by Jo Raven
He said he wants me to be his girl. Am I supposed to believe him? He said he likes me, but not that he loves me.
Not like I love him.
Is it enough, that he likes me, and wants me? A man like him. Rich, handsome, smart, sexy. A modern prince.
But I’m no Cinderella, and to be honest, I was always kind of sad for the girl in the fairy tale. Love is more than that, more than a spark and a smile. Love is a low burning fire that never goes out. Love is everything.
And I’ve had enough of doubting and needing, of wanting and not having with this man. I want to go home. I can’t think when I’m around him. My body craves him too much.
I crave him. Not sure I can breathe without him anymore.
Yep. Scary.
Cracking the bathroom door open, I slip inside the bedroom. Hawk is sitting on the bed, hunched over, elbows planted on his knees, pale hair hiding his face. He’s naked, but doesn’t seem to mind Rook standing in front of him, talking to him.
Walking back into the bathroom, I grab a bathrobe hanging from a hook on the wall and cinch it with the belt at the waist. My stomach churns. Nausea teases my senses.
Taking a deep breath, I step out again.
“Storm says your hearing aid will be here by tomorrow. Why didn’t you tell us anything, man? Do you have any idea how bad it sucks to find such a thing out at the police station, after agreeing to let you go on that moronic suicide mission?”
“It changed nothing,” Hawk mutters, and the weariness in his voice makes my heart pound. I want to go to him but hang back. “If they hadn’t smashed my watch, you’d have received the signal in time.”
“But Sandivar smashed it. He smelled a rat.”
“He’s not stupid.”
Rook shrugs his broad shoulders and rubs the back of his head. “I shouldn’t have agreed to it.”
“I got names. It was worth it.”
Rook nods at me. “Come down to eat when you’re ready, both of you. You have to regain your strength. This may not be over yet.”
Rook. He was the one who called me last month to tell me Hawk had been in an accident. He also accused me of fucking around with Hawk.
For some strange reason, his form is blurring in my eyes.
“They don’t know where we are,” Hawk says, glancing at me. “You okay, babe?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
But the room is tilting off kilter, and everything is dimming. I put my hand against the wall for support, until the floor stops sliding, and I’m vaguely aware of Rook and Hawk moving toward me.
Then it all goes black.
***
Light seeps through my lashes. When I blink, I get a view of gray flannel. A gray flannel-covered thigh.
It shifts, and something touches my hair. A hand.
“Layla?” That’s Hawk’s voice, and I roll my eyes up to look at him. “You’re awake.”
There’s no disguising the relief in his voice, and it makes me feel sort of giddy, only I can’t exactly tell why.
He’s concerned about me. He’s sitting beside me on the bed, stroking my hair.
But why is he concerned, and why am I in bed?
I open my mouth to ask, and another voice—Storm, I think fuzzily—says from behind me, “I’m trying to reach the doctor, but he’s not answering the phone. I’ll tell Rook to find—”
“Dude, can you give us some space?” Hawk’s voice rumbles, and his hand trails down my neck.
Doctor?
“Sure thing, man. Just holler if you need me.”
Steps move away from the bed, and the door clicks shut.
“What happened?” I whisper. I don’t want to move, don’t want him to stop stroking my hair. I feel… safe. Cherished. I don’t want this illusion to be broken. Not yet.
“Don’t you remember?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then pushes another lock off my forehead. “You passed out.”
Passed out.
No. this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me. I jog. I do Pilates. I eat healthy. I’ve never felt faint in my life.
Except lately, but… No. This only happens to heroines in historical romances. Swooning, I believe is the word.
I don’t swoon.
“You’ve been sick,” Hawk says and lies down beside me, our faces inches apart. He smells fresh and musky, and my stomach does a weird flip flop, my body caught between tension and desire. “Throwing up, and now passing out. Any idea why, babe?”
I shake my head. “A bug?” I offer.
His eyes are clear like glass, the palest gray, but they are warm. Worried. “Could be. Or it could be stress. Stress can do strange things to your body, and God knows we’ve been through some rough times this week.”
I nod. He’s right.
“You never gave me an answer,” he whispers, his hand moving to my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“Answer?” I can’t remember any question.
“Yeah. I asked… Didn’t I? I asked if you’d be my girl.” His voice is gruff, and oh my, is that a flush on his cheekbones?
He really asked that? I didn’t dream it?
“The thing is,” he goes on when I don’t immediately say anything, “you are my girl. I’ve never thought of any girl that way before. It’s a fucking first. The real question is… do you want me, too?”
“To be my boy?” I ask, breathless.
His mouth tips up into a smile. “Your boyfriend,” he clarifies.
Right.
The giddiness is back. Does that mean…. Does that mean he loves me? I’m dying to ask, but I’m scared shitless, too. I may not be the swooning kind, under normal circumstances, but I’ve also never taken part in this strange courting dance. Never fell in love with someone.
Never had to ask someone if they love me back.
“Yes,” I finally push out and lick my suddenly dry lips. “Sure.”
“Sure?” He blinks, and his smile widens. “Don’t get so excited, Lay, you could hurt yourself.”
I laugh, and for some reason, tears burn the back of my eyes. Oh no, not more waterworks. I swallow them down. “I’d love to be your girl.”
There. That was clear, right? Even if I feel as if I’m blundering inside a cloud of thick fog.
He brushes his mouth over my forehead, over my cheek. “Look, I know things are kinda crazy right now. And I’m fucking sorry you got tangled in my mess.” I open my mouth to tell him it’s not his mess, that I understand why he did what he did, but he forges on, trailing his fingers over my lips. “But I’m so fucking happy you came for me, that you stayed with me, and that you’re here now. Above all, I’m so glad you’re okay. And even more so that you’re willing to give this a try.”
“This.” I lick at this fingertips, and he groans, his eyes darkening.
“Us.” He pulls his fingers reluctantly away from my mouth. “Give us a chance. My life is kinda dangerous right now, but it should settle down soon. I can be… be with you, the way I’ve wanted.”
“I want that, too,” I say, and if this is a step over the void, if I find out later there’s no real bridge to his heart, I think it would have been worth it anyway.
“Good. Awesome. Fucking awesome, because I…” The flush in his cheek deepens, and I watch it, fascinated. Who has ever seen Jamie Hawk Fleming blush? “I want more. Lay, I want a family with you.”
Whoa, back up. “Hawk, I told you I can’t have kids, and—”
“Tell me what the issue is. Maybe there’s a way around it.”
“You think I haven’t asked? I have ovary problems.” The words stick in my throat, but I force them out. “The doctor said the chances of getting pregnant are like a tiny needle in a huge haystack.”
“Okay. It’s fine.” He nuzzles my cheek. “I want you. Above all, you.”
Oh God. I draw a deep breath, his scent filling my senses, and he presses our foreheads together. I reach up and tug a blond strand that’s caught in his beard, free it, twine it around
my finger.
“You mean it?”
“Yeah, fuck, I mean it. But you want kids, so what if we tried in vitro fertilization? Surrogate eggs. I can get you the best doctors. Or if we adopted? A baby, not a dog. And a dog. If you want.” His tongue’s tripping over the words. He’s nervous. Never heard him so nervous in my life. “And cats. A pony, even. I’ll get you—”
“Stop.”
He pulls back, his gaze kind of shocked, and full of questions. “Lay…”
“Wait.”
Wait, I need a moment, because that’s… is that what girlfriends and boyfriends talk about? I mean, doesn’t one start with dating, going to the movies, eating… oh right. Done all that already. And this sounds serious.
What is he really trying to tell me? Am I reading too much into this?
He wants a family with me. He’d get me a dog. A pony?
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, mingling with the tears trapped there, closing up my airways. My heart is racing a million miles an hour.
Whatever this is between us, it’s serious. It’s deep. And when I kiss him, my fingers tangling in his silky hair, his beard rough on my chin, I can’t think of any other guy I’d gamble my heart on than this one.
***
The doctor, a pretty woman in her forties, someone Storm trusts not to betray our location apparently, asks me many questions before asking me to open my bathrobe. She examines me quickly, and I bite my lip not to cry out when she presses my breasts.
That hurts.
“Sensitive, huh?” She frowns. “Are they larger than usual?”
I nod. “They get bigger before my period.”
“And have you had your period last month?”
I know what she’s asking. “Yes.”
Her turn to nod. “No chance of you being pregnant then?” I shake my head, and she leans back. “Okay. Storm tells me it’s been a hectic week for you. It could be the stress, or a bug. But listen, we can’t exclude the possibility of a pregnancy, not if you’re sexually active.”
Yes, we can, I want to shout at her, but I don’t trust myself not to break down in front of this unknown woman. So I accept the pregnancy test she takes out of her bag and puts on the bed beside me. Accept the anti-nausea pills. And promise to take the test and let her know about the results.
Big fat chance of me doing that.
I can’t get pregnant. The doctor I saw a year ago was clear about that. I never asked about other possibilities, true, the possibilities Hawk mentioned, and now my thoughts are tripping over themselves. I never considered the possibilities because there was never a man I wanted to share this journey with—but now? Am I ready? Could we do this?
What if we could have children after all? Chubby children with Hawk’s eyes and smile?
Oh God. If we can have kids, even through a surrogate mom, screw the pony.
Metaphorically, of course.
Because if I can have Hawk’s children, what more could I want? Even if my ovaries are useless. Even if we need donor eggs.
If he was serious. If he really wants this.
My head is spinning again.
Hawk returns to my side, a grin on his face. “Doc says you should be fine. Lots of water, good food, rest. Maybe it’s stress, or a bug, she said. You’ll be fine.”
I smile back at him, shoving the pregnancy test under the pillow. If the doctor didn’t mention it to him, I’m not going to tell him, either.
It’s stupid anyway. Impossible.
I hate that she planted the idea in my mind. I hate it because it hurts. Hope hurts, and I thought I’d given up all hope on that front long ago. The tiny seed of hope, and doubt is like a jagged piece of glass lodged in my thoughts.
So I ignore it, force the seed deep, and when Hawk climbs back into bed, I fall in his arms and let the doubt and worry fade. The housekeeper brings us food, and we eat and drink in bed. I take the anti-nausea pills, and after it’s all been cleared away, I rest my head on Hawk’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Lost in thought, I don’t immediately realize that he’s fallen asleep.
I gaze up at his face, relaxed in sleep. His beard and hair glint like pale gold, his bare chest is a map of taut muscles and dark bruises. I follow with my eyes the trail of cruelty up his neck, to his still swollen jaw and bruised eye.
He’s never seemed more human before. Until this week. This week he shed his armor and his mask and became a man. Just a man—a handsome, sexy, strong man, but also a real person, able to feel fear and pain and despair.
The man I love.
Chapter Nineteen
Hawk
I awake in degrees. First I smell sweet vanilla and warm girl, and soft hair tickles my nose. My body is curled against her back, and my left arm is numb where her head rests. My other arm is draped over her waist, my hand resting on her belly.
My mouth curls up into a smile. This is… happiness, I guess? It’s a feeling of fullness in my chest, like I can’t fit anything more, a feeling that everything’s right, everything will be fine, and…
And that I’m not alone anymore.
Gray dawn light filters through the window. We both slept clear through the night, from the looks of it. At least I don’t remember anything from the moment I climbed onto the bed beside her and drew her in my arms last night.
Did we have dinner?
I have no damn memory of it.
I’m still smiling, though, as I recall what she said. That she’ll be my girl. My smile spreads until I’m grinning like an idiot.
Never thought I’d practically beg a girl to be with me. To consider a future with me. That I’d be so thrilled that she said yes.
Every new facet of her I discover thrills me.
Can’t let her get away from me.
Storm once told me he knew Raylin was the one for him from the moment he kissed her.
It took me longer to realize it, but here she is.
With me.
I linger in bed as long as I can, but the need to piss is only getting worse. I finally pull my arm from underneath her, gently so as not to wake her up, and limp to the bathroom where I proceed to relieve my bladder.
I brush my teeth quickly and check the swelling in my jaw. That fucker is finally going down. My eye is red, now that I can see out of it again.
I allow myself a shiver at the memory of that basement and those assholes, then compose myself.
Rook and Storm said they wanted to talk to me. The less Layla gets involved in this jam, the less stressed she’ll be, so this seems like the perfect opportunity to talk with them alone.
I find my discarded T-shirt where I threw it last night on the floor and pull it on. There’s a glass with water and painkillers on a side table, and I take them, since my ribs still hurt like a bitch.
Then I go out to find my brothers in all but blood and figure this shit out.
***
A damn good thing I threw my T-shirt on, as it turns out, because there’s a cop sitting with my friends in the living room.
I can tell it’s a cop from the second I lay eyes on him, even if he’s dressed in civilian clothes. There’s something about a cop’s expression, the stiffness of their back, their correctness even in a social setting.
Especially when this cop is here on business.
“Mr. Fleming,” he greets me, standing up and extending his hand. “A fine morning.”
Can’t argue with that, and my mind rushes back to the bedroom where my girl is asleep. Yep, just fine.
We shake, and I sink on the sofa next to Rook. Someone has thoughtfully placed mugs and a Thermos with hot coffee on the low table, so I serve myself some.
“And who are you?” I’m slow, so sue me. Need my coffee.
“This is Detective Lopez, Baltimore PD,” Rook says.
See? I knew it. “You sure nobody followed you or knows where you are?”
“Positive. This is my job, Mr. Fleming.” He gives me a tight smile, and I shrug.
Hey, if he said it before, I missed it. Feeling more human after I down half the mug, I can finally pay attention to the conversation.
In short, it’s like this: the police can’t find Sandivar. They’ve managed to arrest the guys whose names I gave them and are hard at work to find proof of the accusations before the first forty-eight hours elapse, so they can keep them in jail until a trial is set up.
But yeah, Sandivar.
And then Detective Lopez drops the bomb, right on me.
“Sandivar must be furious as hell that you escaped him. I bet he’d do anything to get his hands on you again.”
Expectant silence.
“So what?” I mutter.
Lopez clears his throat. “I had this idea, that we could use one of you as bait. And, well, specifically…” He nods at me.
“Are you serious?” Ha. Ha fucking ha.
Storm and Rook start cursing.
Lopez gazes back at me steadily.
Fuck, he is serious.
Rook grabs my shoulder. “Hawk, no.”
“What the fuck? Listen,” I say, both to him and to the cop. “Thank you so fucking much, but I’m not doing this again. Why don’t you volunteer to be Sandivar’s punching bag? To be blindfolded, and starved, and left thirsty and bloody and without a damn way out, to get those few names I got you.” I stand up and am shocked to find my hands curling into fists and my heart booming. “Christ.”
Three pairs of eyes are boring into me, and I should sit back down and take a deep breath, but I can’t. What the hell is wrong with me?
Turning on my heel, I walk out. Need to cool the fuck down.
The plan was mine. This cop had nothing to do with it. He’s being honest, telling us the only way he can think of bringing Sandivar in.
What happened—to me, to Layla—isn’t his fault. Rationally, I can see that clearly. But my body isn’t interested in rational. My body is reacting as if I’m back in that basement, without options, without an escape route, and it’s bracing for pain and fight.
“Hawk. Dude.” Storm is coming after me. As expected. “Wait up.”
He catches up with me in the room with my photographs. I’ve stopped in front of the portrait of a man. He’s younger than me, and he’s holding a coil of rope. I wonder why Storm chose it, what he saw in it.