by Cynthia Sax
“You’re worried about me again.” My billionaire sounds bemused. Men yell in the background and doors slam.
“Of course, I’m worried about you. I’m your friend.” I listen intently and the yelling grows louder, the anger palpable. “Are those hostiles?” I use the fancy military word I learned from Hawke’s friend Dawg.
“They’re definitely hostile.” Nicolas treats me to one of his rare laughs. “That’s my executive team. We’re in the middle of a situation.”
And I interrupted him. I grimace. “I’m sorry. I’ll end our call and let you get back to your situation.”
“Thank you, Bee.” There’s a pause. “For worrying about me,” Nicolas adds softly. There’s a click, followed by silence. My billionaire has hung up on me again.
Minutes later, Boyfriend, a.k.a. Hawke, sends me a text with a video attachment.
Boyfriend: Watch this and tell me if anything looks suspicious.
Nicolas turns down my offers of help while Hawke actively solicits my assistance, trusting me with his top-secret security work. I access the file on my laptop, requiring the bigger screen to see details.
The full-color footage features a ritzy dinner party. The men sport the expected black tuxedos, only their pocket squares and other accessories adding variety. The women wear long beautiful ball gowns, diamonds and other precious stones encircling their necks, wrists, fingers. Famous individuals mingle with not-as-famous yet still ridiculously wealthy people. The waitstaff wear white jackets and black dress pants. The serving sizes are tiny, the food prettily displayed, and the chairs appear as uncomfortable as the one I claimed at lunch.
I watch the video once, studying the guests as they eat and chat. I watch their faces, trying to read their expressions. Some of them flirt, the sexual attraction heating up the screen, and some of them argue, their passion as intense. Two men verbally battle over callable bonds, whatever those are. Many of the guests look painfully bored, as though they wish to be anywhere other than at the party.
A blonde woman snags my attention. She’s beautiful, or she would be except her makeup is all wrong, the coloring more suited to a brunette.
A brunette. I access the video Hawke sent me yesterday, scanning the footage. Her lips appear puffier, her eyes are a different color, and her breasts are larger, but I’m almost certain the fake blonde is the closed-toe-shoe woman.
My fingers shake as I text this hypothesis to Hawke. She must be targeting one of the Organization’s clients. Why else would she disguise her appearance?
The villainesses in the movies never work alone. I watch the video once, twice, three times, noting the waiter serving from the wrong side, the man with the gold wedding band and a silver Rolex, the woman with the sleeveless gown and the purse with a shoulder strap, the husband sporting a green tie while his wife wears a red dress.
The lights flicker and fear skitters down my spine. I send my list to Hawke before the building loses power. Any outage would be temporary, I remind myself. The buildings have backup generators. It—
A blinding light fills the room, hurting my eyes. The air snaps with energy, and an earsplitting crack rips through the howl of the wind. The entire complex is plunged into darkness, the only light coming from my laptop and phone. Oh, God. I lift my feet off the floor, tucking them under my ass, where the rodents can’t access them, and I wait for the building’s backup generators to kick in.
They don’t whir to life. Minutes, an eternity in my mind, pass, and there’s no power, no light other than my devices’ glowing screens. I check my laptop’s battery indicator and curse my foolishness. There’s only one bar left. I’m an idiot. I should always have it plugged in.
I glance around me, petrified. Mice are waiting for the darkness, their beady little eyes trained on me, their whiskers and tails twitching. And their big cousins, rats, carriers of disease, dirty, disgusting creatures that chew on everything, inanimate or human, will creep out of their hiding places, scurry over me, across my toes, my arm, hell, my face. Something brushes across my cheek and I bat at it.
My fears aren’t rational, I know. This is a million-dollar condo, not the cheap rodent-infested apartments my mom would rent. Something touches me again and I freak the hell out, slapping at my arms and legs, my heart pounding. Where are the backup generators? Damn it. What is Nicolas doing?
My phone hums and the screen illuminates, adding a little more light. “Bee Carter.” I don’t try to conceal the fear in my voice. I’m past the point of pride.
“Are you okay, love?” Hawke asks, his deep voice dissipating some of my terror.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s dark and I have only one bar left on my laptop.” I tap the keyboard to ensure the power save function doesn’t activate. “When it goes. . .” I stop, not mentioning the rodents. Even I know this sounds crazy.
“I’m coming for you,” he assures me. Tires squeal. “I’m only a couple of blocks away from the building.”
He’s coming for me. I curl my fingers around the dog tags. I’m not alone. “Are you driving the Hummer?” Cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, I pull the laptop closer to me. The low battery warning appears on the screen.
“I’m driving the Hummer,” Hawke confirms. “It’s built like a tank. I don’t even notice the storm.”
“Lucky you,” I mutter. The rats won’t get to him in the Hummer. They won’t chew through the floor or drop from ceiling tiles. I wave the laptop around me, driving them away. “It’s really dark here.”
“The doors remain locked during a power outage,” he informs me. “You’re safe in the condo.”
“That’s what my mom would say.” I feel something touch me and I twitch. “She’d tell me I was safe in the apartment.” My laptop’s screen dims and my panic increases.
“And you weren’t safe in the apartment?” Hawke’s voice is edged with steel.
“No.” I make another sweep with the laptop. “My mom would leave every morning before dawn to work the early shift. I’d wake up, turn on the lights, and the mice would scatter.” The two or three mice I’d seen had multiplied in my imagination to hundreds. “They scurried over everything.” I shudder. “If my laptop turns off—”
“I’ll be there before then,” he vows. “I’m parking.” A door opens and shuts, metal ringing against metal. “Is that why you always leave the bathroom light on—to scare away the mice?” There’s no humor in his voice. He’s treating my irrational fears seriously.
Which is good because I’m one lit laptop screen away from losing my mind. “Mice and rats don’t like the light.” I shine the screen on a piece of wall, pushing back the shadows. “They—” The screen dims even more and I squeak.
“Sweetheart, what is it?” Hawke asks. I press keys. Nothing reactivates it. “Talk to me, love. What’s happening?”
The laptop turns off. “Hawke, the laptop died.” I stand on the couch. “The room is black.” I can’t see anything, the darkness suffocating me, a tight band of emotion squeezing the air out of my lungs. “They’ll get me.”
“Mice don’t like motion,” he huffs, his voice echoing. “I’m in the stairwell. Keep moving and you’ll be okay.”
He’s right. They don’t like movement. I stomp my feet and shake my head, trying to keep the dirty, terrible creatures away from me.
“Hawks eat mice.” Hawke’s breathing is ragged. He must be running up the stairs. “Did you know that?”
“I didn’t know that.” I’m not an animal expert, my field of interest being fashion. “Do hawks eat rats too? Because they scare me even more than the mice. They’re covered with disease, spreading the bubonic plague and other illnesses.” I slap at my ankle. “Scientists think they might start the zombie apocalypse. I saw that on TV.”
“Hawks do eat rats,” he replies. “The barn cats in the orchard were great little mousers. Why didn’t you adopt a cat? He or she would have taken care of your rodent problems.”
“I wanted a cat.” I begged my
mom for one, for a creature to love, to keep me company while she was working. “Many landlords don’t allow tenants to have pets.”
“That’s too bad.” Hawke sounds sincerely sympathetic. “I’m close.” His voice no longer echoes. “Can you open the door for me, love?”
“That requires touching the floor.” I gaze into the blackness. Are mice covering the floor, a moving carpet of wiggling little bodies, their beady eyes trained on me?
“The complex is in shutdown mode. It’ll take me time, could be an hour, to deactivate the lock.”
An hour? I dance on the couch’s cushion, clinging to the dog tags hanging around my neck. I’ll be stark raving mad in an hour.
“I have lights out here,” Hawke entreats. Voices crackle. “And communication with the outside world.”
I’ll do it. “Okay. Get ready.” I run toward where I think the door is, stub my toe on a table leg, and smack face-first into a wall. “Oomph.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No,” I lie, my mind monopolized by fear. As I feel along the wall, I slap the soles of my bare feet against the hardwood floor to scare away the rodents.
I finally locate the doorknob, then swing the door open and blink. Hawke hasn’t lied to me. He carries a lantern in one hand. Military-style goggles are perched on the top of his head, a massive backpack is strapped to his shoulders.
He’ll have to carry more. “Hawke.” I launch myself at him, clinging to his neck, wrapping my legs around his waist. He takes my full weight easily, not even swaying upon impact, standing as steady as the mountain he resembles.
“Thank God you’re here,” I murmur against his neck, my body shaking. “It’s dark.” And I never plan to touch the floor again.
“It is dark, love.” Hawke strides into the condo with me attached to his chest. “The storm took out the entire neighborhood and fried the complex’s generators. My team is securing the building.”
He sets the battery-operated lantern on one of the end tables and shrugs the straps off his shoulders. The backpack lands with a thump on the floor. He doesn’t try to remove me, cupping one of his huge hands under my skimpily clad ass.
“I don’t ever want to go back to those apartments, Hawke,” I share. This is why I have to choose Nicolas. I can’t be poor, can’t live with the rats again.
“You won’t ever go back, sweetheart,” Hawke assures me, extracting more lanterns from his big bag. I don’t loosen my hold on him until he has illuminated the entire main room. The nasty rodents, if they ever existed, are now gone.
“Thank you,” I mumble as I slide against him, feeling foolish. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Not at all.” He sweeps my hair away from my face. “In fact.” He pauses. “No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t need to hear about that now.”
“What?” I stiffen. “Does the complex have a rat infestation? Is that why Nicolas was so upset about Cyndi making it rain jelly beans?”
“No.” Hawke’s lips lift into his adorably lopsided smile. “There are no signs of rodents in any of Nicolas’s precious buildings.” He taps the tip of my nose, and my eyelashes flutter. “There were rats in Iraq, though, and they caused big problems for everyone.”
Judging by the sadness reflecting in his blue eyes, they must have caused more than big problems. He’s right. I don’t want to hear about that now.
The device attached to Hawke’s hip crackles. “Hopalong to Big Bird.” The voice is familiar. “Have you arrived at the hive?”
“Big Bird?” My lips twitch. The hive must refer to my condo.
Hawke chuckles. “Dawg has a terrible sense of humor.” He rummages through his bag. “Unfortunately, I have to work while I’m here, love.” He extracts a briefcase-shaped metal box. “Clients get nervous during power outages. Is there somewhere I can set up?”
I knew it. Nicolas is in danger. I push my dead laptop to one side. “You can set up here. Move whatever you need to move.” Cyndi will understand. This is an emergency and lives might be at stake. “What can I do to help?”
If I asked Nicolas this question, the answer would be “Nothing,” but this is Hawke and he needs me. He puts me to work, arranging things, monitoring a screen I don’t fully understand. I’m told if a dot turns red, I should let him know. I give that screen all my focus.
Okay, most of my focus. Hawke pulls me onto his lap, nuzzling against my neck, rasping his stubble along my skin as he talks in code over a funky-looking phone, surveying the array of electronics around us. His fingers splay across my stomach. I’m acutely aware that I’m dressed in a thin, see-through camisole and almost nonexistent boy shorts, my nipples pressing against the worn cotton.
He cups my right breast and I inhale sharply, the arousal I thought sated roaring to life. Hawke chuckles softly and rolls my nipple between his fingers.
For minutes, possibly hours.
I wiggle against the hard ridge in his jeans, unable to remain still, wanting more, needing him. Hawke ignores my silent demands, concentrating on his job while continuing to touch me, torture me. My boy shorts are soaked with my readiness. My musk scents the air. If I don’t receive relief soon, I’ll explode. Tiny bits of Bee will be splattered all over the condo’s white walls.
Hawke doesn’t appear to care, playing with my body as he manages multiple operations from our purple leather couch. I don’t know what he does, but he’s not merely a glorified security guard. He seems to be higher up in the Organization, as people report to him. When he issues commands, others obey him without question, without backchat.
Being in charge doesn’t translate to making a lot of money. The owner of the diner often puts my mom in charge and, when unpaid overtime is factored in, she doesn’t make minimum wage.
There’s a break in the chatter. “Are you paid overtime?” I ask.
Hawke types with one hand, his other hand pressed against my breast. “Clients are charged a flat fee.”
That would be a no. My lips twist. He’s working for free. “That bites.”
“It evens out.” He sucks on my shoulder, the tug of his lips felt down to my pussy, his touch exciting my already primed body. “Watch your dots.”
I grit my teeth and do as he says.
Chapter Seven
THE ELECTRICITY RETURNS at nine twenty. I no longer have to watch the dots, but Hawke’s work continues. While he answers calls, I make fried chicken, steamed peas, mashed potatoes, and gravy, using recipes borrowed from Karl, the diner’s dynamic chef.
Hawke sets his devices on one of the end tables, spreads his arms along the back of the couch, and watches me, his expression scarily solemn. “We identified the restaurant customers through the security footage, erased all of the photos and video taken of you, but we couldn’t stem the gossip. I’m sorry, Belinda. I failed you.” He takes full responsibility for my mess.
“You didn’t fail me, Hawke.” I turn toward the stove, attempting to hide my despair. “This is my mistake and I’ll pay for it.” It will haunt me as my mom’s mistake haunts her. Chicago society is even smaller than the population of Happydale. They’ll label me a whore forever. I won’t ever escape it.
Unless I leave. I don’t want to leave, but I doubt I’ll have a choice. Cyndi’s dad will force her to evict me, Nicolas will turn his back on me, and I don’t have a job or any prospects. CEOs of Chicago companies will hear the rumors also.
I place three pieces of crispy chicken and a big spoonful of peas on the bright blue ceramic plate, filling the remaining space with mashed potatoes and gravy. “I know what happens next.” I set the plate on the red counter, beside the silverware and glass of water. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Hawke strides across the room and claims his bar stool. “What happens next?”
I give myself one piece of chicken, fewer peas, and a dab of mashed potatoes. “You leave.” I blink back tears. “Everyone leaves.”
Hawke, Nicolas, Cyndi will desert me as my friends in school de
serted me, pressured by others to sever our friendship. My dreams are dead. I’ll be alone. Again.
“Or I’ll leave.” I avoid Hawke’s gaze as I sit beside him, placing my plate next to his. “The only reason Mr. Wynters allows me to stay here is because he thinks I’m a good influence on Cyndi.” I force a laugh. “He won’t think that anymore.”
“You’re not leaving, love.” Hawke hooks one of his arms around my waist and pulls me toward him, dragging the bar stool across the hardwood. “And I’m not leaving you.” He touches the dog tags dangling between my breasts. “We’ll survive this.”
I say nothing. He believes he’ll stand by my side now, but I know differently. The Organization, his employer, deals with Chicago’s wealthy. They won’t want him associating with an ethically challenged hooker. I eat silently, savoring the chicken’s flavorful skin and moist meat.
Hawke devours his meal with one hand, his left arm remaining around me as though he worries I’ll escape. He doesn’t know I have nowhere to go. I lean into his big body, imprinting his heat, his strength, his scent on my brain for the solitary days and nights in my future.
“That was delicious.” Hawke carries his dishes around the counter. “You’re a great cook.” He scrapes the bones into the trash.
“I’m like my mom.” I join him, place the plates and silverware in the dishwasher. “She cooks and cleans. I cook and clean.” I wash the pans. “She’s the wild woman of Happydale. I’m the wild woman of Chicago.” I set the pans on the drying rack.
“She’s strong. You’re strong.” Hawke moistens a paper towel and wipes the counter clean. “You’re both too damn proud sometimes, never asking for help.”