Sinful Rewards 11 (7 page)

Chapter Eight

“W
E
’
LL END UP
at the Road Gator, but first we’ll stop in at the ball,” Hawke compromises, slipping his hand into his tuxedo jacket as though he’s reassuring himself he still has something—likely his big brick of a phone. “I want you to have your grand entrance.”

Tension radiates from his well-dressed form. Worry lines frame his lips. My grand entrance comes at a cost I’m unwilling to pay.

But mere words won’t change his mind.

“It’s a beautiful summer evening.” I rub my palms over the lapels of his tuxedo, pressing my curves against his muscle. “Why don’t we drive along Lake Shore Drive, look at Lake Michigan, Navy Pier, the Shedd, and talk about our plans for the evening?” I swivel my hips against his hardness, aware that Mack, our bodyguard for the evening, is watching us.

“Belinda—”

Seeing the refusal in the jut of Hawke’s jaw, I cup the bulge in his pants.

“Fuck.” My military man jerks, his eyes flashing with a savage desire. I grin at him. He shakes his head and turns to Mack. “Tell Prick to drive us along the lakefront until I tell him otherwise.”

Bee for the win. I suppress a cheer.

Hawke’s lips twitch. “You’re a terror, love.” He helps me into the limousine. My ass hits the leather seat. He crowds me against the wall, and the door closes.

I wait for him to pull me onto his lap, to kiss me senseless, to flip my skirt up, shred my panties with his tremendous strength, unzip his pants and pound his cock into my moist pussy. He doesn’t move, gazing at me with a mixture of lust and frustration.

“I’m wearing panties,” I murmur, aware that he prefers me bare, open and ready for him.

A hurting sound comes from deep in his throat. “I can’t touch you.” Hawke’s voice is sensuously low. “You look so pretty, and I won’t be careful. I want you too much.”

“You’ll lose control,” I whisper.

He pulls on his collar and nods.

I like it when he loses control. I like it very much. “Then I’ll have to touch you.” I straddle him, my loose skirt flowing around his legs.

A bead of sweat forms on Hawke’s forehead. “Belinda.” His voice sounds choked.

“This doesn’t look comfortable.” I pull on his bow tie, unraveling the strip of black fabric. “Did you wear the bow tie for me?”

“Only for you.” He gazes at me with a toe-curling hunger.

“I appreciate the effort.” I undo the top button of his crisp white shirt. He exhales raggedly as though it had been strangling him. “You look stunning.” My rough, tough man will never look classically handsome. “But I’ve gotten used to your black T-shirts.”

Hawke’s eyes glow. “You think my T-shirts are ugly.”

“They’re hideous.” I smile, brushing my fingertips over his clean-shaven jaw. “I’ve also grown attached to your stubble,” I mouth along his skin, leaving a trail of glitter. “I like the way it burns.” I drag my lips down his neck, destroying my lipstick.

“I went to a barber.” He shifts under me, pushing the ridge in his pants against my panty-clad mons. “With my scars, it’s damn near impossible to get a perfect shave.”

I flick the tip of my tongue over the silver nick under Hawke’s chin. His stubble is sexy and practical. “Shaving is overrated.”

I pay homage to his face, laving every ridge, every mark, every remnant of his danger-filled life. He tastes of salt and arousal, with a hint of forever, and nothing has ever felt so right, our forms entwined, our souls connected.

He must feel this too. He must. I suck on Hawke’s right earlobe, and his eyelashes lower, gold dancing on the tips. My former marine doesn’t touch me, his hands remaining at his sides, his body tensing more and more with each caress.

The floor vibrates under our feet. The limousine is moving. I glance over my shoulder. The driver’s partition is lowered. Hawke’s men could be watching us, listening to us, and this thrills me, pushing me to do more.

I unbutton his jacket and slip my hands between the silk lining and his cotton shirt. His muscles undulate under my fingertips, a fine layer of material separating our skin, and his breathing quickens, the warm air stirring the painstakingly arranged curls framing my face.

He wants me and I want him, desperately, caught in my own game. I’m no longer thinking of the charity ball, of changing my stubborn biker’s mind. All I know is him, his form beneath me, the heat rolling over his huge frame in seductive waves, the scent of leather, engine grease, and man engulfing me.

“I ache for you, sweetheart.” Hawke’s fingers clench and unclench, clench and unclench. “My balls are ready to explode.”

“We can’t have that.” I sink to the floor before my military man, kneeling between his legs. “I love your balls.” I fondle Hawke through his pants, savoring the length and girth of him, admiring the contrast of my small pale hands against the black fabric. “They’re two of your best body parts.”

“What other parts do you like?” He spreads his legs wider, giving me better access to his huge form.

“Your cock pleases me very much.” I say the dirty words loud enough for the men in the front seat to hear. “I plan to suck you dry.”

Hawke’s nostrils flare. “You’ll muss your lipstick.”

“I’ll survive.” Judging from the pink trail on his face, my lipstick is already destroyed. “A big, hard man”—I gently squeeze him and he presses his lips together—“once told me that passion was messy.”

I nudge his bulge to the side and carefully unzip his pants. My fingers touch hot, bare flesh and my lips twitch. Hawke’s veneer of civility is one layer of fabric thick. Underneath his expensive tuxedo, he’s all primitive male.

I meet his gaze. “This man also said I could be myself with him.” I nuzzle against his rigid shaft, inhaling his musk, rubbing my lips, chin, cheeks over him. “You can be yourself with me, Hawke.”

I follow a vein in his cock, licking him from base to rim. Hawke folds his fingers into tight fists, his knuckles whitening.

“I love you the way you are.” I flick my tongue over the bead of precum glistening on his tip, savoring his taste. His cock bobs, his response gratifyingly intense. “I’ll wear my designer dresses and you can wear your awful T-shirts and threadbare blue jeans.”

“I can’t go to the ball in blue jeans.” Hawke’s voice is strained.

“We’re not attending the ball.”

My military man’s eyes, now brilliant blue with arousal, glitter with refusal. He’ll insist on going to the charity ball, striving to make me happy. His mouth opens.

Before he protests, I push my lips over his tip, sinking down, down, down on him. He groans, his words smothered by desire, and I smile around his shaft. He’s mine now, my normally intelligent former marine unable to think. I’m in control of him, of our future.

He taps the back of my throat and I suck, my cheeks indenting around him. Hawke lifts his ass off the limousine’s leather cushion, the rumbling in his chest growing louder. I release him and he slumps in the seat.

“Belinda.” His chest rises and falls. “I—”

I suck again and Hawke stops midsentence, grooves etching between his eyebrows, around his mouth. His strength is mine to wield, his reactions belonging to me. I bob up and down, taking him deep, then withdrawing, taking him deep, then withdrawing, his private curls tickling my chin, his shaft pulsing against my lips.

“Love.” Hawke shakes, his knuckles cracking. The damn man is inflicting pain on himself in his attempt to remain still, to not grab me, muss my hair, my makeup.

I can’t allow that. Reaching behind me, I remove the diamond comb from my hair and set it on the seat beside him. My carefully crafted curls fall, bouncing over my back and shoulders, a cascade of brown tendrils around my face.

Hawke gazes at me with awe, his perusal heating me all over. “God. You’re so beautiful.” His fingers twitch, red crescent moons carved into his palms, yet he doesn’t touch me, waiting for my permission.

I straighten, releasing his shaft with a juicy pop, and I meet his gaze, see the ardor in his eyes. He might not love me, not yet, but this isn’t simple lust. It can’t be.

I smile slowly, hovering over his tip. “I need your big hands in my hair and your cock between my lips.” Using my best phone-sex voice, I give him the naughty words both of us desire. “I want you to use me like the dirty little pervert I am, fucking my face with everything you have, filling my mouth with your hot cum.”

The tension in the air stretches, stretches, stretches. Hawke’s countenance darkens with every heartbeat. A band of emotion constricts around my chest, the waiting unbearable.

I purse my lips, inhale, count to five, then blow over his cock head.

“Fuck.” My military man surges forward, breaking under this light caress. I instinctively move backward. Hawke doesn’t allow me to escape him. He sinks his hands into my curls, curves his fingers over my scalp, and pulls me onto him, forcing me to take every inch of his massive cock.

This is how wild I make him, how much I shred his restraint. I moan with happiness as he ravishes me, the sound muffled by his girth. He rides my face hard, thrusting upward, plunging into my mouth again and again. I grip his thighs, holding on, never wanting to let him go.

The limousine’s windows are tinted, but I imagine that men gaze through the glass, watching Hawke drive his cock between my lips. My cheeks flush with excitement and my curls fall around his hips, teasing his skin. I wiggle my ass, wishing I were naked, bare to my audience. They’d see the wetness on my pussy lips, the tautness of my nipples.

They wouldn’t judge me for this reaction. Knowing I was Hawke’s kinky freak would turn the men on, their pants tenting around their erections. They’d want to unzip, pull out their cocks, and take turns fucking my pussy while my former marine fucks my mouth. Two men, my former marine and a complete stranger, would pound into my body, their balls slapping against me, their muscular forms slick with perspiration.

I rub my thighs together, the friction delightful. This is merely a fantasy. Hawke would never allow another man to touch me, and I don’t want to be touched. I’m his and his alone, cherished, needed, protected by his strength.

I shake my head, causing my curls to bounce against him, knowing how this crazes him, my rough, tough former marine having a weakness for the softness, the length, the sheer femininity of my hair. Hawke growls, the carnal sound spiraling my excitement higher, and he drives into me harder, cupping the back of my head with his massive hands.

My lips hum and my mind spins, my tongue cradling his shaft. I’m aware of everything—the tickle of his hair against my skin, the bloom of his cock head, the veins on his length. His grunts echo in the interior of the vehicle. The floor vibrates under my knees.

“Look at me, love.” Hawke shakes me.

I obey his order, meeting his gaze. His blunt face is even more severe, none of his scars hidden by stubble, and his eyes are brilliant blue, the rarest of sapphires, fierce desire reflecting in their depths.

“You’re mine.” He thrusts deep and roars, shooting his hot cum down my throat, bathing my mouth with his essence. I swallow and swallow and swallow, while his fingers twist in my hair, his grip on me reassuringly secure.

“Priceless,” Hawke breathes, tilting his head back. Not liking a mess, I lick him clean, laving every inch of his cock with my tongue. His fingers jerk against my scalp. “You’re priceless, Belinda.”

I zip his tuxedo pants. “You’re sparkly.” The glitter from my face has transferred to the black fabric, adding an impossible-to-ignore splattering of shine around his groin.

Hawke gazes down at his crotch. “Oh shit.” He rubs at the glitter. This spreads the reflective particles. “I can’t go to the ball looking like this. Everyone will know what we’ve been doing.”

“Yep.” I smile smugly, kneeling before him. “My reputation will be destroyed, again.” I know my honorable man would never allow this.

Hawke narrows his eyes. “You planned this, didn’t you?” He draws me upward and sets me firmly on his lap, his thighs solid under my ass. “You knew your sparkles would transfer to my pants.”

“How would I know that?” I blink rapidly, striving to appear as innocent as possible. I’d hoped for exactly this result.

Hawke’s shoulders shake. He’s laughing at me. “Your evasion tactics are worse than your lying, love.” His voice lilts with humor. “I know when I’m outgunned. We won’t attend the ball, not tonight, but I own this tuxedo.” He brushes the curls away from my face, his calloused fingertips skimming along my cheeks. “If there’s another fancy event you want to attend, we’ll make an appearance.”

“Okay,” I agree, touched by his offer. He’d don the dreaded tuxedo again, put his team on high alert, risk his privacy for me. “How do I look?” I gather my curls, baring my neck, and stick the diamond comb in my hair. “Will the bouncers at the Road Gator allow me inside?”

“You look pretty.” Hawke’s words are sweet yet offer little reassurance. He thinks I look pretty without makeup. “Everyone at the Road Gator will also know what we’ve been doing,” he warns.

I glance toward the front of the limousine. The partition is open and the men have phones. I suspect everyone at the Road Gator is already aware of what we’ve been doing. “No one will doubt you belong to me.” I cover his lips with mine, staking my claim on my military man.

Hawke captures my face between his rough hands and opens to me, uncaring that I taste like him. Our tongues tumble and tangle, dancing in a rhythm only we hear. I curl my fingers over his shoulders and press my breasts against his chest.

His mouth is familiar. His smooth chin is not, the combination intriguing me. I feel naughty, as though I’m cheating on Hawke with himself. He strokes my cheekbones with his thumbs and I purr with happiness, undulating against him.

“I do belong to you.” Hawke rests his forehead against mine, the tips of our noses touching. “I won’t allow anyone to doubt that.”

“No?”

“No, I won’t.” He raises his head, his voice growing more powerful. “We’re going to the Road Gator.”

The men in the front seat cheer.

Chapter Nine

B
Y THE TIME
the limousine slows and stops, my lipstick has been kissed clean and Hawke’s face wears as much glitter as mine. My military man doesn’t wait for Mack to open the door for us. He exits the vehicle, blocking the gap with his body, glances to the left and to the right.

He’s looking for hostiles. I stifle a sigh. Once a bodyguard, always a bodyguard.

“What the fuck is going on here?” He doesn’t sound happy. I tense. Is the Road Gator under attack? I gaze around me, looking for a weapon, determined to defend Hawke, to protect the man I love.

A deep voice replies, the words too mumbled for me to decipher.

“You did the right thing.” Hawke barks with laughter, his joy dissipating my fears. “She’ll love it.” He steps to the side and extends one of his hands. I grasp his creased palm and allow him to pull me to my feet.

Brightness blinds me. “Hawke?” I increase my grip on his fingers, unable to see my surroundings, to see the threats he’s trained me to detect.

“Too much, men.” He bats the air with his free hand.

The lights dim and my eyes adjust. Bikes of all shapes and sizes and colors are lined up on both sides of us, the barrage of polished chrome and immaculately clean leather reaching from the limousine to the door of the bar.

Men in black leather and denim, sporting tattoos, scars, and excess body hair, proudly straddle these machines, sheepish grins on their faces, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They direct their bikes’ headlights toward the center, illuminating the narrow pathway left between the front wheels. A green army tarp has been carefully folded and placed on the black pavement.

Oh my God. I cover my mouth with my hand, realizing what they’ve done.

These men, these wonderful, crazy, tortured men, have created their version of a red carpet. They went to all of this work, all of this effort, to make me happy, to make my dreams come true, creating the grand entrance I’ve always wanted.

“You did this for me?” I struggle to hold back my emotion, emotion I know these rough, tough men won’t be comfortable seeing.

“It isn’t a red carpet, miss.” Dawg, Hawke’s second in command, steps forward, his head bowed, his left foot dragging. “But it was the best we could do on such short notice.”

“It’s perfect.” I blink back tears, stunned that they crafted this magical moment for me. “It’s absolutely perfect. Thank you, Dawg.”

“It was a team effort, miss.” He ducks his head, red streaking over his weathered cheeks. “We all worked together.”

They did this because they care for me, because they consider me one of their own. I tilt my head back, not allowing my tears to fall.

Hawke squeezes my hand.

He’s here. I have to be strong for him, for his men.

I give them a bright, brilliant smile. “Thank you all!” I wave, feeling like a Hollywood actress addressing her beloved fans.

The men hoot and holler and honk their horns, more enthusiastic than any award-show audience. I straighten with pride. These men are looking at me, honoring me.

“Are you ready to walk the green carpet?” Hawke bends his arm. His bow tie hangs around his neck, his pants sparkle, yet there isn’t a movie star on the planet who takes my breath away like he does.

I slide my hand through the gap and place my palm on his forearm. “I’m ready.”

The men create an almost embarrassing ruckus, flashing their bikes’ lights, as we walk along the green army tarp. I beam at each biker, fully relishing this experience, knowing I’m safe, cherished, protected. There are no concerns about safety, about being judged or targeted. These aren’t paparazzi hoping to cash in on an embarrassing photo or seeking to spread hurtful gossip. These spectators all care for Hawke, care for me.

A well-dressed Prick opens the door, a grin on his face. “Ma’am, sir.” He straightens and taps his fingers to his forehead.

“Prick.” I return the salute. Lips twitch—Hawke’s, Prick’s, mine. One day, I’ll master the movement, but not today.

I step over the threshold, enter the quiet, dimly lit bar, and the place erupts, men and women clapping and cheering. Ellen, garbed in a long black gown, leans against a wood-paneled wall, her wolf whistle earsplitting. Eighty Proof, the bartender, fills glasses with alcohol. I recognize many of the men. They attended my impromptu lunch party.

I wanted to know what it was like to belong, to walk into a room filled with important people and feel as if I deserved to be there.

I’m surrounded by veterans, men and women who fought for our country, who were willing to die for my freedom. These important people are smiling, laughing, welcoming me with open arms, accepting me as one of them.

Hawke hooks one of his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him. “It’s not the experience you dreamed about.”

“No, it’s not,” I agree, my voice watery. “It’s so much better than anything I could have imagined.” I gaze up at him, my emotions dangerously close to the edge. “I belong here, Hawke, with you, with your team.”

His eyes gleam. “You deserve to be here.” He utters the words I yearn to hear.

I look at him, unable to say anything more, trusting him to read me as he always does.

“Oh, love.” Hawke sweeps me into his arms and covers my lips with his, kissing me soundly in full view of his employees.

I clutch his shoulders, needing this connection, needing him. He slides his tongue along mine, our mouths meshing, our bodies becoming one. I need more. I press against him.

“Belinda.” He pulls back, his eyes brilliant blue with desire.

The whistles and catcalls finally pierce my passion-induced haze, and my face heats. “Sorry.” He’s the boss. I shouldn’t be kissing him like that in front of his men.

“Don’t ever be sorry for responding to me.” Hawke’s lips hitch into the lopsided smile I adore. “Now no one will doubt you’re mine.”

He tucks me into his big form, his body heat wrapping around me like a Hermes scarf, and I inhale deeply, drawing his distinctive scent into my lungs.

“This is my girl,” Hawke declares. Another round of applause rocks the bar.

Men slap his shoulders and back. My former marine curves his body around mine, protecting me from our rowdy well-wishers. I snuggle into his muscular physique, unconcerned. He’d never allow me to be trampled.

The crowd eventually disperses. Men and women return to their tables and to their pool games. Some intrepid couples find space on the tiny dance floor. Hawke guides me toward the bar.

Bodies shift, freeing the two bar stools closest to the wall. My military man grasps my hips and lifts me easily, setting me on one seat. He then claims the other, placing his huge form between me and the rest of the room, a giant mountain of muscle safeguarding me from harm.

“We’ll have two ginger ales.” Hawke holds up two fingers. Eighty Proof, the bartender, nods, takes out two wineglasses from underneath the bar.

“We’re being fancy tonight.” I smile, wiggling on the bar stool, my legs dangling.

My military man rests his left hand on my hip. “Only the best for my girl,” he teases me, his eyes twinkling with humor. “Tell me about this dress.” Hawke caresses the soft fabric. “What makes it special?”

“Didn’t Lona tell you?” I tilt my chin upward.
Did
she help him buy it?

“Lona approved of my choice,” he confirms. “She said you could wear it multiple times. Not that you need to.” He squeezes my hip. “But I know you like items that last.”

“I don’t like it when relationships, even with things, ends,” I admit. If our relationship ever ends, I’ll be devastated. I know this, dread this, and don’t want to think about this right now. “The gown I’m wearing has a classic style.”

I talk about my clothes, about fashion, about the business I’m starting with Cyndi, how we could help everyone have the same sense of belonging I experienced tonight. Hawke asks questions, shares stories about his childhood, his time with Rock, his best friend. Every once in a while, he pats his jacket. I suspect his phone is humming and he’s not answering, his focus on me making a great evening even better.

I spot Dawg moving toward us, a grim expression on his weathered face, and I stifle a sigh, knowing our date night is coming to an end. If Hawke ran a different business, I might begrudge his split loyalties, but he protects people. His job makes the world a safer place, allowing men, women, couples, families to live their lives without fear.

“Hawke, sir.” Dawg snaps into a salute.

Hawke pats his tuxedo jacket. “Not tonight, Dawg.”

His second in command grimaces. “I wouldn’t approach you if it wasn’t important, sir.”

Hawke glances at me, indecision in his pale blue eyes.

I fix a smile on my face. “Go.” I pat his arm. “Your men need you.” He hesitates. “We’re partners, which means they’re my men also,” I add. “I can’t enjoy myself if I know they’re in danger.”

“You’re so damn perfect for me.” My former marine skims his lips over mine. “I’ll be back as soon as I fix this.” He looks around us. “Where is Mack?”

“I’ll take his assignment, sir.” Ellen steps out of the shadows and I blink, her presence surprising me. Has she been watching us all this time?

“Thank you, Ellen.” Hawke nods at the sexy assassin. “Belinda, love.” He cups my face and holds my gaze. “You have my number. If you need anything, call.”

I smile at him, trying to lessen his guilt. “I will.”

“Good.” He kisses me hard on the lips. “Anything my girl wants, she gets,” he instructs as he walks with Dawg through the bar, the crowds parting before him. I lift my chin, pride filling me. My man is a badass, and everyone knows it.

Ellen hikes up her skirt and slides on the bar stool beside me.

My gaze lowers. “You’re wearing boots with a Versace gown?” The contrast of her clunky black military footwear against her designer dress horrifies me.

“I switched my footwear when you finally came to your senses. Heels inhibit movement.” The beautiful assassin shrugs, the movement as unladylike as she is. “At least I didn’t show up with glitter on my crotch.” She smirks. “Fun times with the boss in the limo, huh?” She elbows me.

“He’s not my boss.” I sip my ginger ale, trying to cool my heated cheeks.

“What’s with this?” Ellen flicks a finger against my glass. “Drinks are on the house, didn’t you hear?” She whistles, getting Eighty Proof’s attention. “Two whiskeys, straight up,” she tells the bartender.

Eighty Proof rushes to fill her order, his hands shaking, his movements a blur. My lips curl upward. Everyone, except Hawke, is scared shitless of Ellen. My military man is fierce.

Eighty Proof plunks the drinks in front of Ellen, she slides one glass to me, and my smile fades. “I’m fine with my ginger ale.”

“No one is fine with ginger ale.” Ellen scowls. “You’re one of us now. Stop being a pussy and drink.” She tosses hers back.

Wanting to belong, to truly be one of them, I take a deep breath and do the same. The liquor burns on the way down, warming my stomach. I don’t feel any different. Maybe I’m learning to hold my alcohol.

“Two more,” Ellen orders.

Oh God. I stare at my empty glass. Drinking another whiskey will push my limits. “Ellen—”

“Never refuse a drink.” Ellen puts me in a mock headlock and rubs my head. “Anyone other than me would be insulted.” She abruptly releases me and I almost fall off my bar stool. “Bottoms up.”

After the second whiskey, my night blurs. Mack returns, triumphantly waving a bottle of champagne he found. He hunted down the bubbly for me. I have to have a glass or two or three. I lose count. Members of Hawke’s team toast and I drink.

I also slip off my bar stool. Mack catches me twice and misses once, the floor hard and unforgiving. Then someone gets the bright idea to duct tape my ass to the seat.

“Hawke won’t like this,” I advise, hugging the bar, the wood cool against my cheek. I’m clenching a rag in one of my hands, the scent of furniture polish soothing me.

“She’s right, jackass,” Ellen snips. “When he sees you duct-taped his girl to a bar stool, he’ll have your balls in a jar.”

“We duct-taped Prick to a chair once and Hawke laughed,” Mack points out, a healthy dose of fear edging his words. “Belinda is one of us now.”

“Yeah.” I lift my head. The room tilts, lights and colors spinning around me, and I return my chin to the steady surface of the bar. “I’m one of you. I’ll explain that to him and he’ll understand. He always understands,” I mumble. “I love him so much.”

Ellen groans. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve told us that a million times.”

Hawke has been gone for hours. An assignment must have gone bad. I shouldn’t ask this question. I’m almost certain I’ve already mentioned it.

Oh shit. I have to ask. “Hawke’s not in danger, is he?”

“She asks us this every fifteen minutes like fuckin’ clockwork.” Ellen confirms my suspicions, exasperation in her voice. “It’s your turn to answer this damn question.”

“Hawke’s not in any danger.” Mack is more patient with me. “If his expertise is needed, that means a situation already went FUBAR and the hostiles are long gone. He’s no longer taking assignments. He trusts me to lead them.” The man’s chest puffs out.

“You can’t lead your own ass out of a latrine.” Ellen rolls her eyes. “I’m leading the assignment Tuesday night.”

“I’m leading the assignment Tuesday afternoon,” Mack counters, his new role giving him the confidence to challenge his scary coworker. “He awarded me the first one.”

“My assignment is higher profile.” Ellen curls her top lip. “My team is larger.”

Mack bares his teeth also. “Larger isn’t always better.”

“Do you use that line with your big-breasted bimbos?” She glares at him. “Because it isn’t true in bed, and it certainly isn’t true in the fuckin’ field.”

They natter back and forth, exchanging insults. I listen, not understanding half of the things they’re talking about. The passion is clear though, as is the realization that Hawke made the right decision, delegating his assignments.

Ellen insults Mack’s choice of fuck bunnies for the fifth time. Mack tells her she’d be in a better mood if she got laid. Ellen bounces off her bar stool, slams her fists down on her hips, and glowers at him. He glowers back. Silence stretches.