Sinful Rewards 9

by Cynthia Sax

  If Nicolas is Friendly, I’ve also forfeited my reward by crying Hawke’s name. My billionaire is proud, and I humiliated him in front of his friends. He won’t compensate me for that mistake.

  I feel guilt but no regret. This experience was worth it. I place my feet on the stage and a loose plank of wood rocks under my sandals. Tilting my head back, I bask in the warmth of the spotlight, in the afterglow of my climax. Moments pass.

  My audience must have seen everything by now. I cover myself, pulling up my panties and smoothing down my skirt.

  The door snicks. The lights turn on and I can view the room once more. There’s nothing much to peruse. My audience has left. The seats are empty.

  I smile, glad, not wishing to meet them, to know who was watching me. In my fantasies, there’s never a next day. I never meet my voyeurs, never face a man knowing he’s seen me naked, witnessed me pleasure myself.

  I stand, my legs shaky. Hawke and Nicolas are the exception. I trust both men. As I wander toward the door, I note how clean the space remains. There isn’t a trace of my audience, no scent, no displaced chairs, not even a shoeprint.

  I reach the door, a chair creaks, and I pivot on my sandaled heels, my heart racing. There’s no one there. I frown, certain that I heard the sound. My gaze lifts to the ceiling. The vents could double as speakers.

  Was it all an illusion? I don’t want to ask, don’t want to know the truth. This was a magical encounter, one of my naughtiest dreams realized, and I prefer that reality doesn’t warp this memory.

  It’s best that I stay quiet. I open the door and slip into the hallway.

  Chapter Six

  I RETURN TO Hawke’s condo. Other than the petals dropping from the bouquet of flowers Francois sent me, the space is clean. I turn my full attention to my most pressing problem—my lack of income.

  I open the plastic storage boxes filled with higher-priced items I don’t absolutely need. Many of these things are rewards from Friendly. They’re timeless, meant to be owned forever, and the thought of parting with them tortures my inner fashionista.

  It has to be done. I straighten my shoulders. If Cyndi can sell her gifts from Cole, a man she loves, I can sell the items Friendly gave me. Using the camera on my phone, I take pictures of each precious item from various angles.

  I leave the red Salvatore Ferragamo purse until last. It was my first reward from Friendly, a fashion accessory I’d lusted after and dreamed about, a limited-edition item I will never be able to replace.

  Although I adore this purse, it isn’t as important to me as the people in my life. My fingers close over the dog tags hanging around my neck. Fashion might never disappoint me, but it also can’t ever love me back.

  I pose the purse, my hands lingering over the soft leather, the shiny gold zippers, and I snap photos. This is style porn, candy for any fashion lover’s eyeballs, and it will serve as a souvenir, a reminder of a sacrifice I made for my mom, my best friend, Hawke.

  I craft the listings next. The ad won’t go live until the morning, the time recommended by bigwig power sellers in the article I read, but I want to have the information prepared.

  Time passes as I lovingly detail every feature, mentioning outfits the shoes and purses can be worn with, hoping some lucky woman will love the rewards as much as I do. The sky grows dark. I turn on the lights and continue to work, setting up my account with the online classified ad site, looking at comparable items sold by others.

  The casual buying and selling of these investment pieces tortures me. They’re works of art, not designed to be treated like fads, discarded and uncared for.

  But they’re things, not people, I remind myself, tugging on the ball chain around my neck, the metal pressing against my neck. I return the pieces to their respective boxes.

  “I’m back,” Cyndi calls. “And I brought Cole.”

  “What?” I shove the boxes out of the way. “You brought a vintage-bike lover with you?” I tease, hurrying into the main room. Cyndi and Cole are carrying more shopping bags. “Oh, but I forgot. You don’t have a bike.”

  “I don’t have a bike here.” The movie star smiles, his blue eyes glittering. “I have an SS100 in LA.” He’s dressed in a black concert T-shirt and black jeans. A chain-and-rose tattoo winds up his right arm. “I’ll take you for a ride tomorrow.”

  “Ummm . . .” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “About that—”

  “I knew it.” Cyndi drops her bags. “You’re bailing on us.”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I hedge.

  “I’ve decided for you,” she announces. “You’re coming with us.” Cyndi bounces on the balls of her feet, the soles of her sandals smacking against the hardwood floor, my best friend as hyper as ever.

  Whether I stay or go isn’t her decision to make. I open my mouth to protest.

  “What are you going to do here?” She waves her arms in the air. “It took both of my guys and all of Cole’s entourage to get us past the wall of paparazzi outside. The men are huddling downstairs right now, trying to figure out how to transport us to the airport without anyone following us. If you stay here, you’ll be stuck in the condo complex forever.”

  “Don’t be a drama queen.” I roll my eyes. “Hawke says the TV crews should be gone tomorrow. If that doesn’t happen, the security team comes and goes. I should be able to do the same.”

  Cyndi stares at me and I stare back at her. “That’s it,” we say in unison. If I stay, and this is a big if, I could disguise myself as a security guard, wearing a hideous black T-shirt, black pants, and shoes only a cruel, twisted mass murderer would inflict upon the world.

  “I told you she was a clever bitch.” Cyndi grins at Cole. He blinks, his expression dazed, his mouth hanging open. The man is a goner, head over heels in love with my best friend, and I wonder if anyone will ever look at me that way.

  “Let’s keep my cleverness to ourselves,” I caution, not knowing what Hawke will think of my possible plan. “And I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”

  “Tick-tock.” Cyndi taps her pretty pink-faced Rolex. “The flight leaves tonight.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I move to the fridge, postponing the life-changing choice I must make. “Are you hungry?”

  “Do you have any macaroni and cheese left?” Cole turns his million-dollar smile on me.

  I prefer a lopsided grin, not as perfect but much more heartwrenching. “There’s no macaroni. The guys ate it all.” I hunt through the drawers. “How about pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, paired with homemade applesauce?” I extract the ingredients, inspired by my mom’s visit to the apple orchard, Hawke’s childhood home.

  “I think I love you,” the movie star jokes. Cyndi slaps his chest, the disapproval conveyed by her frown not reaching her eyes.

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot today.” I’ve heard it from everyone except a certain six-foot-forever military man. “I’ll get started.”

  “I need help packing,” my best friend declares. “I don’t know what to bring.”

  “I vote for bringing nothing.” Cole draws her into his arms. “You’ll be naked and at my mercy.” He nuzzles his clean-shaven face against her neck and she giggles.

  Oh, God. I cut up the apples, envy churning my stomach. This will be a long, lonely evening. Where the hell is Hawke?

  As I cook, Cyndi puts Cole to work. She flicks her perfectly manicured fingers at the storage boxes filled with clothing she’d designated to keep and he carries them into the main room. These garments are spread around the space, the piles divided into dresses, tops, shorts, pants, every classification of garment a woman can have.

  She plays a petulant client, I portray the stylist we hope I’ll soon be, and Cole delivers a running critique of our performances, making both of us laugh. We choose clothing combinations that will allow her the largest variety of fashionable outfits. I cringe as Cyndi tosses the agreed-upon garments into her suitcases. Normally, I’d fold them for her, but I’m preparing dinner and my
hands are full.

  “I’m texting Hawke.” Cole’s fingers fly over the keys on his phone. “I’m eating your pork chops. Send.” He grins. “If he doesn’t arrive in half an hour or less, his food is fair game.”

  “I only have enough pork chops for the four of us, so if anyone else arrives, your food is fair game,” I warn the movie star. I’d considered feeding Cole’s entourage and Hawke’s security team, but decided hosting two parties in one day might be pushing my luck with my overprotective man.

  “Bee doesn’t make idle threats.” Cyndi falls backward, landing on a mountain of clothing. “She means what she says.”

  “You’d share your pork chops with me, wouldn’t you?” Cole follows her onto the pile of fabric, kissing her soundly.

  I’m happy that my best friend has found love. Truly, I am. I stir the gravy. But in my fantasies, I always meet my soul mate first. I’m secure in his feelings about me, feeling no jealousy toward Cyndi.

  In my reality, I don’t know how Hawke views me. Although he calls me “love” and “sweetheart,” I don’t know if these endearments mean anything to him. He’s casually used them since the first day we met.

  And I’m not certain I can deal with the danger his job entails, the possibility that he’ll die, leaving me alone as my mom was left alone. I don’t want to relive my mom’s life, to have nothing—no husband, no money, no hope.

  The doorknob rattles and my heart leaps, my worries evaporating like the droplets of water on the oven’s hot cooktop. My former marine has returned to me, surviving one more day.

  If I leave tonight, taking the flight with Cyndi and Cole to stay with them in LA permanently, I’ll never experience this joy again, never have another moment with him.

  The door flings open, revealing Hawke, his fit physique big and broad, his booted feet braced on the threshold, his fingers clenched into fists. I swallow hard, aroused by the dominance radiating from him, Cyndi squeaks and Cole slides his body protectively in front of her.

  “The next man who touches my girl or threatens to eat my food will be sucking soil,” Hawke declares, his face dark. “I don’t share. Ever.”

  He looks around the room, his eyes wild, and he finds me, our gazes meeting and holding. The air sizzles with electricity. My chest grows tight with emotion. Time slows and stops. This is magic, real and right, a connection I’ve never shared with another person.

  “Undecided, my fine rack,” Cyndi breathes, breaking the spell. She gestures to Cole. “Help me put this stuff away.” She grabs a handful of clothing and throws it into a storage box, the mess making me cringe.

  My gaze returns to Hawke. He hasn’t looked away from me, hasn’t noticed my best friend’s antics. My chest warms. I’m his priority, his attention addictive.

  Can I live without the natural buzz he gives me?

  Hawke’s gaze lifts over my shoulder. “Your gravy is boiling, love.”

  “Shh . . .” Shit. I stop my cussing in time, remembering we have guests, and I pivot on my heels. The rich brown gravy bubbles dangerously close to the lip of the pan. I turn down the heat and stir the sauce with a wooden spoon.

  “Do you need any help?” My big man moves to stand beside me, smelling as delicious as the homemade applesauce simmering in the second pan. He brushes a strand of my hair over my shoulder, his rough fingertips grazing my cheek, neck, shoulder, back, setting fires throughout my body.

  “I have it under control.” My voice is husky, filled with an aching need only he can soothe. “Dinner will be ready soon.” I open the oven and peek at the pork chops.

  Hawke looks with me, one of his palms resting on my lower back. “Mmm . . .” He rumbles his appreciation. “I’ll set the table.” He squeezes my hip.

  We don’t have a table. Before I can point this out to him, he strides away. I enjoy the view for a couple of seconds, admiring how the faded denim clings to his magnificent ass, and then I focus on the food, putting the sides in bowls, piling the pork chops high on a plate.

  Cyndi and Cole buzz around me, gathering plates, glasses, and silverware, laughing and joking. Hawke fills a pitcher full of water, adding ice. Cyndi grabs the bottle of wine Francois sent me.

  This won’t be another dinner eaten alone in front of the TV. My heart lightens with joy. This will be a meal shared with friends. I heft the huge bowl of potatoes.

  “I have it.” Hawke takes the bowl from me, lifting it easily, adding the plate of pork chops to his load, his biceps bulging.

  I carry the gravy and applesauce, follow him around the curve of the kitchen island, and freeze, sucking in my breath. “We have a table?” It’s positioned in the middle of the room, covered by what appears to be a bedsheet, set for four, the folding chairs placed around it.

  Hawke dips his head. “We constructed it out of storage boxes.”

  He constructed this table for us so we could eat dinner, as an ordinary family would, as I always secretly dreamed I’d experience.

  My childhood meals, sourced from customers’ returned orders, had been gobbled in the diner’s employee break room. I knew it wasn’t normal, heard my school friends complain about boring family dinners. What they labeled boring, I thought wonderful.

  Now I’m having this wonderful moment, this slice of a normal life. I blink back tears.

  Hawke places the potatoes and pork chops in the middle of our table and looks over his shoulder at me. “It isn’t much.” He waves his massive hands over the arrangement. “But it will have to do until our furniture arrives.”

  “It’s perfect.” I walk carefully, waves of gravy lapping at the side of the bowl. Cyndi and Cole jostle each other as they claim their chairs. I sit between Cyndi and Hawke. He spreads his legs, pressing his right shin against my left calf, the connection grounding me.

  As Cole opens the wine bottle and fills our glasses, we pass the serving dishes around the table. We talk about our days, Cyndi and Cole’s flight to LA, our plans for the business, and my heart expands more and more until it threatens to burst from my chest. Hawke reaches over and grips my hand, relaying more of his strength to me.

  It is the best meal of my life.

  And I know I can’t leave, can’t risk forgoing another moment like this, simply because I’m too much of a chickenshit to deal with Hawke possibly dying.

  Chapter Seven

  HOURS LATER, THE wine bottle is empty. I’m happy, slightly buzzed, and extremely horny. Hawke has been sneaking a grab or feel or kiss at every opportunity, teasing me into a frenzy, confirming the decision I suspect I made the moment we met.

  I can’t walk away from him, not now, perhaps not forever.

  “Is it a no?” Cyndi asks out of the blue. We both know what she’s asking.

  I glance at Hawke. He’s helping Cole with one of my best friend’s suitcases, trying to cram double the recommended clothes into the confined space.

  “Come with me.” I grab Cyndi’s wrist and pull her into the bedroom I now share with my military man. “You need more money.” I rummage through a storage box, searching for my envelope filled with cash.

  “Nah, not really.” Cyndi shrugs. “Cole will pay for everything.” Her green eyes are soft with caring and alcohol consumption.

  I find the envelope, thumb through the bills, and extract enough money for a flight. “You should have enough money to pay your way home, in case you need space again.” Or if their relationship doesn’t work out. I give her the cash, not wanting my best buddy to be stranded across the country.

  “And you have money to visit me, in case you need space.” She stuffs the roll of bills down her shirt. “I should only be gone a week, maybe less, but I’ll miss you, Bee.”

  “You won’t miss me,” I scoff, trying not to fall apart, knowing she won’t ever return. “You won’t notice I’m not there.” I, in contrast, will miss her desperately. There will be a huge gaping void in my heart, in my life, that she once filled with her bubbly presence.

  “Awww . . .” Cyndi hugs me, smo
thering me with her generous breasts. “You’ll call me every day and you’ll text me if anything exciting happens. The way your birdman looks at you, I’m predicting that will be soon.” Her eyes glitter with unshed tears. “His kisses are nice, my fine ass.” She punches my shoulder.

  “Cyndi,” Cole calls from the main room.

  “I gotta go.” Cyndi embraces me. “Everything I’ve left behind can be sold.”

  I nod, pressing my lips together, my soul aching. When I do as she instructs, her bedroom will be empty. She’ll have no reason to come back to me.

  Trailing her to the door, I avoid Hawke’s searching gaze, knowing he’ll read the painful truth.

  Another person I love is leaving me . . . forever. Cyndi, my best friend, is abandoning me for LA, for Cole, for love. I want to be happy for her but it hurts, so damn much.

  She chatters. Cole jokes. I must have said something. I’m not certain. My mind is preoccupied, the scene viewed as though from a distance.

  Cyndi hugs me one more time, her laughter surrounding me. Then the door closes.

  Hawke wraps his arms around my waist. “She’s not gone forever, love.” He nuzzles against my neck, his stubble razing my skin. “You’ll see her again.”

  “You say that, but I know she’ll never return.” I sniffle, feeling sorry for myself. “And you’re determined to get yourself blown up.” I stare down at my ugly toe. “I’ll end up alone, again.”

  Hawke tightens his hold on me. “Is that why you considered going with your friend to LA? Because you’re scared I’ll die?”

  “I’m not scared.” This isn’t a lie. I’m several stages past scared. I turn within the circle of his arms and gaze up at him. “How did you know I was thinking about leaving?”

  His pale blue eyes glow. “I pay attention.” Hawke runs his fingers over the grooves in my forehead, the worry lines I didn’t realize I had. “I’ll do my best not to get blown up, sweetheart.”

  I narrow my eyes. “This is serious, Hawke.” If he jokes about his death, I’ll kick his ass.

  “I know.” He drags his scarred knuckles along my cheekbones, his touch easing my fears. He’s here, safe, alive. “I’ve been thinking about our discussion this morning.”