Hawke: A Bad Boy Fighter Romance (With bonus book Sons of Flame MC)
Read Hawke: A Bad Boy Fighter Romance (With bonus book Sons of Flame MC) Online
Authors: Ashley Rhodes
Hawke: A Bad Boy Fighter Romance
©
2016 Ashley Rhodes
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Table of Contents
Sometimes, love comes at a price.
Naomi
My job’s hard enough without Jack Hawke making things even worse. He winds up on my list of patients, having been on the wrong end of a savage beating. He won’t tell me what happened, and he seems more interested in getting into my pants than getting better.
When I finally manage to tease the truth out of him, he wants more in return from me than just my advice. And the trouble is…I’m having a hard time saying no. His rippling muscles and his dangerous smile tell me to steer well clear…but I always have had a hard time listening to good advice.
I end up getting drawn into his dangerous world of mobsters and underground cage fighting – he might be right at home there, but I’m completely out of my depth. Can he protect me? Will he give himself to me, even if it means leaving his old life behind?
Hawke
I never lose.
Ever
. I’m undefeated in the cage, and I plan to keep it that way. So when Valentino, the local mob boss, tries to get me to throw a fight, ain’t no way in hell I’m agreeing to that.
As it turns out, Valentino ain’t too happy when things don’t go his way. He sends his boys to rough me up – five on one ain’t a fair fight, but I damn near make it one.
When I wake up in the hospital, I meet her. Naomi. She’s fucking gorgeous, but she’s full of questions that I don’t wanna answer. All I want from her is her hands on my body and her lips doing something other than talking…
It doesn’t take long, though, for me to realize that she’s not like the rest. She’s sassy, funny, intelligent. And she’s offering me a way out – a way out of the dangerous life that’s all I’ve ever known.
Trouble is, you don’t just walk away from someone like Valentino. He thinks he can get to me by threatening Naomi. He’s wrong. And he’s made the biggest mistake of his life. Like I said, I never lose. And now he’s my next opponent.
I’m gonna take him down, and I’m gonna make Naomi mine. Forever.
Jack
I should’ve just let that rookie fucking beat me. He was so bad it woulda been a hard sell to anyone that knew what they were watching, but I’m sure I could have made it work. Sully told me before the fight that Valentino had cash on the other guy. A lot of cash. Sully wouldn’t ever tell me to throw a fight, but I could hear it under his words, lurking like a viper in his tone. Valentino didn’t let things like this slide.
Motherfucker’s the cruelest bastard I’ve had the misfortune of knowing. Head of the local mafia branch. A long list of victims he never had to lay a finger on. People have ended up dead for looking at him the wrong way, much less costing him the kind of money I probably did tonight.
Problem is, losing just ain’t in my blood—and throwing a fight? I’d rather slit my wrists. Call it pride, stubbornness, or just good old fashioned blood lust. I ain’t ever lost, and I didn’t intend to start then. As for Valentino and his boys… I’d think of something. I had time. A few days at least.
I fidgeted in the hospital bed, anxious to be out of it. Hospitals were for the infirm, and the weak. I’d seen worse than this.
“Sir,” the nurse who was prodding me said, “I need you to keep still. If you don’t, I’m not going to be able to stitch this wound and there’s every chance it’ll get infected and leave you with a permanent scar.” She was pretty in a worn-out, angry older sister sort of way.
I sneered at her. “I already got scars on top of scars. Superglue it for all the fuck I care. What’s one more to add to the collection? Take a look at my face, lady.”
She did, for a moment. I could see her eyes roving over the patchwork of pale or raised marks that told the story of my life, my career. Her eyes met mine, just long enough that I noticed, and then darted away. She blushed, then tried to distract herself by leaning in closer and inspecting the wound. She sprayed saline solution into it, and checked me for a reaction. She didn’t get one. Little sting like that?
She checked again when she worked the curved little stitching needle through my skin. Nada, lady. Last time I got stitched, I did it myself with a sewing needle, a mirror, and a bottle of moonshine. This? Preschool.
I sighed, and laid back against the stiff hospital pillows. As her skilled hands worked over the moist patch of skin over my left eyebrow, soft and quick even though she didn’t need to be, I imagined them moving… elsewhere. Women like her didn’t like to admit that they had a thing for guys like me. I bet she already had a guy at home. Some young boy with baby-soft skin like hers. He probably had a nine-to-five, took her out for dinner, bought her nice things.
Y’know, treated her like a princess.
And sure, that’s all well and good. But I know women. Sometimes, they like a little rough and tumble. They fantasize about a guy who knows what he wants, and just takes it. The kind of guy who’ll bend them over the kitchen table and leave them walking with a limp and a satisfied smile for the rest of the day.
A guy like me.
Girls like this would never admit it, but I can always see it in their eyes, that spark of unsatisfied need behind all the exhaustion of a dull life. I could see it in hers just then, just in that split second, kindled and burning in her. If not behind her eyes, then somewhere else; somewhere wet. If I wasn’t aching all over and pretty much bed-bound, I might’ve even made her an offer.
But Valentino's thugs had done a number on me. Those fuckers don't fight fair. Even five on one it took two busted noses and a broken arm for those cowards to get me down, but once they did I was done for. I counted five broken ribs, a busted nose, and the vision in one of my eyes was kinda blurry. Nothing I hadn't dealt with before, but when the ambulance showed up and found me lying in the street, they wouldn't let me leave. Took me here, straight to the hospital.
I didn't have insurance - of course I fucking didn't. A street fighter with health insurance? It ain't one of the perks of the job, sorry to say. I had cash, of course. Enough to stay a little while, at least until I could walk outta here without my head spinning and everything going dark.
And, while I was set up in here resting up, Valentino couldn’t get to me. The hospital, Saint Michael’s, wasn’t in the best part of town. There were enough gangbangers and mafia around here that armed police were posted around the clock.
So I was safe. For the moment.
I winced when the nurse tied off the thread and leaned back to admire her handiwork, probably including the first reaction she’d gotten out of me. She looked smug. I grinned at her through broken teeth.
“How do I look?” I asked. “Those bastards better not have ruined my good looks—that’s about all I got goin’ for me these days.”
The look on her face told me all I needed to know. I probably looked like the fuckin’ undead, eyes almost swollen shut, nose pointing the wrong way, a fresh set of bloody stitches like some twisted version of a third eyebrow on my forehead. I’d never felt more fuckable. Really.
“Just get some rest, Mr. Hawke,” she said, without bothering to hide her exasperation. “The doctor will come by later to examine you again and see if you need any surgery.”
I bolted upright, and immediately regretted it. A bolt of agony shot out from my cracked ribs so far into the rest of me that my teeth ached with it. “No,” I ground out, “no surgery.”
She gave the sort of sigh you give a lost cause. “You’ve got a broken nose, cracked teeth, cracked ribs, contusions all over your body. Stitches and bed rest isn’t going to be enough.”
I waved away her concerns. People like her didn’t understand people like me. “It’ll have to be,” I said, easing myself back against the pillows and damned if I was going to so much as flinch at the pain it caused my ribs for the second time. “I’m a tough old bastard, and I ain’t got the money for no goddamn surgery, lady. Write that on my notes. No surgery. I don’t want you people doin’ procedures on me while I’m sleeping or something.”
She just shook her head at me. “You can take that up with the doctor, Mr. Hawke.”
“I will,” I grunted. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some rest.” I couldn’t help but smirk. “Unless…” My voice trailed off and I gave her The Look. Women couldn’t resist The Look.
Well, usually they couldn’t, anyway.
The nurse just laughed to herself, rolled her eyes, and dropped the clipboard with whatever observations she’d made about me into the plastic file-bucket outside the door with a louder bang than I expected. She shot me a last amused look before she closed the door.
I snorted, and winced now that she wasn’t there to see it. “Fuck me,” I muttered through the pain. First my body, and now my pride had taken a beating. Brutal lady.
Valentino had a lot to answer for. One way or another, I was gonna make him pay, and for the moment I had nothing to do but dream about how, and for how long.
Naomi
“I can’t do it! It hurts too much! You’re hurting me!”
I let go of Mr. Bradberry’s wrinkled old leg, and blew a stray strand of auburn hair from my eyes, trying to keep my cool. “Mr. Bradberry,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, which wasn’t much just now, “I understand that it’s painful now, but if you don’t see the treatment through you won’t—”
“I don’t care,” he snapped, a wheedling tone to his voice. “All you ever do is come in here and poke me and prod me and hurt me. Nothing ever gets better!”
That’s because you don’t do your damn exercises you stubborn old fart.
That’s what I wanted to say to him every damn time I came in here and we went through this same pantomime. I didn’t, though. Frustration didn’t pay the bills; I still needed this job and insulting a patient, especially one as complaint-happy as Mr. Bradberry, wasn’t going to help me keep it.
I set my shoulders, and fixed him with a look that I hoped was authoritative, yet caring. One that told him I only had his best interests at heart, and that all he needed to do was trust me.
Probably I was in a worse mood than I realized.
“Don’t glare at me, missy,” Mr. Bradberry griped. “I wouldn’t even be here if the damn doctor would just let me go home and rest up. Goddamn waste of time, all this stupid leg bending nonsense.”
“You broke your hip, Mr. Bradberry,” I said, the last of my patience slipping out of my grasp. “Your muscles are weakened from all that time in the cast and we need to do all this ‘leg bending nonsense’ to improve your strength. Then you can go home, I promise. Can we please continue?”
He wasn’t having any of it. He turned away from me, throwing himself down onto the bed like a petulant child. “Not today,” he said to the far wall. “I’m too tired now. Go away and let me get some sleep.”
And that was that. He closed his eyes and ignored my half-hearted entreaties.
I clenched my fists and tried to reign in my temper. It seemed like every day I was fighting stupid battles like these against people that I just wanted to help. All I wanted to do was to reach over to that bad-tempered old coot and shake some sense into him. That wouldn’t help my situation any more than berating him would, though, so instead I just left him to sulk and tried not to storm out of the room and back onto the ward, snatching my clipboard on the way.
I made a beeline for the little break room where the nurses hung out. One benefit of Mr. Bradberry’s little temper tantrum was that I now had a little while before my next patient. I took my breaks where I could get them. Silver lining, right? A little tarnished these days, but…
I glanced at the list on my clipboard as I marched down the corridor, or tried to. It turned into more of a trudge. Next patient. Another hour, another asshole, probably.
Jack Hawke.
Next to the name someone had scribbled some notes. Called it.
Belligerent. Won’t talk about what caused his injuries. Multiple fractured ribs, bi-lateral, and serious sprains. Fractured left radial. Laceration above left orbital ridge.
Just what I freakin’ needed. Another grumpy idiot to make my day even worse. I pushed open the door to the break room and flung myself down into a chair with a groan. The only other person in there, a veteran nurse named Yvonne, grinned at me.
“Let me guess,” she said, “you just had your appointment with Mr. Bradberry.”
I met her eyes and nodded weakly. It was all the answer she needed.
“That silly old man needs to stop feeling so sorry for himself,” Yvonne said, shaking her head slowly with her shared irritation for the, “It’s like dealing with an angry toddler.”
“Tell me about it,” I sighed. “All I want to do is help him, but he makes it impossible. It feels like half my time is spent arguing with patients who don’t want or even need me these days. It’s like… what am I even doing here?”
Yvonne frowned at me. “Hon, they might not want your help, but they sure as hell need it.” She waved a work-worn hand at the lingering ghost of Mr. Bradberry. “Don’t let people like Bradberry get you down. He’s just a crotchety old man who’s still coming to terms with the fact that he
is
a crotchety old man and
does
need help. He’ll come around; just give him some time.”
Time. Like it was something I had an endless supply of. Yvonne had a point, though. They
did
need my help. Otherwise why did I even have job? Or Yvonne, or any of us for that matter? “Thanks, Yvonne,” I said, almost earnestly. “You’re right, of course. Just… one of those days, y’know?”
Yvonne checked the clock and stood. She walked toward me on her way back out to the real world and put a motherly hand on my shoulder. “We all have ‘em, darlin’. Now, I gotta go get back to work.”
She left me, pushed the door open and then paused. She turned back to me, voice low, her expression a promise of something juicy. “Have you heard about the guy who came in last night? Beaten to a bloody pulp by God knows who, but still spitting fire. Refusing treatment, just asking for painkillers. He’s got most of the younger nurses giggling to each other when they think he’s not looking. Far as I’m concerned, he’s an arrogant good for nothing asshole.” She shrugged a shoulder, and winked at me. “But I gotta admit,” she said, coy, “he’s got
some
body…” She got a wistful look in her eye, and even bit a lip.
“Yvonne,” I scolded, but smiled. But then… beat to a bloody pulp? I glanced at my clipboard again. “Do you know his name?” I already knew, but I had to ask.
She nodded. “Hawke. Jack Hawke.”
“Oh,” I said. “Great. Thanks.” She winked again, and all but sauntered out of the room, maybe still thinking about the ‘belligerent’ asshole’s body and wishing she were a younger woman.
It didn’t excite me like it did her. All I could think was that my day wasn’t about to get any better.
***
Not nearly enough time later, I stood outside Mr. Hawke’s door, mentally preparing myself to deal with what was on the other side. Please, God, just let him be passed out from painkillers.
No such luck, of course. I pushed the door open and was met with the sorriest sight I’d seen in… well, in ICU it hadn’t been long, but with Mr. Hawke it was a little different.
I’d seen enough people who’d suffered beatings. The bruises, the padding under the bandages around his ribs, the angle of the cut across his forehead. The swollen mass of contusions and hairline fractures that almost hid the numerous scars elsewhere on his face. This man had been savagely beaten. By the look of him, there must have been a lot of them.
Jack was hard. That was the only word for it. I knew the difference between the fluffy, gym-made muscle on guys who threw their backs out or dropped weights on themselves. This wasn’t that. Hawke’s body was a functional machine of solid muscle that had seen use, like a boxer, maybe, or a fighter of some kind. Military, perhaps.
Whoever had broken his body, hadn’t broken his spirit. He was leering at me with what I recognized easily as naked, blatant lust. Somehow, a body like that had to come attached to an ego like this. Maybe he didn’t realize he looked like he’d been trampled by elephants. Plural.
Keep it cool
, I reminded myself, trying to draw on Yvonne’s distant strength.
You’ve dealt with worse before and you can deal with this guy. Just another asshole who thinks he’s God’s gift to women
. I did my best to hide my disgust, and keep my eyes off of his body, as I approached. Shouldn’t he have been in a hospital gown? Ah, it was piled on the floor. Of course.
“Mr. Hawke? My name is Naomi Ellis. I’ll be your physical therapist while you recover from your injuries, which appear to be… quite extensive. So that we can be sure you don’t suffer any long term disability from your…” I surveyed him, and gave him a beat to fill in the blank. He didn’t. “…accident,” I finished. “What exactly happened? The notes are vague.”
The moment I asked him, he stiffened visibly, and then folded his arms with obvious discomfort. That was some dedication to the stubborn line, it must have set his ribs on fire. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” he asked. “Does it matter? I’m hurt, it’s your guys’ job to fix me. Let’s leave it at that.” He set his jaw, and fixed me with challenging eyes.
He was watching me intently, waiting for a response; looking for a fight. I tucked that away in my mental profile of the man. But for now, I certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Don’t play their games
, I chanted to myself. Every time I did lately, I lost.
“Fair enough,” I said instead, trying to force something bordering on cheerful into my voice. “That’s your choice, Mr. Hawke, of course. No skin off my nose if you want to go around getting beaten to a pulp by whatever animal whose cage you rattle. I’ll treat you the same regardless and we don’t even have to talk if you prefer.” I met his obstinate gaze with zen-like disregard.
You tell him, girl.
He was silent for a few moments, studying me again.
Figure that one out, buddy.
“Suits me fine, lady,” he finally said. “How about I just lay here and relax while you do your thing, doc?” It didn’t sound like he was talking about physical therapy.
I wandered to the foot of the bed and laid a hand on his ankle. My other hand I cupped under his calf, and with them both I tugged and adjusted his leg unceremoniously to ‘test range of motion’. Just, maybe, not of his leg. “Fine by me,” I said.
I suppressed a smile when the adjustment earned a very quiet gasp of pain that Mr. Hawke immediately tried to cover with a fake yawn. I didn’t apologize—we weren’t talking, right?
He winced again as I rolled his ankle from side to side, my fingers pressed against the joints to feel for any injuries the nurse might have missed before. I was almost gentle.
“Oh, and I’m not a doctor,” I said. “I’m a physical therapist.” Another slow twist, another halted breath. Don’t smile. Don’t smile.
“Oh, yeah,” he growled, “you’re physical alright. I ain’t sure you’re doin’ me any good right now, but, hey; at least I got a pretty lady with her hands on my body. After the last couple of days, I’ll take what I can get.”
I ignored the comment. I should have set him straight, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it with any strength. Instead, I rounded the foot of the hospital bed and took his other foot, more gently this time, and took it through the same tests. As I did, I snuck another look at his bruised face.
His nose was off kilter, I realized, looking at it from this angle. Broken, yes—but not just recently. This guy had been in more than a few fights, I decided. It was a wonder I hadn’t seen him in here before. That same hardness in his body was in his eyes as well.
However, as he watched my hands, I saw something else there. Something about him… he watched intently and there was a raw kind of honesty there. Not artifice, no pretense. This was a guy who would tell you how he felt, what he was thinking, without holding back. Obviously, there was no filter between his brain and his mouth.
His eyes flickered up from my work on his ankle and he caught me looking again. He brushed a hand through his closely cropped dark hair.
“Like what you see?” He asked, smiling with a cracked set of teeth that were tinted red in places from where his gums had apparently bled. “I’m a little sore right now, but if you climb on top and promise to be gentle with me…”
My face flooded with heat. And not all of it anger.
Damn it Yvonne.
I blamed her, she’d put the ideas in my head.
“Let’s keep this professional, Mr. Hawke,” I said. But it took an effort to sound as exasperated as I had with Mr. Bradberry.
He grunted, shrugged, clenched his jaw. His eyes closed tightly against the apparent pain of that, too, and he finally snorted softly as the pain either passed or sank back down to his considerable threshold. “Worth a try. I’m going fuckin’ insane staring at these walls.”
“I’ll let you off easy on account of the concussion,” I sighed. I finished with his leg and paused before pushing myself to approach the upper part of the bed. “I need to check your ribs for damage, see how much of it is in the muscle. It’s probably going to hurt.” He didn’t react. “A lot.”
His chest rose and fell with a careful sigh, and he nodded. “Do it.”
I did try to be gentle now, as much as I could. Broken ribs could be tortuously painful, no matter how used to pain you were, and I was guessing that Mr. Hawke had a considerable threshold for it. There was no getting around the need to know the extent of the damage, though. He could take it for a minute.
I prodded the spaces between his ribs with my fingers, carefully, but his body tensed with spasm. He didn’t stop me, but as I continued down the rows of intercostals, sweat beaded up on his forehead and his hands began to grip the sheets of the bed tightly. None the less, he didn’t complain, or tell me to stop, or even make a sound.
He got props for that, at least. Asshole or not, he wasn’t all show. He was genuinely tough.
Then again, maybe the painkillers were working.
I finished, shutting down the part of my brain that noticed just how thick the muscle over his chest was, how solid the muscles of his upper abdomen that lined the lower ribs. No no no. Off limits. And after what he’d said before, it was a point of pride.
