Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2) (21 page)

“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.

I took that picture on one of my trips to Ecuador. The man had looked so… alone on the beach that day, beside his fishing boat.

He’d looked bound by the rope, although he was the one holding it.

This whole mess with the Organization has me bound just like that rope. My hands may not seem tied, but they are.

Because what I told Layla is true, and I believe it: I am responsible. My parents were part of this, and even if they weren’t, I’m still responsible.

Everyone who knows and does nothing is guilty. Everyone is responsible.

“Don’t,” Storm says, standing beside me.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t do it. Don’t put yourself in danger again.”

“I said I won’t.”

But now, speaking the words again, I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe that’s why my body’s reacting as if I’m back in the basement.

Maybe my body knows what my mind is trying to wrap itself around.

I’m going to do it. Because if I don’t, who will?

“Seriously, man, no.” Storm grabs my arm and shakes me, coming face to face with me. “You’re not going back. You’re not putting yourself in that psycho’s arms again, you crazy son of a bitch.”

“And who will do it? Rook? You? You think I’d let that happen?”

Storm’s mouth flattens.

Of course he’d do it. Talk about the pot calling the fucking kettle black. Storm is batshit. It’s why I love the guy, but he also drives me nuts sometimes.

Okay, lots of times.

“What makes you think you can put yourself in danger to do what you think is right but Rook and I can’t?” he asks.

“I didn’t say I make sense.”

“Dammit, Hawk.”

“Can you see another way to get Sandivar?”

“Let fucking Sandivar go. He’s not the big fish.”

“He’s big enough, and if he’s not caught, then I’ll be looking over my shoulder all my life.”

Until he finds the chance to kill me, that is.

“You can’t,” Storm insists.

“Wouldn’t you do it if it meant a safer world for Raylin? For the family you wanna build with her? For your friends?”

“You’re my friend. You going back to Sandivar isn’t gonna make me any goddamn happier,” he growls. “Jesus Christ, you’re still fucking hurt, look at you. Your girl is sick with the stress of what you went through. No fucking way am I letting you go.”

I sigh and close my eyes, well aware that this discussion isn’t over yet and that the detective is waiting for an answer.

***

I pace the passage outside the bedroom. The detective is still talking with the others, and I bet they are trying to think of alternative plans.

I’m all for alternative plans. It’s not like I like pain, like I said before. Not my thing.

But what alternative is there? We still don’t have the name of the big boss, and judging from my parents’ stubborn silence, the smaller fish we’ve already caught won’t offer us much in way of information.

Not enough to bring the fucking Organization down.

Sandivar, though… he may not be at the top, but he’s obviously holding the strings of many projects. He was the one who went after me, after all. The one who felt confident to hold me and toy with me. If he’s the head of security of the Organization, well then…

Then he’s important, and we should do all in our power to grab him. If that means dangling me again as bait in front of his beady eyes… So be it.

Even if the thought makes me wanna puke.

Fuck.
Looks like I’ve made up my mind, doesn’t it?

Scratching at my beard, I open the door and step into the bedroom, searching for the right words.

Hey, Lay, remember Sandivar? Would you believe I missed his company?

Fuck, no.

Layla, I’m going on a business trip. Terribly urgent. No, you can’t come with. Don’t wait up for dinner.

Hell.

Look, babe, I didn’t wanna tell you, but my plan all along was to go back…
Ah shit.

I suck at lying, and she—

The bed is empty.

“Layla?” I push the bathroom room open and step inside. She’s sitting on the floor, arms looped around her knees. “Hey. Everything okay?”

She shakes her head, and damn, she looks white as a sheet. “I had… a bad dream.” She’s trembling, even though she’s wrapped up in the bathrobe and it’s toasty warm in here. “God, it was so real!”

Shit.
I carefully lower myself to the floor, because my knee is bothering me even more today if that’s possible, and open my arms. She scoots closer, until she’s pressed to my chest and my arms are full of trembling, clammy-skinned girl.

“Wanna tell me about it?” I breathe against her hair.

She shakes her head again, but she draws a breath like a sob and starts talking. “You were tied in the basement, and I was there, but nobody could see me but you. And they were killing you. Slowly. Blow by blow. You were covered in blood, you were calling for me, and…” Another sob. “And I did nothing.”

“That’s not true,” I said, my chest tightening. “You did so much, Lay. You saved my life.”

“In the dream, you said… You said, I can’t do this, Layla.”

Shit.
No way am I telling her what I decided, not now. And I can’t bear seeing her like this. It’s fucking breaking me apart.

I hug her closer. “It’ll be okay, Lay. You’ll see.”

***

She quiets as I rub circles over her back. She’s also half-naked, plastered over me, and her tits press into my chest. The robe has fallen over one pale shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her breast.

My dick is swelling fast in my pants, and now is not the right time, dammit.

“Did the pills the doctor give you help?” I ask quietly, stroking her hair. “With the nausea?”

She nods. “I think so.”

Good. How can I help her? I mean, if one of the guys was sick and in a funk, I’d put them a nice action movie on TV and endure their crappy mood throughout until they got better.

But Layla is a girl. Unknown species.

I’ve never had sisters to get to know how the female mind works. And since I grew up enough to know where to put my dick, I’ve focused on the female body. Studied it. Worshipped it.

But that isn’t helping Layla. She’s so emotional right now I don’t know what the hell to do.

I could ask Raylin. She’s a girl. She’s definitely a girl. She might have some fucking advice. What if I asked someone about this? It grates to admit it, but I’m lost at sea.

“Just remember we have a date. An official date,” I remind her, “after all this is over.”

“With candles?” she whispers.

“Lots of candles. And music.”

“What sort?” She sounds doubtful.

“Whatever you like.”

She’s silent for a long moment. Then her hand slips under my T-shirt, tickling my abs. “Hawk?”

“Hm?”

She swallows, moving her hand lower, and fuck, it lands on my dick.

My very hard dick.

And she moans.

“Lay…”

“Want you,” she whispers, and hell if my dick doesn’t twitch and throb in reply.

God, what is she doing to me? Without another thought, I bend my head and crush my mouth to hers, thrusting my tongue between her lips.

Oh fuck, yes.
Her hands are on my chest, at the waistband of my pants, and I push the robe off her. I helpfully tear my T-shirt off and push down my pants, and her hand is again on my dick, and hell, yeah.

I grab her hair, tug her head back and use my other hand to press against her throat. She moans into the kiss, and her tits rub against my chest, her nipples so taut they score my skin. I slide my hand down, over one breast, then lower, down to her pussy. I rub her clit, slip two fingers inside her, and she’s so fucking wet and hot.

Hell.

She lifts up, still kissing me, and seeks my cock. I pull my fingers out, guide my dick into her and I push inside in one slow, smooth thrust that has me groaning in her mouth.

Holy shit.

She rocks on me, and I roll my hips up, and we find a rhythm, her hands in my hair, my hands on her ass. Fast. Faster. Harder.
Oh God.

It’s frantic. It’s near violent. It’s fucking perfect.

Is this distraction sex? Escapism sex? Get-better sex? I have no fucking clue, and right now I don’t care.

One moment I’m rocking her in my arms, the next she’s stroking my dick, and we’re tearing off each other’s clothes.

See?
I don’t have a clue how girls’ minds work.

And then she digs her fingers into my scalp as she comes all over my cock, shaking and crying out my name.

Which of course triggers my own orgasm, and I slam into her again and again as I spill my seed inside her.

Fucking perfect.

***

After a long shower, and another round of mind-blowing sex, I leave Layla getting dressed and go in search of food. And no, I still haven’t told her what the detective said and what I decided.

I’m also looking for Raylin as I wander the house looking for the kitchen, but I don’t find neither her right away, nor the kitchen.

First I find Rook.

“Roderick,” I greet him because his given name annoys the hell out of him, and that amuses me. “What’s up?”

I guess the fact he’s drinking scotch at eight o’clock in the fucking morning isn’t such a good sign, but I ignore that and grab the jug of orange juice sitting on the table. I pour myself a glass, down it, and pour another.

Two rounds of sex and I feel drained. This week really took a lot out of me, though I bet the moment I see Layla I’ll be ready to go again.

Damn, that girl.

My
girl.

Grinning like the wolf that got Red Riding Hood, I sit next to Rook and elbow him in the ribs. “I said, what’s up? Bad scotch?”

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Rook rumbles and scratches at his budding beard. “You got some and turned up the obnoxious, huh?”

“Hey.” I shrug one shoulder. “Can’t beat good sex in the morning for a pick-me-up. You should try it some time. Oh.
Oh!
I see why you’re so fucking grumpy. It’s because you haven’t gotten any in the past few years. Wanting a girl who doesn’t want you isn’t smart, man.”

“Did I ask for your opinion, junior?” Rook sends me a death glare. “No, I didn’t. Yet there you are, giving it again. Save it, Hawk, and drink your fruit juice like a good boy.”

Sighing, I put the glass down. “So what did you do with the detective? Lock him up in a closet somewhere until we have our own private talk?”

“Something like that.”

“Be sure to feed him.” And a shiver courses through me, because, fuck, bad joke. It brings back images from the basement, and my stomach twists around the sourness of the juice.

“Don’t concern yourself with that.” Rook pours himself another scotch. “Don’t concern yourself with any of it. I’ve got this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” This doesn’t sound good. “Rook. Don’t go doing anything reckless, hear me?”

“Says the guy who let himself be abducted and tied up in a basement, beaten up and starved. Yeah, I hear you. Now, you listen to me.” Damn, his dark eyes are intense, sharp like laser beams as they cut into me. “You stay out of this from now on. Both you and Storm have done your part. Now let me do mine.”

“And what exactly are you planning on doing?”

“I know people. You have contacts in the Chinese mafia. I have contacts in other places.”

“What sort of places are those, dude?”

“Places you’d never set foot in. Places too corrupt for your young soul.”

Jesus.
He’s on a roll today. “And what will you offer in return? Your soul?”

He grins then, at long last, although what he says sends a chill through me. “I don’t have a soul, bro. I gave it away long ago.”

***

Gave his soul away to whom, I wonder as I walk through the house, checking the rooms I go past. For whom, or what?

It makes me feel cold inside, but Rook didn’t give me a chance to ask more. He left, saying he had stuff to take care of.

He also said Raylin might be out by the pool with her dog, so I’m trying to find the way out.

I bet that’s a metaphor for lots of things in my life.

It’s an overcast day, and when I finally find a door and step outside to the pool, cold wind whips at me, ripe with the scent of rain.

Raylin is crouched on the lawn at the far side of the pool, playing with a tiny fluffy Pomeranian who’s yipping and dancing back and forth, trying to grab with its teeth something she’s holding.