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

Or holding on to one of the posts as I prepare my flogger and—

Shit, was that a sound? A door slamming?

I strain in my bonds, futilely pulling, trying to get my hands free. I can’t even see what they tied them with. Rope, I’d guess, like my legs and waist.

No other sound echoes in the emptiness, and I let my head fall back. Dammit, I’m so damn thirsty, and I ache everywhere, except for the parts that are numb, like my hands and arms, and that’s even less reassuring.

Not reassuring at all. Because the kidnapping manual says if you don’t feed and give water to your hostages, then you’re planning to kill them. Or intend to let them die. You feed them and make sure their hands don’t fall off if you plan to ask for ransom.

Guess in which category I seem to fall?

Fuck.
I wasn’t supposed to die this weekend. So damn inconvenient. I’ve got stuff to do that just can’t wait, not to mention the Organization to bring down.

***

A bang jerks me awake.

What? Where?

I jolt forward, brought short by the ropes around my limbs, and a shout dies strangled in my throat as the pain hits my shoulders and chest, the inside of my skull.

Fucking
ow
.

And fuck, I can’t turn and see what’s going on. Another bang—the door closing?—and force myself to wait and stop struggling.

They come into view, two guys dressed in black wife-beaters and jeans, and nope, I’ve never seen them before in my life. Shit, no clue there. They’re built like tanks, taller than my six-foot-four, arms bulging with muscles and covered in tattoos, their faces sporting bristly dark beards.

Oh joy.
Clichéd-looking thugs have come to beat me up. Can my day get any fucking better? I want to ask, but I bite my lip and wait to see how things unfold.

Clichéd is good. It means I know the script.

One of them, with a golden earring glinting on one ear, folds his arms over his chest and grins at me. Some of his teeth are missing. “Comfortable?”

I just stare back at him. He’s one ugly motherfucker. There’s a scar on his cheek, partly hidden by the beard, and another on his arm. Looks like a slash from a knife.

Thug to the bone, huh?

“Rest while you can,” the other one says. “You won’t be comfortable for long.”

Well, this has just become interesting. Somewhat off script. And promising.

Because uncomfortable is better than dead. And it probably means someone does want to talk to me. Looks like I’m not going to die today after all.

I slump in my bonds.

“Hey, asshole, are you paying attention?” The ugly one grabs me by the hair—dammit, why did I let it grow?—and snaps my head back against the concrete pillar. “Answer.”

“You told me to rest while I can,” I rasp, and fuck, my throat hurts, it’s so damn dry. “Can I have some water?”

“Can I have some water?”
he repeats in a high-pitched voice, waggling his brows. “Hear that, Elliott?”

“Why, is he deaf?” I watch him from under my lashes, wincing when he pulls harder on my hair. “Or maybe your Daffy Duck impersonation is beyond him. To be honest, it’s beyond me, too.”

“You goddamn son of a bitch.” He slams my head back on the pillar, then again, until the pain causes black dots to swim in my vision and my ears to ring. “Fucking smartass. You’ll regret this.”

Yeah, it happens a lot. I regret lots of things, on a daily basis.

But not this.

I open my mouth to say something that will probably earn me a proper beating, because ugly face is right, I’m a smartass, and I own it, when the other guy hauls him off me, cursing.

“Enough, Big Johnny. Get off him, or the Boss will have your ass.”

“Yeah.” Fuck, I’m dizzy, and I’m trying to swallow bile as much as my laughter. “Boss wants me alive.”

I mean, come on.
Big Johnny?
Are these guys for real?

Aaaand we’re back to the script. I’m tied up in an abandoned warehouse with Elliott and Big Johnny who wants to bash my head in, and we’re waiting for the boss. Could this get any cornier?

But at least I’m starting to get a feel of how things are. Study your opponent, the kidnapping manual says. Find out what they want. Figure out their weaknesses. Try not to get yourself killed by giving smartass answers.

Yeah, about that last one…

Follow the manual, Hawk. Be patient. Shut your fucking mouth and wait.

***

Wait for the boss. That was my resolution. Don’t rise to the bait when the two morons guarding you prod and poke you and kick at your legs out of boredom and lack of imagination.

Listen.

Only their conversation is boring as fuck. They’re dissing a girl who refused to put out for ugly face—is it any wonder? Just for his conversational skills, or lack thereof, she’d better steer clear—and discussing the football season, then switch to the fascinating topic of toenail fungi.

Someone kill me already.

Oh wait, I’m trying to avoid that. Kinda slipped my mind for a second. That’s how boring this is. Good thing the pain is distracting me, or I’d be asleep and missing out on all this awesome fun.

The door opens. The door closes. Dammit, I hate not being able to see who walks in behind my back. The boss, I presume? I need to know who he is. Need to know if this has to do with the Organization, the mafia, or if it’s something else completely.

Wasted enough time with these two morons already.

They move back as the steps approach me but don’t show any signs of wanting to stand at attention or anything, so now I have to assume this isn’t the boss.

Fuck.

When the guy comes into view, I give him a once-over, keeping my expression neutral. He’s about my age, handsome, with a three-day-beard and slicked-back dark hair.

He’s a douchebag, I can tell from taking one look at him. And he’s a sadist. Which is confirmed when he draws back his leg and kicks me in the stomach before he says a word.

Son of a bitch.

“Good morning to you, too,” I wheeze, trying to hunch over the pain and not able to.

Who is this guy? He sneers at me and rubs his jaw as if considering where to kick next. So not good right now. If my hands were free, I’d mop the floor with him, and the fucker knows it.

His eyes gleam, and he smiles.

That’s a bad sign. Page nineteen in the kidnapping manual: “When your kidnapper smiles, be afraid.”

He lowers himself until he’s sitting on his heels and stares me in the face—so close I consider spitting on him, but I still haven’t gotten back the hang of breathing. I’m wheezing, hoping he can tell from my ice-cold stare I would like him to choke on his own spit and die, when he grabs my hair—again, dammit—and slams my head back against the pillar.

Fuck, so dizzy. Is this enough to give me a concussion? Is it enough to make me puke on him? God, I hope so.

And then he says, “If you as much as breathe my way again, I’m gonna serve you your balls on a plate for dinner tonight.”

“’S okay,” I gasp, blinking, trying to clear my eyes. “Wasn’t hungry anyway.”

He slams my head back one more time, and everything goes black.

Layla

“Layla?” The whine of an office chair swiveling around and a familiar deep voice greets me as I walk into the dim office. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hey, Dad. Nice to see you, too.” I flop into the chair across from his overloaded desk and wait until he has turned all the way around from his shelves to face me. “How is it going?”

“Didn’t I tell you not to come here?”

I sigh and cross my legs, then fiddle with my bracelet—an expensive one Hawk gave me some months ago. Can’t remember why I put it on today. “Yeah, you always tell me that. Can’t see what’s so dangerous about a shipping company, Dad, honest.”

My shoes are killing me, but I love these heels. Mom bought them for me in New York where I went to visit her this past week. They make my legs look long and shapely, and it gets the guys staring.

“It doesn’t matter. I told you not to come here. Can’t you listen to me for once?” He rubs a hand over his face. “Just like your mother.”

Angry heat rushes to my face. “That’s right. She didn’t bend to your commands. How weird, huh?”

“Layla…”

“No.” I lean forward in my chair and stab my finger on his desk. “I won’t just dance to your commands, Dad. Not without a reason, not anymore. In case you didn’t notice, I’m an adult now, and I can make up my mind about things. You said you’d explain to me why seeing him was dangerous, but you haven’t explained anything, have you?”

“Jamie Fleming, or Hawk as you call him, was never good news.” He glares at me from whiskey-colored eyes, just like mine, and runs a hand over his receding hairline. “Especially since his parents were convicted and thrown into prison.”

“He put them there. He’s not corrupt like them.” And I don’t know why I’m defending him.

Why am I defending him?

“The world is corrupt. He’s not any better.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You talk like you know something. Something more than all the news sites are saying.”

“Didn’t you ask him what they were convicted of, this guy you opened your legs for?”

I get to my feet so fast I almost fall over and have to steady myself on the desk. “Screw you.”

Should have followed Mom to New York. Except I like college here, and I love my friends.

“Layla.” He’s on his feet, too, his glare matching mine. We’re father and daughter all right. “I’m only looking out for you.”

“No, you’re controlling my life and not telling me anything!”

And Hawk has refused to tell me details about his parents’ arrest. I only know what the media reported. He’s always managed to distract me irritatingly fast with his body and mouth and the games he likes to play with me.

Or used to play, anyway, before he pulled another of his vanishing acts. Quite frankly, I can’t do this anymore, this game of hide-and-seek. I’m done with him.

The thought makes my chest tight, but what else can I do?

“Jamie Fleming is off-limits to you,” Dad says, looking away, jaw clenching. “He’s involved in illegal business with the Chinese mafia and other dangerous people.”

“The Chinese mafia?” I bite my lip. This doesn’t sound good. “Are you sure?”

“The Boss says the Fleming heir is dangerous, and I don’t like it, kiddo. I don’t like it at all, and neither should you. There are plenty of men out there. Forget about this Hawk guy. And get out of here before the Boss wanders in and sees you. He doesn’t like it when family drops by work.”

Forget Hawk is easier said than done. Still, I’m trying.

“Christ, Dad. Your boss sounds even worse than Hawk, seriously.”

Dad’s face hardens. “Enough. You think I’m joking around? Stay away, is that clear?”

“Crystal.”
Sheesh.
“I only came by to tell you I’m back from New York, and that Mom says hi, but honestly—”

“Don’t come back here, Layla. I mean it.” His glare is now ice cold, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Dad doesn’t normally scare me, so I stumble backward a step, wondering what’s going on here. “Get out!”

Shaking my head, confused and rattled, I grab my purse and get the hell out of there.

***

What just happened? It’s not like I’ve ever been very close to my dad, but since he and Mom got divorced, and she moved away, I’d thought we were close enough. Close as a father and daughter often are—comfortable in each other’s presence, easy enough to ask for some extra money to buy something I needed, or to tell him about my vacation plans or my studies.

My dad is not a scary man. He’s the head of a relatively small shipping company under a bigger operation umbrella. He manages trucks and warehouses and moves goods around the US. That’s my understanding of his business.

Can’t say I’ve ever been interested in what he does. I love books. Book design, covers, marketing, bookshops and everything that revolves around books and stories. It’s why I’m studying publishing.

But this Boss of his… he’s been like a ghost most of my life. I’ve been hearing about him, the guy who owns the company, but I’ve never seen him.

Now I’m sort of glad. Glad he hasn’t seen me, either.

Crap.

This is ridiculous, I tell myself as I walk out the door of the office and into the watery sunshine. I’m overreacting. Dad was overreacting. He’s probably overstressed and tired and had a fight with his boss or something.

I honestly felt like I was three and told to go stand in a corner. I was just visiting my dad for chrissakes. Done it a thousand times before. He was never too happy about me hanging around his work place, but he never yelled at me to get out, either.

Dad and me, we’re going to have words. About this, and about trying to control my life.

Although…
Hawk.
Hawk is involved with mafia? Was Dad right? This really sucks, because the guy’s handsome like a god, and fucks like one, too—and I shouldn’t be thinking about that.

Still, my face heats as I remember the last time we were together. How he pushed me against his bike and used his fingers to make me come, then fucked me right then and there, in the shadows but still where everyone could see us if they passed by.

Where everyone could see him marking me, taking me. Owning me.

And yeah, I know it’s just sex, but he is so hot I can’t help it. I want him, even if he’s a cold-hearted, rich bastard who only uses me for his needs. Hey, I have needs, too, and he’s a sex machine.

So we’re quits, I guess. Or we were, until I decided I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t. Need to remember that, and not run back to him next time he calls.
If
he calls.

Damn man has spoiled me for anyone else, not that I’d ever tell him that. My best friend Dorothy would tell me—like she told me a thousand times already—that sex isn’t the most important thing in a relationship. That a boyfriend has to be foremost attentive and gentle and affectionate.

Hawk and I, we’re not in a relationship. So that doesn’t count. My last boyfriend was a dork and a jerk, and the sex sucked. In my experience, boyfriends and good sex don’t go hand-in- hand. Maybe one day I will find the guy who can do both, but for now…