11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
On Wednesday afternoon, I steeled my spine as I picked up my phone and dialed. One ring. Two. Thr—
“Mallori!” my mother’s breathless voice answered in a rush. “What’s wrong? Do I need to come get you?”
My eyes lifted to the ceiling as I gathered my patience. “No, Mama. You don’t need to come get me.”
“I can send you money for a plane ticket. We can just have your things shipped back home so you don’t have to worry about—”
“Mama, I’m staying here,” I told her firmly. “Everything is going fine.”
“Fine but not good?” she pressed.
Jesus, give me strength. “It’s great. No problems whatsoever.”
“Except for the housing situation. I hear you’re living with a man.” Her tone was disapproving at best.
“I’m staying temporarily with one of Cam’s friends. His name is Hawk.”
She huffed out a breath. “What kind of name is that? Is he a criminal or something? ”
I swear, the woman was reaching for any excuse to condemn my choices. “He’s not a criminal,” I said simply, unwilling to argue with her. Now that there was physical distance between me and my mother, I was finding it easier to keep my boundaries more firmly in place.
“Well, I don’t like it.”
Well, I don’t care what you like, Karen.
Changing the subject, I asked, “What have you been up to, Mama?”
“Oh. Me? Not really much, I guess. I did join a walking group in the neighborhood. We walked a mile this morning.”
“That’s awesome, Mama. I’m glad you’re making some friends.”
This. This is what she needed to keep her from focusing solely on me. Our enmeshment ran deep, and it would take a long time for all the threads to be snipped, but joining a group of walkers would be good for her. The exercise and the companionship.
“It was nice, I guess,” she said thoughtfully. “There was one lady named Marie who invited me to a craft fair this weekend.”
“You should go. You have such a creative mind. Maybe you could take up some kind of crafting.”
Her voice brightened a little. “You think I’m creative?”
“Of course!” I said, infusing enthusiasm into my tone. “You were the rhinestone queen when it came to decorating my costumes.”
She laughed, and the sound made me happy. I didn’t hate my mother, and I didn’t want her to be miserable. While I would never forget the way she didn’t believe me about Moreau, I wanted to maintain some kind of relationship with her. An appropriate mother-daughter relationship. Preferably from afar.
“I think I might do that. Your dad took me out to dinner last weekend.”
“That’s nice, Mama. Now that I’m out of your hair and Daddy is back home, you two can do more things together.”
I heard the wistfulness blaring through when she said, “I miss you, Mallori.”
“Me too,” I fibbed. I didn’t really; I was enjoying the space… the freedom. “I’ve been messaging with some people from my cohort. They’ll be my classmates when school starts. We’re all talking about getting together this weekend.”
I could literally sense her ear perking up. “What are you going to do?”
“Probably grab a bite to eat. Maybe go out to a club or something.”
“I don’t want you drinking, and you need to watch what you eat so you don’t gain weight.”
Following the advice of my counselor, I kept my words patient yet unrelenting. “Mama, I’m twenty-four years old and perfectly capable of handling my own eating habits.”
“Yes, but…”
“It was good to talk to you. Tell Daddy hi for me.”
“Mallori…”
“Good bye, Mama. Send me a text and let me know how the craft fair goes.” And I hung up, a sense of satisfaction swelling inside me. I was pretty fucking proud of how I’d handled that.
My stomach growled, reminding me that it was lunchtime, and I hopped off my bed and headed down the hallway. My footsteps stalled as I neared Hawk’s workout room, and I glanced inside, looking at the girl in the mirror .
She looked like a dancer. She had the body for it, and as I entered and drew closer to the reflection, I saw that she had something I hadn’t seen in a while. A fire in her eyes. A passion for what she loved. My feet almost itched to move.
Blowing out a breath, I asked the room, “Can I do it? Do I want to?”
No one answered. Shocking. My brain was a jumble of confusion, so I left the room and went to the kitchen. After warming the rice bowl I’d prepared the night before, I sat at the bar and FaceTimed the counselor I’d been talking to.
“Hey, Mallori,” she said, her sweet face filling my screen.
“Hi, Merrit. How’s it going?”
“Really good. How about you? Did everything go well with your move?”
Forking up a bite of carrot and rice, I nodded as I chewed. “Really well. I’m staying with a friend of my cousin’s because they had a plumbing issue.”
I stabbed a piece of zucchini with my fork but didn’t eat it.
“Is there a problem with where you’re staying? Is that why you called?”
My head shook back and forth, and she waited patiently before I finally said, “There’s a workout room here with mirrors on the walls.”
I saw realization dawn in her pretty blue eyes. “Ah. Is the person you’re staying with a dancer?”
The image of Hawk performing ballet moves made me giggle. “I’m pretty sure he’s not, but I think at one time, the room was built for a dancer. ”
Merrit pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “And how do you feel about that? Are you ready?”
“Maybe. I think so. I felt… excited when I went in there today. I stared at myself in the mirror, and I saw the fire in my eyes again. My feet wanted to move.”
A small smile quirked her lips up. “You know how I feel about it. What have I told you?”
“Not to let someone else steal my joy. If it makes me happy, I should dance.”
She looked proud of me. I stuck the zucchini in my mouth and chewed as she talked. “Exactly. I know you went through a lot, but you’re a strong young woman, Mallori. If you want to dance, do it.”
A sigh puffed from my lips. “I think I mostly stopped because it was like a big middle finger to my mother. She wanted me to dance so badly, so I didn’t.”
“Agreed, and that’s okay. It was your way of asserting yourself, showing that you can make your own decisions. If you decide to give it a try, you don’t even have to tell anyone because what you do is your business.”
“You’re right.”
She grabbed a pen and a notepad. “I’m writing that down to give to my husband.” I giggled as she slowly intoned, “Mal-lor-ri said I am right.”
But when she held the notepad up for me to read what she wrote, it said something different: I am proud of you!!!
A warm, gushy feeling filled my belly, and tears stung the insides of my eyelids. “Thank you, Merrit. ”
“Keep me updated. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But also remember that you don’t have to hold back because of someone else’s actions. You do you, Mallori.”
“I ate ice cream last weekend,” I blurted. “And I drank daiquiris and beer.”
Her blonde eyebrows lifted. “Wow, you’re quite the wild woman, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am,” I said with a small shrug and a big grin. “Besides a glass of champagne a few times at weddings, the only other time I’ve drank was on my twenty-first birthday.”
“Just always make sure you’re in a safe environment to drink, and don’t overindulge just because you can.”
I nodded my acknowledgment. “I won’t. I actually stopped drinking when I began to feel a little tipsy.”
“Good. It’s easy for someone to go a bit crazy once they get a taste of freedom, but you’re a very bright and disciplined young lady. Just stay true to yourself, and you’ll be fine.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her a snappy salute.
Merrit laughed. “Anything else you need to talk about?”
“Hmmm, I don’t think so. We’ve covered dance, ice cream, and alcohol. That’s probably enough for one day.”
“One more thing. You said you’re living with a he. Are you okay with that?”
Her question surprised me but not as much as my answer. “Yes, it’s fine. It’s only temporary until I can move in with Cam and Shiloh, but Hawk is…” What is Hawk? So many things. “He’s a good friend,” I finished.
“That’s good.”
“I have to admit, I was a little intimidated at first, but I’m very comfortable here now.”
“And safe?”
I didn’t even have to think about it. “Completely.”
“What’s that?” Hawk asked that evening when he got home from work and found me in the kitchen. He peered into the clear plastic bowl with his face scrunched into a frown.
“It’s called a salad,” I said flatly. “Surely you’ve heard of them.”
His dark eyes narrowed on me. “I have. Why is it in my kitchen?”
“To eat. People generally use a fork, but if that’s too complicated, I can get you a spoon.”
His beard quivered with the effort to restrain what I knew was a smile. Patting his huge arm, I said, “Don’t worry. There’s also lasagna.”
“Good. Thought you were trying to turn me into a fucking rabbit.”
“God forbid. I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said smartly.
“You’re annoying,” he retorted.
“And you’re dirty,” I shot back, my eyes taking in his attire for the first time. He was wearing a dark-blue polo with DFW Security Force on the left side of the chest and khaki pants that were filthy and ripped at the knees.
“Had to tackle someone today,” he explained, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m going to get changed. ”
I was left in the kitchen with a stunned expression on my face. Shaking my head, I slid the pan of lasagna into the oven. When Hawk returned, he was wearing gray athletic shorts and a black tank top.
“You’re bleeding!” I screeched, pointing at his bloody knees.
He looked down like he was noticing for the first time. “Just some scrapes. No biggie.”
My eyes were pinned to the dried rivulets of blood that had dripped down his thick calves. “Scrapes, my ass.”
He stepped toward me, and my gaze was drawn up, up, up, to his furrowed brows. Gripping my shoulders firmly, as if to hold me up, he asked, “Are you going to faint, Little Bee?”
“What? No! Of course not. The sight of blood doesn’t bother me.” My lips pressed together, and my voice softened. “You’re hurt.”
The lines around his eyes relaxed, and I noticed for the first time that his irises weren’t black like I’d originally thought. They were the darkest of browns, like one of those fancy chocolate bars with eighty-five percent cocoa.
“I’m fine, Mal. Definitely not the worst this body has ever seen.”
“Did you even clean the wounds?” The scowl on his face gave me my answer. “You’re going to get an infection, and then your legs will fall off. Is that what you want?”
“Why, yes. That’s my dream,” he said, releasing my shoulders.
“Great, and when I’m a physical therapist, I can help you learn to use your prosthetic legs,” I said with an equal amount of sarcasm. Crossing my arms over my chest, I bobbed my head toward one of the tall beige bar stools. “Sit. Where’s your first aid stuff?”
“That’s really not necess—”
“Sit!” I barked, jabbing him in the chest with my index finger. Damn, it’s like poking a boulder.
He huffed out an exasperated sigh but did as I asked. “There’s some first aid stuff in the cabinet beneath the sink in my bathroom,” he grunted before mumbling under his breath. “Stubborn-ass woman.”
“I heard that,” I sang on the way out of the kitchen.
“I meant for you to,” he sang back.
Hawk’s bedroom was two doors down from mine, and I hesitated at the closed door before cautiously turning the knob and pushing it open. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
The bedding was a creamy ivory that popped against steel-gray walls. His destroyed khaki pants were tossed over a chair, but the room was otherwise tidy.
Though he’d been nothing but nice to me, Hawk radiated an almost palpable darkness. But this space looked… normal, the only dark spot being a black door in the center of the wall on the right.
That must lead to what the other women called the Den of Sin. Curiosity made me want to look inside, but an innate sense of self-preservation told me not to. Instead, I approached a white barn door on the opposite wall and slid it open.
My nostrils flared as I was overwhelmed by the delicious scent of something masculine. Dark-green bottles of expensive-looking shampoo and body wash were lined neatly on an inset shelf in the walk-in shower, and I assumed they were the culprits.
The huge shower tiles were a deep Prussian blue, the brushed nickel trim a stark contrast. A matching soaking tub was set into an alcove beneath an arched window, and I had the urge to dive in. It was certainly big enough .
Turning my attention to the cabinet beneath the sink, I quickly located a rectangular plastic tote with a mish mash of medical supplies. After grabbing a dark-gray washcloth, I headed back to the kitchen to find Hawk peeking into the oven.
“Back on the stool, please,” I said, turning on the hot water and wetting the cloth.
“Why are you such a bossy little thing?” he asked, trudging back to his seat.
I kneeled on the floor in front of him and began cleaning his wounds with the warm washcloth. Hawk’s hands clenched the padded edge of the stool, and I glanced up to find him staring across the room, a pinched look of discomfort on his face.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No,” he said shortly. Unsure why he was acting so weird, I decided to try and get him talking.
“Who did you have to tackle?”
“We were protecting a movie star this afternoon, and an overzealous fan put his hands on her while she was moving to another shooting location down the block. Got a little aggressive and grabbed her hair, the asshole.”
My curiosity was piqued. “Which movie star?”
Hawk stared at the kitchen timer, still not looking at me. “Calista Jones.”
“Ooh, I love her. She’s such a badass,” I said, dabbing his scrapes with antiseptic.
“She’s a nice lady too. We’ve dealt with some pompous asses in our line of work, but she’s one of the good ones.”
“Who else have you protected? ”
He filled me in on some of the famous folks they’d dealt with, adding funny anecdotes on a few of them as I finished cleaning his knees and dabbing on antibiotic ointment.
“Almost done,” I announced. “You’ve got a cut here on your shin too.” I rummaged in the bin for a smaller Band-Aid and laughed when I pulled out a box. “You have Chuck Norris bandages?”
Hawk’s eyes finally met mine, and he grinned widely. “Woody bought them for me. There’s a place online where you can have custom ones made with your face on them. That goofy ass ordered these.”
They were indeed dotted with faces of the action star, and I taped one over the small wound on his shin, the backs of my fingers brushing over the coarse hair of his leg.
“All done,” I said, my tone cheery, until I looked up at him. Hawk’s gaze was intent on my face, those dark eyes hooded and filled with… was that anger?
“A-are you mad at me? Was I too rough?” I’d had to scrub his knees in a couple places because there had been tiny bits of gravel embedded.
“Stand up, Bee,” he ordered, and I rose immediately, his voice so gruff and demanding, my body could do nothing else but obey. Tingles erupted between my legs, and what the fuck is wrong with me?
His eyes darted down for a brief second, like he could sense the effect he had on my vagina. “You didn’t hurt me.” Looking away, he mumbled, “God you’re too sweet.”
“For what?” My voice was not much louder than a whisper, but he didn’t answer, instead pushing to his feet .
“I’m going to get a quick workout in and then take a shower before dinner.”
“Don’t take too long. I don’t want you to miss the salad,” I said around the slight tremble in my voice. That earned me a half-smile before he retreated.
Thirty minutes later, I stood at the door of the workout room, attempting to not leave a puddle of drool on the floor. Hawk was gloriously shirtless as he stood facing away from me doing bicep curls.
I’d never been into guys with tattoos, but my mind had now been officially changed. Hawk’s tats were hot as hell.
I’d seen hints of them peeking from his sleeves, but with his shirt removed, I could see a large hawk that covered his entire back, the tips of the wings stretching all the way to his shoulders. The predator seemed to come to life as the muscles beneath the skin flexed with every movement. He also had a chain inked around one bicep and an American flag on the other.
His shoulders and upper back were massive, narrowing to a trim waist. And his legs… let’s just say that Hawk didn’t appear to be one of those men who skipped leg day.
As I ogled, he met my gaze in the mirror, jerking his head in an indication that I should enter. I crossed the room as he finished his set of what appeared to be a million reps before dropping the weights on the floor and turning off the death metal music he’d been playing.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt, but dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”
Swiping a white towel from the weight bench, he scrubbed it over his face before wiping off his chest. The light color was an intriguing contrast to his tanned skin, and I did my best to avert my eyes from the smattering of hair that tapered to a thin line and disappeared into his sweaty waistband.
“Thanks. I’ll grab a shower real quick.”
As he turned toward me, my attention was snared by a puckered scar on the right side of his chest and a thin slash across his ribs.
“What happened?”
“Gunshot,” he informed me, pointing at the first before tracing his index finger over the longer scar. “Knife fight in Iraq.”
My hand went to the base of my throat, and I croaked out, “I’m sorry.”
Hawk slung the towel over his shoulder and flashed me a wry grin. “Nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time ago. I’m fine.”
“How long were you in the hospital?”
One black eyebrow quirked up. “No hospital. Bode dug out the bullet and then stitched me up both times.”
Taking another step closer, I inspected the scar on his ribs. “He did a good job. I’ve seen surgical scars that looked worse than this.”
“Yeah, not bad for being stitched in a moving boat in the dead of night.” My eyes widened, and he tossed me a wink. “Occupational hazard.”
Everything inside me softened to mush. These guys had given so much for their country, and I knew the internal scars could run just as deep as the physical ones.
“I want to hug you right now but you’re all sweaty.”
Hawk scoffed, feigning insult. “I’ll have you know my sweat is delightful. See?” He tossed the soaked towel at my face, and I batted it away .
“Ugh! You’re worse than Cam,” I told him, my nose wrinkled, though his sweaty towel didn’t really smell bad at all. A hint of that delicious aroma I’d caught a whiff of in his bathroom clung to the fabric. “Once, he convinced me his armpits smelled like Twizzlers.”
He barked out a laugh. “And you fell for that?”
“I was five,” I replied dryly. “And for the record, teenage boys’ pits smell nothing like candy.”
He lifted one arm and wiggled his eyebrows. “Mine smell like Skittles. Wanna sniff?”
“No, you psycho,” I said around a giggle before shoving him toward the door. “Go get yourself clean.”
As he sauntered into the hall, I thought I heard him mumble, “Yeah, that could take a while.”