4. Hunter
CHAPTER 4
hunter
B ack at my ugly-as-fuck house, I sat alone on the back deck, a glass of scotch in my hand that I didn't drink.
Why?
Because it was wholly inferior to the obscure stuff I had at Badd Kitty.
And because I'm too lost in thought about Delia.
She was a complication I didn't need. At fucking all.
I mean, how the fuck was I supposed to handle this situation? It wasn't immediately obvious what her role in the larger Badd collection of companies was, but I wasn't sure how much that mattered—regardless of her official role, she obviously had sway. Which meant I had to be very, very careful with her.
I stopped mixing business with pleasure because it caused problems. I'd bang my assistant, things would go sideways when I got tired of her or she wanted more than I'd clearly defined at the outset as nonnegotiably not happening, and then things would get messy, and I'd have to fire her, and then Harriet would have to hire a new girl, and rinse and repeat.
Now, I find my pleasure strictly outside of work. No exceptions. The problem that has arisen lately is that I've been increasingly bored with and uninterested in the women I've spent time with. They're all the same. Wealthy, privileged, vapid, and boring. They want the trappings. The billionaire. The attention. The fun. For a long time, I was content with that. See and be seen, gallivant around Manhattan with beautiful women with the right pedigrees and resumes. The sex was good. But…
I'm bored.
It's deeper than mere boredom, though.
It’s not just that everything and everyone is the same. That is true enough—the women I've dated the past few years have all been pretty well interchangeable. And honestly, that's true of my life as a whole. One day is the same as the next and the last. Making money has become rote. It’s not fun anymore. It's not challenging.
I guess that's at the root of why I'm here in Alaska.
And more to the point, why I'm so interested in Delia Badd.
She's unlike anyone I've ever met. She's not the tall, willowy model type that is so prevalent in the circles I frequent in NYC. She's not vapid or clueless. She's got bite. A sharp mouth and quick wit. She's not blinded by who I am. I mean, sure, she doesn’t seem to know who I am, not really. I guess I take that for granted—being known on sight. The hat, casual clothes, and nickname wouldn't fool anyone back home. So either she doesn't realize, or she doesn't care.
It’s refreshing. Frustrating in a way because she doesn't respond to anything I do or say in a way I'm accustomed to. But that makes it a challenge.
She's a challenge.
And the issue is that I'm already losing sight of why I'm here—to purchase or invest in the Badd's Bar spread of companies.
My phone rings; it’s Givey.
I answered it and put it on speaker. "What's up, Givey?"
"You’re being weird."
"I've always been weird," I answered. "That's not new."
"Weirder than usual. You're in fucking Alaska? And I had to hear it from The Hatchet?"
I sighed. "It was a last-second decision."
"One you need to explain because I’m fuckin' lost. What the hell business could you possibly have in motherfucking Alaska , Hunter?" His perplexed frustration is apparent, if nothing else, in his use of my actual name.
"A restaurant acquisition, or at least an investment." I sipped the scotch, grimaced, and set it aside.
"In Alaska."
"Yes. Not a restaurant, though, a bar. Or, rather, a few of them. Owned by a very interesting family."
A long silence. "What's her name?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The girl. What's her name?"
"Givey."
"Hawk?" He laughed. "Sure, a bar. A few bars. In Alaska . Except for vacation, you haven't set foot outside Manhattan in your life. Sure, you own businesses and companies all over the world…through intermediaries, umbrellas, and shells. You didn't go to fucking China when you bought that telecom company. You didn’t go to Colorado when you invested in that medical startup. You own a whole fucking thirty-story skyrise in Chicago that you’ve never laid eyes on, let alone set foot in. And now, suddenly, you decide you’re investing in some random company in motherfucking Alaska , and you have to go there in person for…what reason? You could have, and probably did, look at the details in a write-up put on your desk by that Elara girl you asked me about, decided you wanted to invest or purchase, and then all you do is send an email or make a few phone calls, and there it is, done. What you don’t do is go there. So…what is it, buddy? Are you having an existential crisis? A mid-life crisis a decade or so early? Or…it's a woman."
I stood up and paced the width of the expansive travertine back patio. "Definitely a crisis of some sort. Coming here was…impulsive. I've been expanding into the restaurant industry lately—I have three new properties in New York. It's a different field with new challenges. And I guess I wanted something different, so Elara and I chose this portfolio. They're a different kind of people and they run their business in a very unique way. A traditional approach to investment or acquisition wouldn't work. And, to be honest, I was bored and needed a change of scenery. So, here I am."
Givey laughed. "You're bored."
"Shut up," I muttered.
"No, no. Tell me more, mister world's most eligible bachelor, who has literally anything and everything he could ever want or need at his fingertips."
"Exactly!" I shouted. "In the world of business, I've done it all. I’ve conquered every Everest. At least, those that interest me. I have no interest in competing with Meta or Google or whoever. And I have no interest in the literal Everest—I’m not a thrill seeker. But yeah, I'm bored. I'm bored with business. Bored with life. Bored with women. This is a challenge."
"And her name is…."
I huffed, annoyed that he knew me so well. "Delia Badd."
"Does she know who you are? Because if I was a betting man, I'd wager you're trying to go incognito, lying about who you are and what you really want." There's a subtext of laughter in his voice.
"Shut up."
He did laugh out loud, then. "I'm right! God, I know you too well." Another laugh. "That's why you called to ask me about what I call you. You're telling her something like 'my friends call me Hawk.'" He dropped his voice into a rough, mocking growl that sounded nothing like me. "Tell me I'm wrong."
“You're fucking obnoxious is what you are."
He sighed. "Hawk, buddy. You're a fucking mess."
"Gee, thanks, ol’ buddy old pal." I dropped back into the chair and sipped the scotch again, only to grimace and put it aside again. "Fuck, that's not great."
"What isn't?"
"This scotch I'm drinking. Delia gave me some scotch her uncle brought back from Scotland, and now this stuff I had Elara stock my new house with tastes like dog piss in comparison.”
Givey just laughed. "What's she like?"
"Fuck, man. A wildcat. A siren. No, she doesn't know who I am, but I get the sense she wouldn't care if she did."
“That must really tickle your pickle," Givey said. "A woman who doesn't immediately throw herself onto your dick? What? Does such a woman even exist? I've known you since before you were Hunter Hawkins, billionaire. Women have always thrown themselves at you, billions or not."
"She doesn't. She wants me, but she's fighting it. And I honestly don’t know what to do. Not that she’s playing hard to get or whatever, but because it’s a conflict. I really do want their bars."
"Why?"
I blinked. "Why? Why what?"
"Why do you want these bars in particular? What is it about them?"
"I don't know. They’re different. It’s family-run but very successful. Simple, as in uncomplicated, but quality. I like the way they do business."
"And when you appreciate something, you have to own it. Or control it in some way." Givey's voice was serious, then.
"Dude. Are you a psychoanalyst now?" I demanded, pissed off.
"Of you, yeah. Look, man, you're my best friend—you’re like a brother to me. I'm on your side, ride or die, you know that. But you need to look at your motivations. Do you want the woman, the business, or both? Because I'm not sure you can have both."
I sighed. "I know. They're a big, complex, proud family, from what I can tell. And Delia seems to be in the thick of the business, although I'm not sure where she fits into the hierarchy. And yeah, she doesn't know who I am. I don't think."
"Well, let me spell something out for you, okay? You keep lying to her, it's gonna bite you in the ass. Women hate that shit. Obviously, I don’t know the first thing about this chick, but if she’s like everyone I’ve ever known, she probably has some kind of trust issues. And if you suddenly one day come clean, like hey babe, oh by the way, I'm actually Hunter Hawkins, the world-famous billionaire playboy philanthropist genius…it’s not gonna go well.”
"That's a misquote. And yeah, I know." I sighed again, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I told her I never lie outright, but I do lie by omission a lot. Hopefully, that buys me enough leeway that when I do tell her the truth, it won’t feel as much like I was lying to her."
“If you tell her that after you buy her family’s company that they’ve spent the last how many years building, I’m not sure it'll matter," Givey said.
"Forty years. Two generations."
Givey laughed. "Ah, fuck, man. You do know how to pick 'em."
"Go on IG and look at Badd's Bar—B-A-D-D.”
Silence as he did so. A few moments later, he whistled. "Quite a family, man, holy shit. You're sure you know what you're walking into?"
"Absolutely the fuck not."
"At least you're aware. I mean, some of those dudes look like they could snap you in half without breaking a sweat." He chuckled, sighing. "Hawk, brother. You need to think hard about this, okay? You’ll be fine because you know that if this goes south, it won’t affect you. Your money, your status, your reputation, your livelihood—none of that is threatened if this goes bad, business-wise or personally. But these people? This is their life. This is two generations of blood, sweat, and tears you’re messing with. You’re not a monster, and you’re not some soulless, heartless, robotic, grasping, villainous overlord. But if you're not fucking careful, that's exactly how you'll seem to these people. To this Delia chick, especially. And honestly, I don't know how the fuck you're gonna walk that line."
"Me either, Givey. Me either."
"If you're asking me, I'd focus on the girl. You can find a business challenge anywhere. You don't need these particular bars. You don't need anything. You could sign over control to the board and go float on a yacht on the Amalfi coast the rest of your life.”
"I'd lose my goddamned mind."
“Yeah, I know. My point is, you don't need them. And I’m not sure they need you. Where's the benefit for anyone?"
"I just got here today. I don't know what they do or don't need. I'm still assessing the situation." I stood and paced some more.
Givey just snorted. "I've said my piece. You're gonna do what you’re gonna do. Just don't fuck this family over, Hawk. Please?"
"Oh fuck you. I'm not gonna fuck anyone over."
A pause. "You have before." His voice was low, hesitant.
"Fuck you,” I snapped. “I was young, arrogant, and stupid. I don't do things that way anymore." I hated the burn in my gut at the memory his words brought up.
"I know you regret it, Hawk—why do you think I brought it up? To remind you. You're not that guy anymore. Marissa's family didn't deserve what you did to them, and you only did it because of what she did to you. Which was shitty. I get it. But you ransacked her whole family’s life—tore it to pieces out of pure vindictiveness. And I do not want to see you go back down that path, not a single step."
“This is not that, Givey. It’s not. For one, I don’t think Delia would do what Marissa did."
"You didn't think Marissa would do what Marissa did," he said, huffing a humorless laugh.
"Why the fuck are you still talking about this? That was almost ten years ago. I apologized to them. I made it right.” I had to grip the phone until my knuckles hurt to keep from hurling it across the backyard.
Givey sighed. "I wouldn't be your one and only true friend and advisor if I didn't caution you. You can't always get what you want. Which is what you’re used to. You may not be able to get both the business win and the relationship win. You may have to pick." A pause. "And you need to clue her in to your real identity sooner rather than later."
"I know. I know. I will."
"The longer you delay, the harder it'll be. I say this from experience."
"I hear you, Givey. I do."
"But will you listen? That's the real question."
We ended the call, then, and I sat outside until past dawn, thinking.
I spent the next few days avoiding Delia, mainly. I told myself I was investigating the rest of the Badd operation, which I was. But really, deep down, I was avoiding Delia. I spent time at the original Badd's, as well as the nightclub one, and I even took a two-day trip up to Anchorage to check out that location. Which was a bit of a mess, even to my inexpert eye. The servers didn't know the menu, the food came out slow and wasn’t hot, and it just overall didn't have the same feel as the Ketchikan locations.
The simplest explanation I could find is that it didn’t have a Badd family member managing it. Which didn’t bode well for my plans. If the secret sauce that made the Ketchikan locations successful was the direct, in-person input and management of the Badd family, then my getting involved would only result in more of the same—franchises would fail because the family couldn’t be everywhere. They didn’t seem to want to leave Ketchikan to manage their own franchise.
Where did that leave me?
I asked questions.
Who managed Badd's Bar and Grille? Who managed Badd Kitty? Who managed Badd Night? Sebastian Badd, the eldest of the eight brothers, was the CEO of the Badd's empire, such as it was. The rest of the family helped out here and there, but most of them had their own businesses. Roman, Delia's uncle, owned Badd Kitty on paper, but it seemed Delia was the GM, and Roman…I wasn't sure what he did, day to day.
It isn’t clear whose child Delia is. I felt like Sebastian, but I had to be careful of asking too many probing questions, especially personal ones. As it was, I already got some distrustful looks from the staff at the Ketchikan locations. The Anchorage staff just seemed lost.
Eventually, after almost a week of avoidance, observation, assessment, and pages of notes and thoughts, I was no closer to knowing how to approach the whole thing than I was when I first arrived.
It was a weird place to be. I always know what to do. It’s not always right, but right or wrong, I’m typically very decisive.
Delia is the difference.
She's in my fucking head.
I could have made her come, that night in the back of her truck. And fuck, I wanted to. I've never had a woman literally run away from me like that before, and I don't know what to do about it. Givey was right—I am used to women throwing themselves onto my dick. I mean, sure, I wasn’t always a billionaire, but my family was, and is, extraordinarily wealthy. So it wasn’t always just me, my looks, my personality. It’s always been about who I am and who my family is. What we have. What I have.
Delia didn't seem to know me or recognize me, so her reaction, as far as I can tell, was genuine.
And genuinely conflicted. Why? Fuck if I know.
If she's not conflicted because of who I am, then what's her issue?
Why wouldn't she let herself have anything to do with me? Why get angry when I turned her on?
I understand nothing.
Only that she is attracted to me, and I to her.
Beyond that? I don't know a goddamn thing for certain.
Which was, ostensibly, why I found myself bellied up to the bar at Badd Kitty at one thirty in the morning, sipping that fucking amazing scotch, and watching Delia dance gracefully and efficiently behind the bar. She pretended not to see me at first, and then, finally, after a full ten minutes of sitting there like a doofus, waiting, she finally poured me a finger without a word and went back to work.
I sipped. Watched sports replays I didn't give a shit about. Watched Delia work. Which was, in a word, a masterclass in bartending. She never hurried, even when the bar was standing-room-only and customers were shaking credit cards and cash and empties at her. Yet, despite never seeming to hurry, she worked consistently, quickly, and without fumbling.
I let her work. When I finished my drink, she poured another, again without a word or even eye contact.
Two o'clock came, and the lights came up, and tabs were paid, and the floor cleared out. No one bothered me, even though I never saw Delia confer with anyone regarding me.
The male bartender with the long black hair cleaned up while Delia vanished into the back. Two-thirty came, and the male bartender shut off the lights, leaving me bathed in darkness only cut by the dim red glow of the exit sign and the faint yellow from the office, visible through the kitchen doors.
"Put your chair up," he told me. "And make sure she's safe before you leave."
"Got it."
Another ten minutes later, I heard the office door close and the light shut off. I slid off my stool, put it up, and put my empty glass on the service side of the bar with a hundred-dollar bill inside it.
Delia came out and found me leaning in the doorless entryway between the bar area and the kitchen. She looked exhausted. Pale. Dark circles under her eyes.
"Figured when I flat-out ignored you, you’d get the picture." She jerked her head toward the kitchen. "C'mon. Exit is this way."
“You weren't ignoring me," I said. “You were working. And I was content to wait."
Through the kitchen—stainless steel counters, shelves, and appliances; cold stoves and grills and ovens; racks of utensils and cookware, racks of buns and bread, racks of paper and plastic products. A narrow back area with walk-in fridges and freezers, at the far end of which was a door, over which glowed an exit sign.
We came out into the alley, where the only vehicle was her purple pickup.
"What do you want, Hawk?" Her eyes were distant. "Any questions you'd like to ask me directly?" When I frowned at this statement, she narrowed her eyes at me. "You've been asking questions. Makes me wonder what you're really doing here."
"I told you the truth. I'm in Ketchikan on prospective business."
"Badd's is not for sale." She turned away from me, unlocking her vintage truck with the key. "So if that's the prospective business, you can go back to wherever it is you came from because that's not happening." She shoved her door open but whirled on me. "And I do not appreciate being fucked with."
I stepped closer. "I wasn't fucking with you. I'm not fucking with you."
"You show up, act all interested in me, and then you ghost me, poke your nose into my family's business, asking questions. You even went to fucking Anchorage?" She flipped me off. "You're fucking with me. Not interested."
"Delia, wait. Please." I never asked; I ordered. So that felt weird.
She sighed, hanging in the V between her truck's body and door. "What, Hawk? Or whatever your actual name is."
"My interest in you is separate from my business interests." I held her eyes, hoping she'd see the truth in them.
"Uh-huh."
"It's the truth."
"Then why go dark on me for a week? If you're interested in me as a woman and a person, and not just because my dad owns the businesses you seem interested in buying, then why vanish on me?”
"Because you confuse me."
"I confuse you?" She laughed. "That's rich. How?"
"You're nothing like the women I usually date. And I don't know what to do with that." I stepped closer, my feet carrying me to within a foot of her; she turned into me, staring up at me with a fierce I-dare-you spark in her eyes.
"A man like you is never confused by a woman. Try the fucking truth."
"A man like me?" I asked. "What does that mean?"
She plucked at my black-and-blue flannel shirt. "You're not fooling anyone with this shit, or the truck. You're about as Alaskan as…" she shook her head. "Fuck, I'm too damn tired to finish the fucking metaphor. I don't know. You're as Alaskan as I am a New Yorker."
"What does that have to do with me being confused by you?"
An annoyed roll of her eyes. "You're a player. Everything about you screams it. Your arrogance. The things you say. The way you say them. The way you touched me. You know the effect you have on women. I do not confuse you. But you still acted interested and then vanished for a week. Try the truth. I don’t expect the full truth from you since, as we established last time, you're a master of lying by omission. But at least give me something ."
I sighed, bracing my hands near hers on the roof of her truck and the upper rim of the door. "What I said was the truth, Delia. You're unlike any woman I've ever met. And I don't know what to do with you. And yes, my business interests do involve your family. I was asking questions. I went to Anchorage. But I swear to you, when I came here and walked into that bar,” I pointed at the back door, “I had no idea who you were or what your connection was to anything. My interest was, and is, genuine. And yes, I avoided you on purpose because my interest in you does absolutely conflict with my interest in your family's business."
"Well, let me settle that conflict for you." She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me close, lifting up to put her mouth and nose inches from mine. "Fuck…off. We aren't for fucking sale, asshole."
I couldn't resist. How was I supposed to? She was right there.
I kissed her.
Not a little bit—not chaste, or sweet, or innocent, or exploratory. I kissed like I wanted to fuck her.
Because I did.
I grabbed her long, thick, dark red hair—burnished to a black-silver-purple by the light of the full moon, wrapped the length of it around my fist, and jerked her against me, slashing my mouth onto hers. Her body bumped flush against me, tits smashed flat, hips pressing into mine. She gasped in shock at the sudden violence of the action, her hands bracing against my shoulders, pushing me away.
"Fuck—" she breathed.
And then my lips hit hers, and my tongue slid along her lower lip. She tasted like vanilla and cherries. Her mouth was soft and warm as she opened it to mine, another, softer gasp escaping her as she involuntarily melted against me.
I was just as shocked as she was.
I didn't know I was going to kiss her—I just did it, unbeknownst to the both of us.
But now that I was kissing her, I couldn't stop.
Vanilla and cherries.
Her tongue danced against mine and then dipped into my mouth, and her hands ceased pushing me away. Instead, her fingers curled into fists, bunching in my shirt—and then she pulled me closer, tugged me down. She moaned into my mouth, and one hand skated over my shoulder and cupped the back of my neck and dug into my hair.
The woman can kiss—goddamn.
My head spun as her lips warred with mine and her tongue darted and danced and slashed against mine and in my mouth and along my lower lip. She writhed against me, pushing her hips against mine. My cock stood hard as a fucking tent pole behind the zipper of my jeans, and she ground against me.
I pulled away first, panting, still gripping her hair in one hand, the other wrapped low around her waist, holding her hips against mine.
"You," she finished, on a shuddery breath. "Fuck you."
Arousal seared through me. Need. Desire. Hunger.
She blinked up at me from a distance of inches, fire in her eyes and desire written in every line and curve of her lush, glorious body.
I looked for words and found none. I held her gaze and gripped her hair tight in my fist, tugged her head backward gently but firmly, tipping her chin up so she couldn’t look away. There was nothing to say—my arousal was undeniable. My need was written in my eyes—I know she saw it, and I know she understood it because her eyes sparked fury, even as her mouth fell open, begging me silently to kiss her again.
So, I did.
And this time, I let my hand slip down to explore her ass. And god, what an ass. Even hidden behind tight denim, it was full and round and firm. As I kissed her mouth and cupped her ass, she whimpered and gasped, tipped her hips against mine and clung to the back of my neck.
Fuck, I needed more.
I pressed her against the seat, and she instinctively hopped up onto it sideways, and her thighs locked around my waist.
"Hawk," she breathed.
This wasn't exactly aligned with the advice Givey had given me, but I was lost to need. Lost to my attraction to this woman, sucked in by her fire, her ferocity. Teased by her ability to confuse me, surprise me. Obsessed by her beauty, her lush curves.
I've never been great at restraint, and she wanted me. I felt it. Tasted it in the way she kissed me.
Even still, I moved slowly, telegraphing my intent as I released her hair and slid my hands down to her hips. She tilted backward, grabbing my shirt and taking me with her as she lay backward on the bench seat of her truck. I bent over her, half in the vehicle, and kissed the unholy hell out of her.
And my god, she gave as good as she got.
I groaned as her tongue swept my mouth. She huffed openmouthed into the kiss and then slid her tongue into my mouth and tugged my shirt up to slip her hands onto my bare back. Scratching her nails down my spine, she arched into me, moaning as I crushed against her.. I mirrored her moans and groans at every turn, gasping when she sucked my tongue into her mouth, groaning when she swept hers into my mouth, hissing when she raked her nails in rough circuits across my back and shoulders.
Her hips tilted against mine, begging for more.
Who am I to deny a woman's want?
I freed the button of her jeans and lowered the zipper.
She broke the kiss, peering up at me, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth open, lips swollen. "Hawk, what are you…"
I nipped her lower lip and then tongued where I bit as I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her underwear and jeans and slowly dragged them down together.
For a moment, she did nothing—no resistance, but no help, either.
I pulled away from her, my eyes locked on hers as I oh-so-slowly drew her jeans and panties down—inch by inch, past her hips, and then sticking at the plump, generous swell of her buttocks. I left them there, just above the crest of her ass, her belly bare, a sprinkling of dark stubble peeking above the elastic of her bubblegum-pink panties.
"Hawk?" she breathed. A question.
I answered silently, pushing her T-shirt up past her navel. Bent, my eyes still laser-focused on hers as I slowly bent and pressed my lips to her stomach above her cute, shallow little belly button.
At the touch of my lips, she gasped, and her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh.”
I drew her jeans down further, momentarily leaving her panties in place. Pink briefs with a tiny little white bow centered on the waistband. I scented her, then—arousal. Drawing her jeans past her knees, I ran my hand up her bare thighs, to her hips. Nuzzled her belly, kissing her navel. The tender slice of skin between navel and underwear.
Her hips tipped. Flexed.
She gasped again as I slid the elastic down an inch, my lips sliding over skin as I exposed it.
"Oh…god," she whispered. "Hawk."
I hooked my fingers in the elastic and pulled, but only enough to draw the waistband lower, not enough to pull the underwear off anymore.
"I need to taste you," I murmured. "Need to taste you as you come all over my mouth."
She was panting, gasping, belly sucking in and swelling firm with each hard breath, chest rising and falling.
She clutched at my arms, clinging and squeezing. "Hawk. Fuck."
“You have to say yes, Delia." I slid my nose against the cotton of her underwear, pressed my lips to her seam, smelling her arousal dampening the fabric, darkening it with her desire. "Tell me yes, Delia. Tell me I can make you shake. Make you scream. Say yes.”
"You…" she trailed off, her hands going to my shoulders. Pushed me lower. "You can try."