Wreck: Hawke

by Heather C. Leigh

  “Nice to meet you, Abby.” Ross extends a hand, shaking mine with a firm but gentle grip. I like him instantly.

  “You too. Hawke is your nephew, right? He’s the drummer?” I ask, trying to remember the three men in the band who aren’t Kate’s massive, muscled boyfriend, Dax.

  “He is. The guys are down the hall, last room on the right.” Ross points behind us. “The sound check is done, so they’re just hanging out, probably screwing around back there. You two can help me out by making sure they get on stage in time.”

  “Thanks Ross,” Kate says. “You know I’m good at getting Adam to do whatever I want,” she tosses over her shoulder. Ross chuckles as he heads in the opposite direction. We walk down the hall and Kate leans in to whisper. “Adam tends to go on the piss before shows, which leads to him disappearing, which leads to finding him shagging a slut in a closet when he’s supposed to be on stage.”

  My eyebrows fly so far up they may as well hit my hairline. “Oh. That’s… not good.” I guess all those rumors about guys in bands getting around are true. The thought makes me feel more than a little naïve and inexperienced, and worried for Kate since her boyfriend is one of them.

  Kate shakes her head and puts her hand on the doorknob. “No. It’s not good. Adam can be a real wanker sometimes, but… he has issues.” She sighs, her shoulders dropping. “Honestly, he’s a good guy. I’ve known him for a long time and was in school with him forever.” I knew she grew up outside London with Dax and one of the other guys in the band. The other member must be Adam.

  “I believe you.” I squeeze her hand in support. “Since I’ve been studying psychology, I recognize that people act out in specific ways, sometimes to combat the terrible things in their head.”

  “Right. Yeah, I forgot you would understand better than most people. Thanks. Maybe you’ll be good for Adam, who knows?” Without warning, Kate spins and points a finger at me. “Just don’t shag him, you’ll regret it and I’ll have to kill him.” I’m about to laugh, but she takes a deep breath and opens the door.

  Not even one step inside the room, Kate squeals, crossing the length in a few hurried steps to leap into Dax’s outstretched arms. When they begin making out with sloppy, wet kisses, my face heats up. I glance around the room, desperate for anything to take my focus off their very physical display.

  “Hi.”

  Oh my god. One of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen in my life unfolds his tall body from a tattered couch and holds out his hand. My voice fails me, my mouth hanging open. Somehow, I manage to lift my arm to shake hands with the stunning, golden-skinned, blond man.

  “Gavin Walker,” he says, his voice quiet but rich and melodic.

  “Abby. Abby Kessler,” I somehow choke out.

  “Left another one speechless, did you, Walker?” A second man pushes Gavin’s shoulder, sending him stumbling sideways.

  “Jackass,” Gavin says, pushing the other man back.

  “Hey there. You’re Kate’s friend?” the new man asks. My breath is sucked from my lungs. Are any of these guys not gorgeous? Where Gavin is gold, Hawke is onyx. His black hair and black-framed glasses compliment his olive skin.

  “Ummmm… y-yes. I-I’m Abby.”

  He grins, sticking out his hand. As his firm grasp envelops my hand, my eyes are drawn to the tattoos peeking out from his sleeves. “Hawke Evans, drummer.”

  When our hands touch, a strange buzz electrifies my skin. I don’t want to let go, completely mesmerized by his handsome face. My attraction to this man isn’t the same as what I feel when looking at Gavin. Gavin is beautiful, yes—he’s perfect—but Hawke is appealing in a different kind of way. A way that speaks to something deep inside. Only a few inches taller than my five-seven, his dark hair is wild and standing off his head in large, messy waves. His clothes are modern and fitted—tight jeans, red Chucks, and requisite hipster T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal. A bar in his eyebrow glints in the light, as do the multiple piercings in his ears, along with a small stud in his lower lip and another in his nose.

  None of his physical features are what I find fascinating, though he is beautiful to look at. No, it’s what I see behind his geek chic, black-framed glasses that calls to me. His eyes, one light brown, one bright blue, are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I’m not sure what it is, just that he turns me on like no one else has. My attraction is indefinable and borne of instinct.

  I picture myself tracing those tattoos with my tongue, causing goose bumps to break out up my arm and at the base of my neck. Yet, I’m not cold. In fact, I’m suddenly quite warm. My previously useless libido kicks into high gear, sending a flood of liquid heat that starts at the top of my head to rush to the bottom of my feet.

  “H-hi.” I cringe at my social inadequacies. Hawke smirks and glances down at where I’m still clutching his hand. I yank back like he’s on fire and stare at the ground, humiliated. “Sorry.”

  Hawke laughs—a light, playful laugh that sends a shiver down my spine. “No worries. Thirsty?”

  I pray for the one-percent chance that my face isn’t bright red and glance up. Hawke is smiling, his expression pleasant and open, not judgmental or irritated at my social faux pas. That fiery heat hits me again… hard.

  “Sure.” Without question, I follow his lead to a table in the back of the room set up with an assortment of soft drinks, alcohol, and food.

  “Take your pick,” he says, waving his hand over the table. I grab a Diet Coke while Hawke chooses a bottle of water. When he lifts it to his mouth, his sleeves push back, revealing more of his intriguing tattoos.

  I stare at the slashes of bright ink on his sinewy forearms. He’s a drummer, so of course his arms would be all muscled and hot. My eyes flick back up to his, studying the unusual dual colors. Maybe I’m projecting my lust onto Hawke, but I swear I see some of it reflected back at me.

  My brain is telling me to stay away, keep my distance from the gorgeous drummer. But my instincts are telling me to get naked with him as soon as possible. A relationship with a guy like Hawke would never work out.

  “Want to sit down and talk for a while?” Hawke asks, breaking my rambling thoughts.

  Who says it would be a relationship? Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself.

  Maybe Hawke is exactly what I need in my boring, unadventurous life. I stare into those intriguing eyes once more and I already know my decision has been made. A hot guy—the bad boy with tattoos, piercings, and pretty much unattainable to an inexperienced girl like me?

  I’m a total goner.

  Hawke

  “That was brilliant,” Dax says, holding up his beer for a toast.

  “Cheers, mate.” Adam clinks his third, or maybe fourth—hell, it’s probably his twelfth—glass against everyone else’s. Beer slops out the side and onto his hand. “Oops.” He looks utterly unconcerned by the mess.

  “It was a great set,” I agree.

  I lean back in the booth at the club we played tonight, scanning the room. The itchy, bugs under my skin feeling I get sometimes is back and I need a release. I’m too worn out to do anything dangerous to get the rush of adrenaline that quiets my mind, so I’m left to find a girl to burn off energy with. Preferably someone hot who doesn’t mind a quick fuck in the back room.

  My eyes land on Kate and her friend, Abby. Because I’m a guy, horny, and she’s beyond attractive, I check out Abby’s body. Fuck. I have to adjust my dick as my gaze drifts down to her perfect, tight ass, followed by long, tan legs that go on forever. She’s gorgeous, wavy blonde hair, petite nose, big blue eyes, and athletic looking. The ultimate California girl. Which is usually an instant turnoff for me, what with my last experience with shallow California girls being nothing less than horrific.

  She might look the part, but after speaking with Abby backstage before the show, I found her to be completely unlike any of the girls I grew up with. She’s kind, friendly, and smiles a lot. Missing is the gossipy bitching, the sneers, the “better than y
ou” attitude that usually accompanies such stunning physical beauty. In fact, the only thing I could think while shaking hands with her was mine.

  Problem is, she’s way too good for me. Plus, with her being Kate’s friend, I don’t want to ruin anything and piss off Dax and Kate by sticking my dick in Abby and inevitably turning around and treating her like shit. Which is exactly what I’d do. I’m too fucked up to actually date her. Too damaged to let anyone close.

  The only one who knows everything about my past is Gavin, and that’s only because I met him right after the accident when Ross had me treated at an inpatient psychiatric ward for teens. Gavin was there for his own reasons. Reasons that make me want to beat the shit out of his pile of crap, homophobic father. Group therapy sucked ass, but it brought me my best friend and let me tell him my history without having to actually say it to him one on one.

  “Evans! Did you hear a single word I said?” Gavin’s voice plus the sharp elbow he jabs in my side tears my mind away from my wandering thoughts and my eyes from Abby’s ass.

  “What?” I turn to face Gavin, who is glaring at me.

  “We were talking about what Ross said earlier. Maybe booking some gigs in other cities.”

  “Oh. Sure, whatever you guys decide is fine with me.” Like I ever have anything to add to the business end of conversations. I pick up my drink and take a long swig, my eyes finding their way back over to Abby. When I catch sight of her, my hand falters, and I nearly mimic Adam by spilling my beer everywhere.

  Abby isn’t where I last saw her. Now she’s over by the bar, chatting with some asshole, preppy, frat-boy type who keeps finding excuses to touch her arm, her hand, her waist. Inexplicably aggravated, I slam my glass onto the table and dig my fingers into my jeans.

  Mine!

  The word echoes loud and clear in my mind, causing me to grip my glass so tight my knuckles hurt. What the fuck? Since when do I give a shit what girls do and who they do it with?

  I’m too far away and it’s too loud to hear Abby laugh, but I’m riveted as she reveals two rows of perfect white teeth. Her tousled blonde hair spills around her stunning face, causing a few pieces to stick to her full lips. She casually swipes them away with a brush of her fingers. When preppy douchebag raises his hand and tucks some of Abby’s hair behind her ear, I nearly lose it.

  “Whoa, dude,” Gavin whispers in my ear. “What the hell has gotten into you? You look like you want to kill someone.”

  Fuck. I can’t do this to myself. I’m already on edge from all the other dark shit in my head, and now I’m on the verge of freaking the fuck out over a girl I just met. Abby is not my problem. What she does or doesn’t do with frat-boy is not my problem. Getting involved with her would ruin her life a thousand times worse than frat-boy simply fucking and chucking her.

  Deep breath. Relax. “Nothing’s gotten into me. Just looking for a hookup.”

  “Let me help you out.” Gavin smirks, using his drink to point across the room. “That girl has been eyeing you all night long.”

  I follow his gesture and find a cute little brunette in an even smaller outfit. She’s wearing too much makeup and her breasts are most definitely fake, but Gavin’s one hundred percent right. The brunette is staring directly at me with a “fuck me” look written plainly on her face.

  Without breaking eye contact with the girl, I finish my beer and put the glass down. “Hey. How did you notice her?” I nudge Gavin. “You’re gay. Shouldn’t you be looking for men?”

  He chuckles. “Check behind her left shoulder.”

  I flick my gaze up and see a tall, muscular man with dark hair and day-old stubble doing the exact same thing as the girl, only his eyes are fixed on my best friend. I huff, laughing at Gavin. “No wonder you noticed her.”

  “Exactly.” Gavin laughs with me.

  “Well, I’ll see you guys in a few,” I announce, desperate to take my mind off of Abby and the groping dickbag she’s chatting with. Adam and Dax wave me off, continuing their conversation, which, from the looks of things, is more of an argument. The usual, Dax angry at Adam for being shitfaced during our set…again.

  I stand up and make my way over to greet the brunette. It’s almost too easy. All it takes is a brief introduction, the mention of a private room backstage, and that’s it. She lets me tow her through the crowd by the hand. As we pass by the bar, I can’t help but take one last glance at Abby, to find I’m still inexplicably angry at frat-boy for touching her. The douche in question, however, is nowhere to be found. Abby and Kate are talking, heads together, while sipping their cocktails.

  Abby lifts her head and our eyes meet for a brief moment before her gaze shifts behind me to the brunette. Holy shit. I actually feel ashamed when I detect a flicker of hurt in Abby’s sky blue eyes, like I’m a bigger douchebag than the frat-boy.

  Eager to be out of Abby’s line of sight, I hustle the girl whose name I forgot two seconds after she said it through the backstage door and push her into the dressing room. Without a word being exchanged, she drops to her knees, unzips my pants, and swallows my cock whole. As the girl sucks me off, moaning and making a big show of it, all I can think about is the hurt in Abby’s eyes. Abby, who probably hates me now that she’s seen my idea of a date.

  My climax approaches, the pleasure building in my balls, ready to release at any moment. I shove Abby out of my mind at the last second. It’s better that she hates me. The orgasm rips through me and I clutch the girl’s head, roughly thrusting into her mouth, coming forcefully down her throat. I should feel good, but all I feel is like a complete jackass for hurting Abby.

  I’m tucked and zipped before the brunette can get to her feet. “Thanks.” I hurry out, leaving her on her knees, scowling.

  This is exactly why it’s better for Abby to hate me. I’m a fucked-up, selfish bastard, and always will be.

  Abby

  The hour-long drive to my parents’ house gives me plenty of time to do nothing but think. Naturally, my mind goes straight to Hawke. The connection I thought I’d felt with him, the magnetic pull, turned out to be one-sided. During the show, my eyes were fixed on Hawke’s beautiful face as he mastered the large set of drums. His body moved so fluidly, so expertly, he didn’t even need to look at his hands as they created the rhythm for the rest of the guys to follow.

  I couldn’t wait until the band was done with their set so I could huddle close to Hawke in a private booth, spending the rest of the night talking. In my mind, we’d share gentle touches and heated looks, possibly ending with him driving me home where he’d kiss me goodnight. I could practically feel the small metal stud in his lip rubbing across mine as our mouths came together.

  Instead, Kate, who wouldn’t let me beg off or sit for a single second, immediately dragged me to the dance floor. When I finally gave her the slip, some random guy who thought the world revolved around him was all over me, showering me with stories of his all-around awesomeness. After Kate told the guy to take a hike, I was ready to join the guys and get a little face time with Hawke. But while I was waiting at the bar for my drink, he was busy pulling a scantily clad girl to the back of the club.

  The picture I built up in my mind since sharing that incredible energy when we touched was shattered the second Hawke’s eyes met mine through the crowd. As much as I know I should, I can’t give up on him, not yet. There’s still something there. There has to be. Otherwise, it means my ability to read people’s emotions is lacking, and that’s one thing I pride myself on, one thing I’m going to rely on when I become a therapist. I know he feels it too. He’s either ignoring it or too afraid to do something about it.

  I refocus my attention on the road. Mom and Dad insisted I show up for Jace’s birthday. If I skipped, Mom and Dad would be mad but Jace would understand. Evan, though, he’s home from college in New York and I won’t see him again until Christmas break.

  Nervous as always when I go home, my hands are slick on the steering wheel of my little hatchback. At the next red light,
I wipe them off on my skirt, praying I can get myself together before I reach my parents’ house. The last thing I want to do is revisit my past.

  I can do this. I can’t let them down. But the less time I spend at home, the harder it is to step back inside.

  My heart starts to beat against my ribcage, constricting in my chest, making it near impossible to suck in a full breath. I let my forehead drop to the steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut so I can calm down before I lose it completely.

  I can’t do this.

  A loud honk startles me, the light now green. Somehow, I hold myself together the rest of the drive to my parents’ house in San Clemente, a little over an hour south of LA. By the time I pull into the familiar drive, my entire body is trembling and I’m losing the fight against the hot tears stinging my eyes.

  Everything comes down to that one night almost five years ago. My entire life was thrown up in the air like a deck of cards, the organized stack fluttering to the ground in a chaotic mess. I choke back a sob and remember how helpless I felt, how I failed my older brother.

  “Where are we going, Mom?” I help get my brothers out of bed and dressed. A shiver wracks my body, even though the house is far from being cold.

  “The hospital,” she answers.

  My head whips around to face my mom. I’d been expecting her to say Nick was picked up by the police again. When he has a really bad day, he tends to do strange things that draw people’s attention, and not in a good way. Like the time he stood in the center of a major intersection, laughing as if it were a game. Or when he took a bus to San Diego and told everyone he met he was campaigning for president. I can’t count the number of times one of my parents has had to go get Nick at a police precinct and explain that he’s bipolar, or the times he’s been involuntarily committed to a mental hospital after one of his escapades.

  But the hospital? “A real hospital?” I ask, making sure she doesn’t mean Clairmont, the local psychiatric institution.