. He looks pale as a ghost in the fluorescent lights of the ceiling and has a jerkiness to his movements I don’t remember from before.

  “Ready to prove your loyalty to us?” The Boss asks
, strolling over, hands in his pant pockets, seeming way too pleased with himself.

  Bastard.

  Hawk pushes his shoulder-length hair out of his face with one shaky hand and glares at the thugs, his broad chest rising and falling unevenly under his stained shirt.

  The glare, at least, looks more like him, and I suck in a deep breath to calm myself. They’re just going to talk. It’ll be okay.

  “Did you bring me breakfast?” Hawk croaks, and I wince at the rusty sound. “Did you remember how I want my fucking eggs this time?”

  I wince again, and not because of his voice this time.

  The big thug grabs him by the arm, preparing to punch the living daylights out of him, and I muffle a whimper behind my hand.

  Jesus, this guy. I know for a fact he doesn’t like pain—he likes being on the giving end—so what is he doing?

  “Don’t. Johnny, I said don’t.” The Boss shoves the big guy aside, and I close my eyes briefly. “Disobey me one more time, and you won’t know what hit you.”

  Thank God.

  The Boss thrusts a cell phone at Hawk. “Now, to business.”

  Hawk turns his glare on the Boss. “Yeah?”

  “Call your lawyers. And I’ll tell you what to say.”

  Uh oh. This can’t be good. The tension in Hawk’s shoulders tells me the same.

  “Let me tell you something my grandpa taught me,” Hawk drawls, not making a move to take the phone. “Before coffee I don’t do business. Bad luck, ya know?”

  This time it’s the Boss who hits him, a sudden, heavy punch to the jaw that snaps Hawk’s head around and throws him off the box to the floor.

  Oh God, I can’t look.

  Can’t stop looking.

  It’s like a train wreck, only worse. It’s like ten train wrecks wrapped into one. I don’t want to see him get any more hurt, but he keeps bringing it on himself.

  Maybe he has a death wish? Maybe he decided he’ll die here?

  No. Just no. Not Hawk.

  Stop with the guesswork. You’ll ask him about this when these assholes leave. Don’t move. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

  Wait it out.

  “Call,” the Boss says, squatting down and hitting Hawk’s face with the phone. He pushes it into Hawk’s hand. “Call right the fuck now.”

  I can’t breathe. I’m gripping my hands together so hard I can’t feel my fingers anymore.

  Take the phone, Hawk. Take the frigging phone, and do what they want you to do.

  I can’t chase away this gut feeling that the Boss wouldn’t mind killing Hawk. It’s crazy. I mean, Hawk is a strong asset, right? Why kill him? Why wound him?

  It makes me fear he’s bitten more than he can chew with this one. Only a very powerful—or insane—opponent wouldn’t give a damn.

  Or perhaps a very angry one? A friend of Hawk’s parents? Someone with losses because of it? Someone with a personal vendetta.

  Hawk takes the phone—thank God and Mary and baby Jesus—and dials a number, then puts it to his ear. “Fine.”

  I’m shaking. I can’t seem to stop as I slump sideways against the crates, my hand still pressed to my mouth.

  “When they pick up, tell them you want to transfer a small sum, say… five million dollars to this account number.” He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and hands it to Hawk.

  Holy shit.

  “Not gonna listen in, hear what they say?” Hawk mutters, bloodied lips twisted in a sneer.

  “I don’t fucking care what they say, boy. What I’m interested in is what you say to them, and what happens afterward.”

  Oh crap. Can’t believe I am listening in to this. Not sure what they’ll do to me if they discover me now. Something really painful, I bet—or maybe a quick death?

  I work hard on not hyperventilating as Hawk talks on the phone, relaying in his raspy voice what the Boss told him, plus the number from the piece of paper. He thanks his lawyer and hangs up.

  He hands back the phone and puts a hand on the metal box, struggling to get up. “Whose account was that? Yours?”

  The Boss laughs. “That was Boris Abramov’s bank account.”

  Hawk groans, and his face goes gray. “Russian mafia. You’re setting me up.”

  “A guarantee, like I said. Nobody needs to know. If someone investigates, just by chance, you will have our protection.” The Boss winks. “You depend on us now, Hawk.”

  God. Tears are tracking down my cheeks, hot like fire. I swallow a sob. It’s the fear, I guess. The terror.

  I remember my dad’s warning, that Hawk is dangerous. Am I imagining things—imagining he’s innocent? If he’s paying for past wrongdoings, how can I save him?

  Does he deserve to be saved?

  The Boss and his goons depart, leaving Hawk slumped on the metal box, and suddenly I can’t take it anymore. Can’t take the fear, the sadness, the doubt. I need…

  Need to talk to Dorothy.

  ***

  Skulking away, up the stairs and to the bathroom, wiping my cheeks with both hands, I fumble for my phone in my purse. I lock myself up in a stall, put the lid down on a toilet and sit on it.

  I take a deep breath, but more tears flow.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Stop it, I tell myself as I power up my cell phone. It’s normal, isn’t it? Normal to break down after watching the man you’ve been sort of dating and having hot sex with for the past year have the shit beaten out of him regularly, after seeing him come so close to breaking down himself.

  After realizing you don’t really know the first thing about him. That you have feelings for him, feelings you shouldn’t be having. Feelings you swore you didn’t have for him.

  What a mess.

  Dorothy answers on the second ring, breathless. “Laylay, at last! You got me worried. Is everything okay? Are you done spying on your dad, Layla Bond?”

  “Yeah, I’m done.”

  “Oh God, what happened?” Her concern seeps through the phone, warming me. “Was he upset? You shouldn’t poke your nose in other people’s business, Lay.”

  “I know, Dodo. I…” Fresh, hot tears track down my cheeks. “I haven’t spied on Dad.”

  “Then what? Oh crap, what did Tall, Blond and Awesome, Mr. I’m-the-heir-apparent-of-the-empire do now?”

  God, if only she knew… But how much can I tell her without worrying her too much?

  “He’s… involved in some bad business, and I can’t…” Can’t figure out how I feel, what is going on, what to do.

  “Holy crap, are you crying?” Dorothy hisses. “This has to be serious. I can’t ever remember you crying, except for that one time you broke your wrist. What’s really going on?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…”

  “Is he okay? Hell, are you okay? Where are you?”

  “He’s okay. And I’m fine,” I say, yet it’s not fine. Nothing’s fine, and I need to tell someone. “He can’t hear well, Dodo. It was that accident he had last month. God, he can’t hear so well…”

  Crap, this was a mistake. I slap a hand over my mouth as another wave of tears falls from my eyes.

  A silence in which a muffled sob escapes me.

  The silence grows heavy.

  “Hey, Lay,” Dorothy mutters. “You sure you’re not… you know. Preggers. Because you’re not the emotional kind. Not that you don’t have emotions,” she rushes to say, and it’s too late because my heart sinks, and soon I’ll be bawling like a baby.

  “Of all people, you are asking me that? Like you weren’t with me when the doctor told me I can’t…” I wave a hand, and now I’m sobbing out loud, so I slap said hand again over my mouth. “Oh God,” I mumble.

  “Sorry, Lay. I know. It was just… forget it.”

  “He’s just… not himself.”

  “What does that even mean? Has he hurt you?”

  “No.” Not in the way Dorothy means. And I shouldn’t be sitting here, talking on the phone, not when the thugs might be right outside the
door, and Hawk… it’s him I should be talking to, not my bestie. “Look, I’ve got to go. Talk to you soon.”

  “Layla, wait!”

  But I’ve already disconnected.

  Chapter Nine

  Hawk

  A few more hours. Just a few more hours and my watch will send out my location to my friends. A special police unit will come pick me up, trained to work quietly and efficiently. To work secretly, so hopefully they will extract me before I’m killed by my captors.

  One can only hope, right?

  Fuck, yeah.

  And hey, I got one more name for my list. Boris Abramov is also working for the Organization. Russian mafia overlord. Not sure anyone can touch him, but the more we know, the better, right?

  I’ve been a good, patient bait. I’ve let them beat me up, starve me, manhandle me. I let that moronic asshole touch my dick to help me piss. I’ve put Layla in danger.

  I’m done.

  I’ve played my part, and I plan to get out of here, one way or another.

  Maybe then, after things quiet down, I could call Layla again. Hook up. Have more hot sex—and fuck, even in my sorry state I get hard at the thought of her.

  Hard and warm inside.

  This is all wrong. I can’t call her again, can’t hang out with her or fuck her. Taking down the Organization is a process that will take years, and even if it happens faster... She’ll always be in danger around me.

  And what will you do? Live like a hermit all your life? Never finding happiness with a girl? Never having a family?

  Dammit. Never had those thoughts before. Always lived for the moment. Guess this kidnapping kinda reshaped my mindscape.

  I run my hands through my hair, scratch at my scalp. I’m a tough guy. Grandpa saw to that. But goddammit, I need a hot shower and a hot meal, in that order.

  Also need to piss and find some water to drink. There has to be a bathroom around here, and since I’m not tied up anymore, I push myself upright, keeping a groan between my teeth.

  I reach the wall and keep a hand on it for steadiness as I limp along, walking the length of the basement.